And Then A Deer . . .

 

 Talisman
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Original Art by Joyce Odam

 

 

THIS MORNING
—Robin Gale Odam

then a deer passed by
over there along the shade
just before the trees

in a dash of light it was
or a splash of light it seemed

    ***

i’m sure it was a deer,
ok a splash of light then

a flick, a stream, a splash, a dash,
i’m sure it was a deer

a deer passed by—we were
standing here, and it passed by
over there

 

 

 

In These Acoustic Fields

                     

PASTORALE
—Joyce Odam

The animals here accept my music—
not so other singers and musicians
with their talented voices and hands.

Here, I can be indifferent to lack of
fame and play my bungle of songs
in concert to charmed creatures

who turn to listen with tame eyes
and mute attention in these
acoustic fields where summer has come

as I sit in its bright doorway . . .
singing and playing . . . my flute. . . my
guitar . . . my wooden drum . . .

                                        
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/23/24) 

 

 

 

Doing The Best We Can

A DEAR ONE HAS DIED
—Robin Gale Odam

After listening to “Try to Remember”
by The Sandpipers

it’s ok, you would say, we’re doing
the best we can . . .

september was mostly quiet,
and now you are gone away

december will bring
the cold and chill—the frozen
sky will long for you

i will pour the cold, black coffee,
keep what you have written 

 

 

 

 Look At The Weather

     

IN THE PERILOUS TIMES
—Joyce Odam

O, my little bird of tragedy—how sweetly
you sing, and how tenderly you cling,
to the golden branch of the singing tree.
And you aim for my heart, as if you were
a nightingale—and I thrill the more, for I
come from the land of sparrows and crows,
and the murmuring doves, when I wake up
in the fairy tale—and I don't know—and I  
don't care when I somehow find you there.                   

                        
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/17/22; 5/24/22; 8/12/25) 

 

 

 

 Old Secrets

A shudder of blue branches

woven together in all their directions
none hostile to another
nor greedy for space,

letting the blue light through
from the lowering sky
the blue dark adding its tones,

the trunks of the trees
standing
in old patience,

and the little filtering sounds
that speak to the hidden creatures
or only to each other,

and all night the brambles touch
and touch in a tender blindness
through the night hours.

            —Joyce Odam

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/29/17; 4/26/22)

 

 

 

 Urgency Of Thought

THE ROAD
—Robin Gale Odam

a stirring of desire, the deliberate swirl
of tea leaves, the call of the grave

the near mirage, the promised reflection,
anoxic sea water for quench of thirst

a heartfelt something remembered, a force
of calling after, of letting go, of going away 

 

 

 

 Into Meaning

TOMORROW, WITH ITS MOON TO BE
—Joyce Odam

after
today’s night
long past its sunrise and hours

that will be the morrow
ever just beyond
the now

with what is curious or restless
or in need of what tomorrow
might not relive—

so many though
have passed the days that
never will become the morrow

                                              
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/26/22)

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE EYES OF THE ANIMALS        

deep pool eyes of
eloquent expression
—the eyes stay level
holding us accountable
innocent as the purity in the eyes
of babes or the honesty of mirrors


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/25/21; 1/2/24)
                                
____________________

Our Tuesday Seed of the Week was “A deer passed by ; . .” Many, many thanks to Robin Gale Odam for keeping Joyce Odam’s poetry and visuals alive in the Kitchen by curating posts for us, both of Joyce’s work and of her own, and for continuing to do so in the future. The light in the kitchen burns brightly when the Odam poets come to cook!

A memorial/celebration of the life and poetry of Joyce Odam, who passed away in late September, will take place on Sunday, Oct. 12, 2pm, at

First Church of the Nazarene
1820 28th Street
(Corner of 28th & S Streets)
Sacramento CA 95816

Extra parking allowed in alley lot at back of church.

Robin reminds us that this is a memorial service, not a funeral. Come celebrate Joyce’s life and work!
 

On another note, our new Seed of the Week is “Empty beer cans”. Send your poems, photos & artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from. And see every Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.

Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

___________________

—Medusa

 '

 

 

 

Robin Gale Odam

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column at the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones  by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

Cookin' in the Kitchen~!
 

 

A Special Vision

 Deer Crossing, British Columbia, Canada
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
* * *
—Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Nolcha Fox,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Caschwa,
Sayanı Mukherjee, and Joe Nolan
—Original Photos by Caschwa
‚—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan and Medusa

 

 

CAMPED, IN WILDERNESS
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole. CA

A deer passed close by—
well, really a fawn,
its mother, head bent
snipping at grasses
a sweet inhale away.

