Jefferson City, MO
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa
JOURNEY TO PARADISE
I am going back to the Realm of Snowflakes
happy people walking barefoot in the frost
work is a jingle, play a jangle,
everything's found cause nothing is lost
there is a dance in the breeze,
perfect flowers, revelation of trees
there—in the distance, the Realm of Snowflakes
happy people sliding on surfaces glossed
work is exciting, playing engaging,
life is grand—t’s dotted, i's crossed
I am going back to the Realm of Snowflakes
happy people walking barefoot in the frost
work is a jingle, play a jangle,
everything's found cause nothing is lost
there is a dance in the breeze,
perfect flowers, revelation of trees
there—in the distance, the Realm of Snowflakes
happy people sliding on surfaces glossed
work is exciting, playing engaging,
life is grand—t’s dotted, i's crossed
AFTER AND BEFORE
After I killed myself
—I need to tell you this—
the last thing she said to me
were the words of a liar.
The week before,
I turned my nightmares to yawns.
Before I killed myself
—I need to tell you this—
the last thing she said to me
were the words of a liar.
The week after,
I changed my anger into necessities.
JEFFERSON CITY, MISSOURI
My son wishes to return
to his home, his quest marred
with the report of differences.
He is strong stone,
but he wonders if skin color,
a gesture in eyes,
a violence against diversity,
can make the pathway
a path of gardens
and not shards of broken
concrete, a mosaic of torn glass,
a system of closed doors.
The police car's headlights
go to bright, a few minutes later,
the lights atop flare into being,
then a siren, soft at first,
then a hurricane after the first calm:
He pulls over, rolls down his window,
places his hands on the steering wheel
as we taught him and waits,
seat belt still attached,
eyes facing forward.
He does not ask: Why did you stop me?
He already knows the answer.
He waits for the officer
to tell him why. This we also taught him.
In a place of white fear,
he is ready for whatever is to happen.
We had reports, the officer says,
of an African-American
driving the type of car you are driving.
Then he sees my son's wife,
his baby daughter,
and knows this is not the right one.
Yet he feels he has to pursue this,
escalate it to another cliff,
but my son is polite,
tells him he has just now
arrived across the river
and is heading home for a visit
with his parents. By now
there are three other police cars
on the scene, flashing lights
waking the child, his wife nervous,
my son with the PhD in botany,
molecular science, metabolomics,
has come home.
My son wishes to return
to his home, his quest marred
with the report of differences.
He is strong stone,
but he wonders if skin color,
a gesture in eyes,
a violence against diversity,
can make the pathway
a path of gardens
and not shards of broken
concrete, a mosaic of torn glass,
a system of closed doors.
The police car's headlights
go to bright, a few minutes later,
the lights atop flare into being,
then a siren, soft at first,
then a hurricane after the first calm:
He pulls over, rolls down his window,
places his hands on the steering wheel
as we taught him and waits,
seat belt still attached,
eyes facing forward.
He does not ask: Why did you stop me?
He already knows the answer.
He waits for the officer
to tell him why. This we also taught him.
In a place of white fear,
he is ready for whatever is to happen.
We had reports, the officer says,
of an African-American
driving the type of car you are driving.
Then he sees my son's wife,
his baby daughter,
and knows this is not the right one.
Yet he feels he has to pursue this,
escalate it to another cliff,
but my son is polite,
tells him he has just now
arrived across the river
and is heading home for a visit
with his parents. By now
there are three other police cars
on the scene, flashing lights
waking the child, his wife nervous,
my son with the PhD in botany,
molecular science, metabolomics,
has come home.
LESSONS FOR LIFE
Write with all your heart,
Finish what you couldn't start,
Create a work of art,
Design a life plan chart
And always, always, forever always
Remember the language of fart.
__________________
Today’s LittleNip:
AFTER THE ELECTION, MY NATION
BEGAN FALLING
—Michael H.Brownstein
Pardoned: those who attack,
frack, sack, hack—
and then turn their back
__________________
—Medusa, with many thanks to Michael Brownstein for today’s fine poetry, as we tiptoe toward winder and the Realm of Snowflakes~
Write with all your heart,
Finish what you couldn't start,
Create a work of art,
Design a life plan chart
And always, always, forever always
Remember the language of fart.
__________________
Today’s LittleNip:
AFTER THE ELECTION, MY NATION
BEGAN FALLING
—Michael H.Brownstein
Pardoned: those who attack,
frack, sack, hack—
and then turn their back
__________________
—Medusa, with many thanks to Michael Brownstein for today’s fine poetry, as we tiptoe toward winder and the Realm of Snowflakes~
A reminder that there will be
a dedication of the RCAF Mural
in Sacramento today, 11am;
and there will be a workshop
on Poetry in Full Colors
in Salida this afternoon, 1pm.
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!
a dedication of the RCAF Mural
in Sacramento today, 11am;
and there will be a workshop
on Poetry in Full Colors
in Salida this afternoon, 1pm.
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!
