—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Nolcha Fox
HOW TO MAKE MONEY AS A POET
The poet is uncertain how to handle all this bounty.
To feast on these bananas would make her rather
portly.
Not to mention give her diarrhea, gas, or bloating.
She might make some money on a Pepto Bismol ad,
but her head would roll if people found out who
she was.
Or she could sell banana bread at the farmer’s
market,
and make some bucks she wouldn’t get by selling
off her poems.
The poet is uncertain how to handle all this bounty.
To feast on these bananas would make her rather
portly.
Not to mention give her diarrhea, gas, or bloating.
She might make some money on a Pepto Bismol ad,
but her head would roll if people found out who
she was.
Or she could sell banana bread at the farmer’s
market,
and make some bucks she wouldn’t get by selling
off her poems.
MY DREAMS NEVER DIED
Now, they’re little old ladies
who die their cats purple.
They win all the Bingo games,
eat all the ice cream at the Senior Center,
and run off with the good-looking pool boy.
Now, they’re little old ladies
who die their cats purple.
They win all the Bingo games,
eat all the ice cream at the Senior Center,
and run off with the good-looking pool boy.
TIDAL WAVE
She crosses the shoreline,
her eyes frothing blue.
You can’t run from her power over you.
She slips through your fingers
as she pulls you under,
and takes your last breath away.
She crosses the shoreline,
her eyes frothing blue.
You can’t run from her power over you.
She slips through your fingers
as she pulls you under,
and takes your last breath away.
CLOUD PEOPLE
An invisible tribe,
we’re alive in the cloud.
Amorphous, we meet,
sharing secrets concealed
from our physical world.
We come and we go
in bits and in bytes,
all glitter and glow,
nothing real.
An invisible tribe,
we’re alive in the cloud.
Amorphous, we meet,
sharing secrets concealed
from our physical world.
We come and we go
in bits and in bytes,
all glitter and glow,
nothing real.
BULLIES
Clouds furrow their brows.
They gather about
to send us all running.
Too constipated,
they just grumble and spit,
not enough power
to start a big rumble.
Clouds furrow their brows.
They gather about
to send us all running.
Too constipated,
they just grumble and spit,
not enough power
to start a big rumble.
WILDRED
In this fierce beauty, rolling prairie, brooding mountains, small towns huddle, unbelonging. Seasons speak in wildflowers, winter white-outs, wind, a haunting solitude. Wilderness ignores our trespass, whispers warnings we do well to heed. We are lost in nowhere, nothing. If we return, we come home changed.
Only lovers of the empty,
wildred souls in search of spacious,
can survive this hostile place.
In this fierce beauty, rolling prairie, brooding mountains, small towns huddle, unbelonging. Seasons speak in wildflowers, winter white-outs, wind, a haunting solitude. Wilderness ignores our trespass, whispers warnings we do well to heed. We are lost in nowhere, nothing. If we return, we come home changed.
Only lovers of the empty,
wildred souls in search of spacious,
can survive this hostile place.
DIMWIT
My darling, you’re
the dimming bulb,
the Humpty that fell
on its Dumpty,
the three-pronged plug
in a world of two-slot sockets.
But you have other
assets I adore.
I’ll take you out to dinner
at a fancy restaurant,
as long as you promise
not to talk.
My darling, you’re
the dimming bulb,
the Humpty that fell
on its Dumpty,
the three-pronged plug
in a world of two-slot sockets.
But you have other
assets I adore.
I’ll take you out to dinner
at a fancy restaurant,
as long as you promise
not to talk.
JIBBER-JABBER
Before one toe is out of bed, your mouth’s already going. You jabber-walk to pay phones to spread your jibber-ish, until you are arrested for loitering inside a booth, and causing a disturbance. Only death can stop the flow of prattle from your lips.
Before one toe is out of bed, your mouth’s already going. You jabber-walk to pay phones to spread your jibber-ish, until you are arrested for loitering inside a booth, and causing a disturbance. Only death can stop the flow of prattle from your lips.
SAVE THE SILVER
My silver streak began when I was only in my 30s. My Buddhist teacher said I was a worker helping to erect a monastery in a previous life, and the silver was from all the dust in my hair. Now my hair is almost all silver. I hope that monastery is finished!
I hope I don’t lose
my silver hair as we
have lost our silverware.
My silver streak began when I was only in my 30s. My Buddhist teacher said I was a worker helping to erect a monastery in a previous life, and the silver was from all the dust in my hair. Now my hair is almost all silver. I hope that monastery is finished!
I hope I don’t lose
my silver hair as we
have lost our silverware.
GOTTA GO
I lock the door
and take my seat,
a respite from the chaos.
I smoke cigars
and read the news
as I enjoy the quiet.
The kids don’t know
I need a break.
They pound upon the door.
“Hurry, Dad,
I gotta pee!”
they plead in agony.
I must give up
my royal throne,
but I’ve not done my business.
I gotta go
before I leave.
“Please find another bathroom!”
I lock the door
and take my seat,
a respite from the chaos.
I smoke cigars
and read the news
as I enjoy the quiet.
The kids don’t know
I need a break.
They pound upon the door.
“Hurry, Dad,
I gotta pee!”
they plead in agony.
I must give up
my royal throne,
but I’ve not done my business.
I gotta go
before I leave.
“Please find another bathroom!”
MISSING SOMETHING?
I left my glasses on the couch,
and grabbed my Baby Ruth instead.
It is my favorite candy bar,
but didn’t help my driving.
I barely missed the FedEx truck.
My candy bar went flying.
The policeman let me drive back home,
but now I’m Baby Ruthless.
I left my glasses on the couch,
and grabbed my Baby Ruth instead.
It is my favorite candy bar,
but didn’t help my driving.
I barely missed the FedEx truck.
My candy bar went flying.
The policeman let me drive back home,
but now I’m Baby Ruthless.
Today’s LittleNip:
Dodoistu is a Japanese form of poetry that is sometimes performed as a folk song. It has 26 syllables: 7 in the first, second and third lines, and 5 in the last line. (7/7/7/5). No rhyming. No title:
My parents learned the art of
late, of making people wait.
I bit my nails as I learned
the art of worry.
—Nolcha Fox
_____________________
—Medusa, thanking Nolcha Fox for today’s fine poetry, and for finding the photos to go with it!
—Public Domain Art Courtesy of Medusa
For info about
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!
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!
to make banana bread~