Some would say
the pair portray symbiosis.
We add wilderness, freed
spirits, grace, safety,
far from a hunter’s gun;

our eyes as paintbrushes,
no camera, we place
these backlit models
in a skywide painting,
a pristine mountainscape . . .

The denizens, foraging on
& beyond a snowy patch,
show no fear of our gaze
fully in awe of their aura;
then the two stroll by

leaving no hoof prints. 

 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

ROAD FORKS ROAD KILL
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

A deer fatigues where two roads meet. She crumples to the ground. A choice to make at every step, the last might be her end. I could walk by or turn around, and find another route. Would I forgive myself for leaving beauty to expire as leaves fall all around her?

I pick an apple from a tree, and sit down right beside her. I cut the apple with the knife and feed her little pieces. I pour some water from my flask into her open mouth. She eats and drinks a little. Her eyes light bright as lamps. She struggles up and eats the apple from my open hand.

I watch her amble to the trees. She turns and gives me one last look, then disappears into the leafy dark.

I walk the road that leads me home.
Dusk falls, and I must be alert,
or I’ll be another road kill.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Artwork Courtesy of Medusa

A DEER PASSED BY…
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

L'après-midi d'un faune, dream on,
in sultry, sensual afternoon.
a tail wisp, fly whisk, as it wakes.

How long before it passes by
the sylvan safety where it’s lie,
days, years until it passes on?

With nymphs around this woody glade
the dappled site of light and shade,
a camouflage, both real and not.

Of hamadryads, canopy—
descending creepers’ canapés—
this would be haunt of Ariel.

So, quiet in this downwind place,
as watch the deer, but give it space,
ear flicker as inborn defence.

This wood of Greenman branching out
to host what’s dearest round about,
the creature comforts of his life.

Ravel, Debussy followed on,
the music that we know, tips tongue,
because its mood just fits its name.

Sometimes we wish the deer passed by
without stopover, as we sigh
to see fruits of our labours’ fate. 

 

 

 

 —Photo by Caschwa

MAGICAL FOREST
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Buccaneers
Musketeers
have no fears
loved by peers

My oh my!
a deer passed by
wouldn’t hurt a fly

the risks it takes
for goodness sakes
hit the brakes

a pink walrus
no fuss, no muss
can’t board the bus

hitchhike dumb
does not have thumb
like highway bum

waving his digit
or mail-order widget
he’ll wait and fidget 

 

 

 

—Photo by Caschwa

Response to the new SOW.  Just a pic, no poem. 

This view of Long Beach Grand Prix fans 

watching noisy race cars whiz by is 

the polar opposite of “A Deer Passed By”.

 

SAME OLD ME
—Caschwa

(Cooler Mornings, Longer Nights)

Last year I was 75
enjoyed every aspect
of being alive

Here and now, I’m 76
and all of my joints
bend like pretzel sticks

Soon I’ll be 77
maybe heading for Hell
or falling from Heaven

Can’t wait to be 78
camera at the ready to
grab a snap of the Pearly Gate

You cannot bring that here
says a face that knows no fun
eternity offers no mirror

Judgement Day is absent smiles
am reduced to just my baggage
to carry on for endless miles

Don’t worry, I’ll do just fine
plenty of angels
to wine and dine 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Artwork Courtesy of Medusa

SERVINGS
—Caschwa

A full moon enlightened at least half
of the very busy French Quarter, while
men on the prowl got a taste of being
the prey, hit with a new tariff on tits

Everything has a price, claimed the
owners of landed estates, who could
little afford sharing any wealth with
impecunious lives that don’t matter

The Autumnal Equinox ushered in
forecasts of how much rain, wind, hail,
or snow, would finally keep the postal
carriers from completing their rounds

Diners at a popular all-you-can-eat spot
filled their tummies with yummies till
the notion of another portion became
not quite so popular after all

The need may arise to determine how
many facial tissues one requires to get
through the night, get through a common
cold that lasts an uncommonly long time

Required-reading textbooks often have
an Addendum at the end to be complete;
why not let students put their own
Addendum at the end of their test papers?

