—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.
—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
—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
—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!
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!