Are we there yet? No, just another turn,
county, mountain range, state, train or bus
station, airport, or ocean to cross, so hold
it in until we stop and I will tell you.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

HEARING NOT UNDER OATH
—Caschwa

Concertgoers file into the Hollywood Bowl
seating areas while the concert master is busy
ensuring all musicians are in tune and ready
to begin. The featured work is Tchaikovsky’s
1812 Overture. Finally, the conductor’s baton
is set into motion and the music begins. Even
the most avid listeners display an awkward jerk
at the point when a vibrant percussion session
gives way to cannon fire from real cannons. At
the conclusion, the audience gets chatty and
all commentary is about the cannons. Nary a
mention of cellos, or clarinets, or other instruments,
although it was a whole symphony orchestra that
was playing.

Like political
propaganda filtering
out weaker voices 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Artwork Courtesy of Medusa

FESTIVAL
—Sayani Mukherjee,
Chandannagar, W. Bengal, India

The freckles of festivity
Come nearer to me
As I ride along the silhouetted past
Dim-lit crevices of my heart
The birdsong knows my happiness
Knows the sorrows of my unfolded dreams
Little by little I get deeply personal
The horizontal dreams are rushing again
The rose dreamt of Jerusalem and heaven
The nocturnal past of Shakespeare’s heroines
The flute of Krishna is forever love
I come together with love and festival. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

AFTERNOONS IN THE JUNGLE
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

It was all about
Releasing your inner Rambo,

Learning to swing on ropes
Like Errol Flynn,

To jump through the trees
Like Tarzan
And make love to Jane

While Cheetah holds
His hand to block his eyes,

But always peeks through his fingers,
While he’s got his guilty grin—
He wishes he was Tarzan
Because Jane is to die for.

There’s no privacy
Out in the jungle—
Everything is on display
All the time.

Leopards use their camouflage
To sneak up
On the unsuspecting,
Silently,
Then release their inner Rambo
Using fangs and claws
Instead of shooting out loud.

Parrots squawk.
Cockatoos go “Whoooo!”—
Another succulent victim
Has been consumed.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

UNDER THE EVIL OF 9/11
—Joe Nolan

We are under evil
From assault,
Lingering into
Declining towers,

Concrete dust,
A blast-—
That burrowed
Through the
Avalanche,
In clouds,
Through surrounding
Skyscrapers,
Shouting, out loud,
“You have been overcome!”

It was 9/11
And everyone
Undone
By the trauma.

Who set the fuse?
Pancaking stories of a tower
Don't produce clouds
Of billowing concrete dust.  

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

JOINING THE REVOLUTION
—Joe Nolan

I will let this go
For one more day
Before I take up arms
And put myself in play
In the Revolution.

Before I go,
I will watch and stay
Among my family
In my home
Before I take up arms
And head out all alone.

There are reasons
For the cause.
The reasons are real
And well-founded.
It’s time for us
To redress them
By overthrowing
Those who oppress us.

I will stay here
Just for one more day
Before I take up arms
And put myself in play
As a shooter and target
On the battlefields
Where things are decided.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Artwork Courtesy of Medusa

WHEN I DIE
—Joe Nolan

Place a relic
Next to me—
A religious icon
From Eastern
Christianity.
Wait for my body
To decay.

If it doesn’t.
Encourage people to say
“He must have been holy,
Since his body won’t decay,
According to the normal
Laws of nature.”

If it doesn’t,
Encourage them to pray
For their healing and
Salvation.

It doesn’t hurt to pray.

Whether it leads to
Healing or salvation
Is quite another
Thing to say.

The harbingers of
Universal compassion
Have yet to make
Their play—
Where they sweep in like angels
And nothing
Take away.

The people can wait
While they pray,
Thinking of divinity
And how they’d
Never been betrayed
By all that’s holy.

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

WHICH WAY?
—Joe Nolan

Which way
These wandering souls,
From life to life and
Body to body?

Which way
In search of comfort,
Family and wife?

Which way
To bear the burden
To conceive?

Which gods to worship
Which faith to believe?

__________________

Our thanks to our poets today, and to Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) for his dear deer and race-car poem. Our Seed of the Week is “A deer passed by”—always a special vision.

Another in the Lit Fest series of readings in Winters, CA, is scheduled for Nov. 7, and they’re seeking submissions (due Oct. 19). Info is available at www.winterstheatre.org//lit-fest/.

The Fall Equinox issue of Canary is available now at canarylitmag.org/. Another in the world of special visions!

 

 

 

 

 

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

—Public Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Dangerous Women read
at Sacramento Poetry Center
tonight, 7:30pm.
For info about this and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

Can’t we all just get along~?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Come With Me To Caroline!

 The Carolinas
—Poetry by H.L. Dowless, Northeastern U.S.
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

GOING TO CAROLINE!

I’m going to my elegant doric estate
In blessed Caroline,
Where the dark clouds never gather
And there’s always golden sunshine!
There
The king’s halcyon doubloons still lie in the beach
    waters
The children might find,
In this favorite oasis of mine.

Well
Come on along with me to sweet Caroline,
Where the jazz music and everyday people
Thrive so fine;
Hey,
Run with me right now
‘Cause there’s little remaining time!
Smokestacks are huffing
And puffing,
The jingling bells are already in a hurrying chime!

The crowds are already going,
The ropes they are throwing,
The big wheels are turning,
The motors are churning,
Candy trails are everywhere,
Such great cheer hangs heavily in the air!

The belle ladies are dancing,
The sleek ponies are prancing,
The music and food are enhancing,
Couples are romancing,
Yearning to find this place of mine,
That sweet oasis of astonishing liberty,
Caroline!

Here
They live to do as they please,
They labor hard for wealth
And a splendid life of aristocratic ease.
Everyday the people are dancing
As the shinny parade ponies are prancing,
Hey,
The crystal chandelier and rich food
Are so fancy;
Look,
I’m getting really antsy!

There
I know I can’t go wrong,
Listen hard
And you can already hear the sweet dixieland
    poetry
And banjo song,
In this magic space where us freeborn people
    belong!

Join me in this parade
So fine,
As we make our way to that blessed oasis of
    Caroline.
Come along now
With me
To the choice escape space of deteriorating
    society's
Freedom-seeking Refugee!

 

 

 

 

THE WILD FLOWER MEADOW BY
A COW PASTURE

When I was young,
On the back side of a large field
By a lone cow pasture,
I used to frequently walk into a meadow of multi-
    colored
Sweet-scented wild flowers.

The wild turkeys
And the deer,
The soaring swan
And the ducks,
Loved to wallow in them.
When they finally arose,
Prancing around so refreshed
And strong,
The sight made me think of a song
I’d whisper to myself as I sang.
How
Delightfully my voice rang
While standing in this place
Once so well known..

Oh!,
Those scattered daffodils
Gave me light chill,
While the volunteer kaleidoscopic hydrangea
And tulips
Made me do cartwheels
And grandiose back flips,
Down in this special place
Where I used to go.

I milled around
And found weathered homemade bricks
Where I was told a huge plantation mansion
Once stood on those long revered grounds.
Then suddenly in the dusk shadow of emerging
    gloom
Donning a dancing angelic Robe à le Française
Rose-pink ballroom gown,
My magnetizing spirit lover would loom.

The lightning flashed,
My,
How my youthful head did swoon,
Her domineering presence would abound!
I shuddered as I heard the sharp crash
And the rumbling sound.

I perceived her gentle breath on my face,
Her delicate lips upon my sweat-drenched pale
    cheek,
How my young heart did race
As my whispered name she did somehow speak!
I was aware of her luminous embrace,
Into a bed of clover our forms entwined
Did sink.
The sensation was energetically real,
Her flaming hair seemed so long!
Only me running my fingers through it
Was a true perfectionist’s spectacular deal!
Aye,
This lovely graveyard angelic nymph
Was my greatest thrill,
So how could my woodshed experience
Ever be wrong?

When our roll seemed so drawn,
Oh bliss!,
The passing of time had now so quickly flown.
I glanced around into the horizon sky,
The dusk light above the trees commenced to rise.

Then
When I glanced back down
Beneath me,
My alluring lover,
In likeness to no other…
Was gone.

 

 

 

 

JACK-A-ROO!
WHERE ARE YOU?

Jack-A-Roo,
Where are you?
On the hillside by the hay,
hunting rabbits on this clear fall day?

Jack-A Roo!
Where are you?

Might you be standing by the seaside
at high tide,
riding a whale and ringing her bell?
Or catching a shark
by the time of dark,
so you can hang him up high in the yard
by the dockside park?

Jack-A-Roo!
Where are you?

Are you hunting ducks in the dale,
with a good scatter gun and shell?
Might you be at the State Fair just as well,
riding a colorful carousel?

Jack-A-Roo!
Where are you?

I recently heard
at the time of new bloom,
some seven men shall fly away
to the moon!
Will you be one among them,
oh so soon,
out catching stardust with a spoon?

Jack-A-Roo,
we love you!

Are you laboring to be president?
at this time votes shall not be hesitant.
I say,
millions shall think you were heaven-sent!

My dear
Jack-A-Roo,
oh so many are counting on you!

 

 

 

 

 

MY SWEET JENNIFER

Way back when
Inside that one-room school house,
You and me,
We walked all about.
We both were never better,
Except when us two sat together.
You and me,
We were very best friends,
Sometimes in silence
I wish we could start all over again.

We walked all around that baseball field,
Counting the wildflowers
And strawberries
The green clover would yield.
I shall say here
You were my best friend,
I wished our life-party would never end.

We held hands as we walked down the hall,
While reading books in the library
We both had such a ball.
Inside there
Times were such great fun,
We both read poetry about
Birds and bees
In candy gardens ‘neath a promising rainbow sun.
It was inside our favorite place here
Where we spent many of our school days,
We both earned that right by making straight A’s.

When Miss McDowel escorted our group back
    into class,
We both doubled back
And made a hurried
Secret pass.
Behind those closed doors in the darkness
We tasted heaven’s bliss,
When I was with you
I stole a serious kiss;
But both of us suddenly wiped away our grin
When Miss McDowel snapped on those lights,
Frowning hard as she caught us
In the midst of our forbidden sin.

Oh!,
Do you still remember
That cherished moment of our precious surrender,
My sweet Jennifer?

When on the bus
You would declare I was yours,
I was the only one you said you adored!
You sat closely beside me until I blushed,
My face felt hot
When I received that head rush.

Oh
You were mine,
And I was once yours,
Oh,
Those long-lost memories!
Do you still remember,
My sweet Jennifer?

That time so quickly came
And now it's long
Forever gone,
I can’t remember where we went so wrong;
But I’ll forever sit contemplating
As I sing my own song.
When the lightning flashes
And the thunder rolls,
I wonder if you ever think
On those now misty
Candle-lit times of old.

Oh!,
When it comes to both of us,
Do you still remember,
My sweet Jenniffer? 

 

 

 

 

NO BETTER DAY THAN THIS ONE

Enjoy the day at hand,
Place your face into the rising sunshine,
Sip your coffee while sitting upon your porch,
Plan a nice trip,
The bills will always be around.

Say yes
To a new idea,
Then act on it!
Dare to experience adventure.

Do you live near the woods?
Then grab a gun or a trap and dare to go hunting!
A fresh deer or bear kill
Is such a magnificent endeavor for a new thrill!
When are you going to tell yourself you can?
Are you waiting around for somebody else to do
    this?
Those who may tell you no
Are really not difficult to miss.

Hop on a ship,
Sail around the whole world!
Do it this coming Christmas,
Or this summer.
A day more perfect than the present one
Will never arrive.
Bills will always be right there when you return,
No matter what!

Yes,
The power may or may not be switched off when
    you return.
Sometimes one can prepay,
Or create a pre-payment account to cover the
    absent time.
Yes,
The water may be turned off when you make it
    back home,
But it will be simple for you turn back on,
I promise!
There may be six different placards on your
    front door
From those who claim you owe them money,
But then so what?
Those placards will still be posted right there when
    you return!
They will never pull themselves up and walk away.

The upward climb of post-World War Two’s
    golden era is dead!
The dollar-for-dollar pension is now relegated to
    history!
Bottom level employment and salaries accessing
    bottom level accommodation
No longer exist when all has been said!
Now would you believe
The true Union is a faded memory?
So fellow,
Thy long-anticipated golden day shall never arrive,
No matter how much you work!
One must now have a million dollars in an account
    to retire even modestly.
Hoss
Now lets dim the lights down low,
Attaining such is simply NOT reality!

Stop listening
To the incessant consumerist lies motivating you
    to endlessly labor.
When are you ever going to live out your own life
    dreams?
Do climb that mountain!
Go hunting that high-ranging sheep
Or elk,
Take that charming neighbor on a midnight roll
    in the hay!
Why only exist as the system’s eternal indentured
    slave?
You’re losing your youth,
Maybe even your mind right along with it.
Now for once
Listen to the honest truth!

As does life itself,
Nowadays
A job comes and goes.
So get that RV,
That haunting hippie-like mystery van,
That Scrooby Dooby doggie
Or that plain-Jane supply trailer;
Fix it up
And hit the road!
In reality
None of us have an enclosing wall,
No true responsibility,
Hoss,
No national economic duty call!

Like somebody’s dear mother always told them,
Say
Two beans in a bucket,
Mother shuck it!
That’s right,
Shuck it all far,
Far away!
There shall never ever be a better time for living
     life
Than this very moment,
Today!

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

There's no such thing as perfect writing, just like there's no such thing as perfect despair.

―Haruki Murakami, Hear the Wind Sing

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to H.L. Dowless for more of his fine poetry today!

 

 

 

 Carolina Wren: Small Bird, Big Voice

A reminder that
Los Escritores del Nuevo Sol
will read in Camino today, 2pm.
For info about this and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

 

 LittleSnake in the Cow Pasture~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Labyrinth of Solitude

  Sutro Baths, San Francisco, CA
—Poetry by Sarah Mahina Calvello,
San Francisco, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

Crumbling flower steps
Outing to Sutro baths
Foggy ocean tide

    ~ ~ ~

Rose gold sunset
Lights the barren skin lovely
Echos of what was

    ~ ~ ~

Around in circles,
Just going through the motions
Making lemonade

 

 

 

 

Fragmented blue bowl
Reminds me to be connected
In the chaos life

    ~ ~ ~

Throwing cracker crumbs
Out the window for the birds
The nighttime buffet

    ~ ~ ~

The existing change
Mustn’t force things too quickly
Flowers bloom and fade

 

 

 

 

Pink sunset lamppost
The distance of wondering
Passing time and clocks

    ~ ~ ~   

Still garden violets
Steady sanctuary site
Dark purple angels

    ~ ~ ~

Deep pink and blushing
Carefree wondering rose winds
Under red skies

    ~ ~ ~

These echo of thoughts
The labyrinth of solitude
Calla lily moon

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

When composing a verse let there not be a hair’s breath separating your mind from what you write; composition of a poem must be done in an instant, like a woodcutter felling a huge tree or a swordsman leaping at a dangerous enemy.


―Matsuo Bashō

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Sarah Mahina Calvello for today’s fine poetry! Be sure to check in next Saturday for more of Sarah’s poetry.

 

 

 

 . . . still garden violets . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
RCAF in Mictlán: Community Day
takes place in Sacramento today,
11am-4:30pm; and
Sacramento Poetry Center
presents a 100K Poets for Change
fundraiser tonight, 6pm.
For info about these and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 

 

Changing Time

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down to
Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry by
Stephen Kingsnorth, Nolcha Fox,
Joe Nolan, Caschwa, and
Sarah Mahina Calvello

 

 

OFF THE ROAD

The highway’s lined by cedars dense and green
under a cloudless sky Sierra blue.
A forest-camo tarp remains unseen
by hurried motorists. Quite lost from view—
I didn’t notice it at all, did you?
No place for camping. There’s a man who sleeps
here with whatever mysteries he keeps,
invisible as he might be to cars
bound from here to elsewhere. And evening seeps
into a dark that lights its private stars.

 

 

 

 

DREAM JOURNAL

I need to write it all down before daylight.
Finding a recharge plug for the puppy,
an alternate, tech-savvy interior for my SUV.
A smile for the suggestion, a reason not to.
How to throw away all that stuff I don’t need,
discovering the unnamable great land
to explore track by track and scat by scat.
Survivors of lost pairings, one wool sock
which, stuffed with a ball, becomes dog toy.
The one I couldn’t find keeps coming back
like a graveyard marker in the mind,
buried in the clutter or else mouse-eaten
for the estate sale, the wake-up alarm.


After William Stafford, “What’s in My Journal”

 

 

 

 Otis

A HISTORY OF FIGS

Figs have been around a long time,
feeding our primate ancestors with luscious
fare. One of my earliest memories, an old
fig tree almost hunchbacked with variegated
purple tears. I love figs. And now
at the historic winery we’re walking past
a venerable fig tree dropping its fruit
like seduction. My dog wants some. Are figs
safe for dogs? I check the internet. Dried
figs are toxic to canines, but fresh fruit’s OK—
except for the seeds. How does one extract
those almost invisible tiny seeds?
With a pair of tweezers, magnifying glass,
and timeless patience? I think we’ll pass,
we’re already past the tree’s temptation.

 

 

 

 

EROSION OF CONFIDENCE

My new dog harness shipped from SoCal on the 11th, due in NorCal afternoon of the 15th. “Delayed.” I dreamed the harness was a honeycomb of cushioning, countless tiny air pockets needing constant recharging/inflation. No, that was the old model, my dream assured me; the new improved had buckles so foolproof and tough, my fingers couldn’t release them. My dream was bad, but morning dawned. I checked on harness’s progress. From California it had traveled to Georgia. It’s due here sometime. I hope they mean Georgia the U.S. state and not Transcaucasia.

Count on calendar
to know what day it is but
not where it might be.

 

 

 

CHANGING TIME

daylight dies
quicker in
September

it’s the tilt
of our Earth
underfoot

as the chill
of dark seeks
comforters

__________________

OF TWO MINDS WALKING, FRIDAY 9/19           

Today the dogs and I are walking     

                 [in honor of 40 years ago today]
in first drizzle of the season
                [It was Friday, a sunny blue sky]
and we give thanks for rain
                [collapsing on the metropolis]
in this industrial park
                [quaking under weight of highrise]
opening for business.   
                [seamstresses already at work]
What’s this in the gutter?
                [75 per floor of garment factory]
a dead smashed frog—run over—   
                [we with our dogs searching]
and here, a small furred beast
                [survivors buried in rubble]
with delicate fingers, dead eyes
                [Factory owner wants to demolish]
another roadkill.
                [don’t let dogs find anyone alive]
Deer & foxes frequent this park
                [among the thousands dead]
We keep on walking, looking....

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

GOPHER SNAKE
—Taylor Graham

On the compost pile, windblown sinuous
pattern of fallen leaves’ golden, dark ringed—
alive!

__________________

Thanks to Taylor Graham today for chilling poems, both weather-wise and psychologically. I hope you’re not scared of snakes; LittleSnake would be SO disappointed. . .

“Erosion of Confidence” is a Response Poem to our recent Tuesday Seed of the Week, Exasperation, and “Changing Time” is a Response to this week's Seed of the Week, Cooler Mornings, Longer Nights. TG says she suspects that “Of Two Minds Walking” may be a form, but she doesn’t know its name. And she hopes setting dead critters alongside human casualties doesn't offend people... I told her we’re tough, and we can handle the harshness of search-and-rescue.

In El Dorado County poetry this week, Poets and Writers of the Sierra Foothills features a reading on Sunday from the new anthology, Then and Now, by Los Escritores del Nuevo Sol in Camino at 2pm. On Monday, El Dorado County Poet Laureate Moira Magneson will read at Sacramento Poetry Center, 7:30pm, as part of the Dangerous Women reading with Molly Fisk, Patricia Caspers, and Kim Shuck. And then on Wednesday, Charles Knight and El Dorado Poets & Writers are looking to start a reading on Wednesdays at C. Knight's Steakhouse in El Dorado Hills. The first one is this Wednesday, 8-10pm. Charles says, "Any interest?" 

 

And for info about EDC’s regular workshops, scroll down to Medusa’s Kitchen’s http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html/. For more news about such events and about EDC poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado Poetry on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry/. Or see Lara Gularte’s Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077/. And you can always click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html). Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!  
 
And now it’s time for…     

 
FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!    

 

It’s time for more contributions from Form Fiddlers, in addition to those sent to us by Taylor Graham! Each Friday, there will be poems posted here from our readers using forms—either ones which were sent to Medusa during the previous week, or whatever else floats through the Kitchen and the perpetually stoned mind of Medusa. If these instructions are vague, it's because they're meant to be. Just fiddle around with some challenges—  Whaddaya got to lose… ? If you send ‘em, I’ll post ‘em! (See Medusa’s Form Finder at the end of this post for resources and for links to poetry terms used in today’s post.)


Check out our recently-refurbed page at the top of Medusa’s Kitchen called, “FORMS! OMG!!!” which expresses some of my (take ‘em or leave 'em) opinions about the use of forms in poetry writing, as well as listing some more resources to help you navigate through Form Quicksand and other ways of poetry. Got any more resources to add to our list? Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com for the benefit of all man/woman/poetkind!

* * *

 

 

 Yellow-Red-Blue, 1925
—Painting by Wassily Kandinsky
Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo

Poets who sent responses to last week’s Ekphrastic photo/artwork were Stephen Kingsnorth, Nolcha Fox, and Joe Nolan:

KANDINSKY
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

To search if rhyme and reason due,
entitled primes, yellow, red, blue,
and reading, curves a vital clue,
predominant, my thinking grew,
subconscious, would banana do?

Those Bauhaus forms, fonts, furniture,
the geometric—in design—
new measure, application tried,
first type, fresh formulae took shape,
demanding in relationship.

A complex life, art theory,
in interplay of colour codes
while hardened lines crack curvature,
absorption into linear,
the I confused in searching out.

Of Russia, Germany and France,
with wives and lovers, students too,
engaged while yet still married to,
abstraction from the rule of norms,
intense indeed his teaching style.

With ferment in the countrysides,
as in philosophies of art,
as bodies, minds in turmoil through,
there’s no red line that can’t be crossed
in this, a visual questionnaire.

Soon spellbound, eschatology,
apocalyptic prophets boom;
witch hex to him familiar?
If ever spirit guide required
then hear, shades of opinion.

* * *

BEFORE SUMMER ENDS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Sunlight slants sideways.
Mosquitos are scarcer.
Sunburns forgotten
as leaves start to fall.
Let’s bring our towels
and lie by the water
before the lake freezes
and light hides in clouds.

* * *

BINGE-WATCHING “TWILIGHT ZONE”
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
 
Bloodshot eye
Bulging red
Chaos pouring
From his head
From binge-watching
"The Twilight Zone."

Kind of makes you wonder
How they stole our thunder
As though they were prophets
From the ’60's
About dysphoria
And Picasso.   
 
* * *

Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) sent us some Limericks:

 

 

 

SHOWING MR. KIMMEL THE DOOR
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Nothing is quite the same anymore
the floor no longer serves as the floor
free speech is disjointed
save the truly anointed
whose rulings are rotten to the core

just look at our sad environment
sand castles built by the government
dependent on funds from the rich
the rest of us live in a ditch
not the life our founding fathers meant

    ~ ~ ~

LEVEL PLAYING FIELD
—Caschwa

Had a good girlfriend at school
to see her I stood on a stool
we couldn’t do much
if it involved touch
but we didn’t break any rule

* * *

A List Poem from Carl:

 

 

 

PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED
—Caschwa

· Please wait for slavery to be abolished
· Please wait for the Abolition Amendment to be
generally accepted and practiced among polite
society
· Please wait for adult women to have the right
to vote
· Please wait for the country to actually take that
seriously
· Please wait for the realization of the original wish
of the founding fathers that this nation should serve
the will of the People
· Please wait for the laughter to subside, then go to
bed and pull the covers over your head
· Please wait for proper Civil Rights to be afforded
to all the people of this nation
· Please keep waiting, and waiting, and waiting…..

* * *

Four Haiku from Carl:

 

 

 

SINCE YOU ASKED
—Caschwa

What is Due West? Part
of a maternity ward,
opposite Due East.

    ~ ~ ~

POET’S LIE
—Caschwa

AI really means
Audible Indigestion
commonly, a Fart

    ~ ~ ~

BETTING ODDS
—Caschwa

Played Mega Millions,
but until I win, it is
just minus 5 bucks

    ~ ~ ~

 

HURRICANE SEASON
—Caschwa

Humberto is near
your humbrella is ready
that won’t matter much
 

 
* * *

And here are three Haiku by Sarah Mahina Calvello from San Francisco; more of her poetry will appear tomorrow (and next week!) in the Kitchen:

 

 

 

Fallen leaves
A circle of leaves on the grass
Dew filled

    ~ ~ ~

Persephone
Your ruby pomegranates
Forlorn hope

    ~ ~ ~

Tread of fate
Too interwoven
To decode

_____________________

Many thanks to today’s writers for their lively contributions! Wouldn’t you like to join them? All you have to do is send poetry—forms or not—and/or photos and artwork to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post work from all over the world, including that which was previously-published. Just remember: the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

____________________

TRIPLE-F CHALLENGES!  

 

See what you can make of these challenges, and send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.) Let’s go mad with s Mad Calf or a Mad Song Stanza:

•••Mad Calf: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/mad-calf

•••Mad Song Stanza: https://poetscollectivepoetryforms.wordpress.com/2014/07/23/mad-song-stanza

•••AND/OR be silly and write a Dribble:

•••Dribble: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/dribble

•••See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic one.

•••And don’t forget each Tuesday Seed of the Week! This week it’s “A Deer Passed By . . .”

____________________

MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:

•••Dribble: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/dribble
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Haiku: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/haiku-or-hokku AND/OR www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Limerick: poets.org/glossary/limerick
•••List Poem: clpe.org.uk/poetryline/poeticforms/list-poem
•••Mad Calf: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/mad-calf
•••Mad Song Stanza: ttps://poetscollectivepoetryforms.wordpress.com/2014/07/23/mad-song-stanza
•••Response Poem: creativetalentsunleashed.com/2015/11/18/writing-tip-response-poems
•••Tuesday Seed of the Week: a prompt listed in Medusa’s Kitchen every Tuesday; poems may be any shape or size, form or no form. No deadlines; past ones are listed at http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/calliopes-closet.html/. Send results to kathykieth#hotmail.com/.

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!
 
 Make what you can of today's
picture, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)

* * *

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 
 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that the
Fran Herndon & Jack Spicer Centennial
begins today in the Bay Area.
For info about this and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork

to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!