* * *
—Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Nolcha Fox, Caschwa, Joe Nolan,
and Sayani Mukherjee
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan and Medusa
A FREE-FLOWING YES!
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
Howdy to elves
& our mischievous selves.
Cheers to ee cummings & goings,
to hummingbirds & humming bees
who pollinate with grace & ease . . .
Blessings on our elders & challenged
who try bravely to succeed
when life can be hard & harder.
Yay to barter for the fun of it,
And hay for the sun in it.
Joy to all who blow soapy bubbles
into shimmering rainbows that rise into
floating free, 1,2,3. Amazing John Muir
had coaxed poppies open, goldenly.
Hello to the 4-leaf clover we tucked
in a book; to friends & kin standing by
with care & wishes for good luck . . .
Let’s go for hallelujahs, wedding bells,
chiming stars & heavenly choirs.
Thumbs up for the humane in humanity,
for friendships & blend-ships &
just plain ol’ gettin’ along . . .
Kudos for kindnesses given & received,
like notes of a lovely song.
Hooray for all who grab life’s golden ring
& hold tight with pizzazz, then follow
their footsteps into each fantastical,
free-flowing Yes! Yes! Yes!
(Grand Prize, Dancing Poetry Festival, 2025)
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
Howdy to elves
& our mischievous selves.
Cheers to ee cummings & goings,
to hummingbirds & humming bees
who pollinate with grace & ease . . .
Blessings on our elders & challenged
who try bravely to succeed
when life can be hard & harder.
Yay to barter for the fun of it,
And hay for the sun in it.
Joy to all who blow soapy bubbles
into shimmering rainbows that rise into
floating free, 1,2,3. Amazing John Muir
had coaxed poppies open, goldenly.
Hello to the 4-leaf clover we tucked
in a book; to friends & kin standing by
with care & wishes for good luck . . .
Let’s go for hallelujahs, wedding bells,
chiming stars & heavenly choirs.
Thumbs up for the humane in humanity,
for friendships & blend-ships &
just plain ol’ gettin’ along . . .
Kudos for kindnesses given & received,
like notes of a lovely song.
Hooray for all who grab life’s golden ring
& hold tight with pizzazz, then follow
their footsteps into each fantastical,
free-flowing Yes! Yes! Yes!
(Grand Prize, Dancing Poetry Festival, 2025)
—Public Domain Photo
Courtesy of Joe Nolan
WHERE POETS LIE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
We judge from panoramic view,
lie of the land, its beauty scape,
pretend the pylon march not there,
plain flood awaiting its despair,
short-sighted should truth be laid bare.
So do we lie, scene what’s not there,
the hidden cost of licensed fair,
those nightmares borne from yesterday.
Below the manhole lies a truth,
whatever we conceal, deceive,
that real convenience is found
beneath nature’s romantic roof.
So do we laud the drainage too,
or stand aloof and rue the hue?
No, all is subject as our cues,
whatever means lie for our use.
But to expose we might impose
a fable, knowing fox speaks not,
the parable, laid alongside,
a metaphor—without the ‘like’,
or footnote, box of honesty,
pathetic fallacy to fore?
My DMs full of sympathy—
the fifteenth time my mother died.
I’ve thought of labels, making clear
a poet writes, not diarist.
Confessional, within the church,
Westminster Abbey, poets lie
in their own Corner, marble arched,
amongst busts, plaques, memorials;
this final plot, where we rely
on verses voiced by nation’s best.
The noble savage had his day,
device, oxymoronic voice;
the laureates wear laurel crowns,
established mark of due renown.
Of coevals, Harry Baker reigns
as slams his way, word, rhythm craze;
hear ring of truths in stranger ways,
those lays a modern minstrel plays.
—Public Domain Photo
Courtesy of Joe Nolan
THE POET
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
The poet doesn’t lie. Exactly.
He can’t explain the depth of his pain,
or the colors that smell of spring.
Ask him about the season’s change.
Fall breathes leaves to the ground.
The night chill is a polar bear’s hug.
“I’ve been too busy writing to notice,” he says.
Ask him about the moonlight.
The moon is his lover, his shadow.
She rocks him in her crescent.
“I went to sleep before I could see her,” he says.
Ask him about the chaos around us.
The killings, false promises overwhelm him.
Earthquakes, tornadoes destroy all he loves.
“I don’t know what to do,” he says.
The poet tells the truth.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa
COLOSSUS ON A PEDESTAL
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door! —Emma Lazarus
How refreshingly pure were the native American
Indians who stood, not as landlords, but as
custodians of the land’s natural beauty and
longevity. Then the ocean delivered to the New
World dirty tides of that ancient demise, where
one man owns all the land, assessing the value of
human beings by the size of their land holdings,
reducing many men to one tiny dot among
huddled masses yearning to breathe free.
Emma Lazarus
told no lies, it was abject
greed that killed the truth
Emma Lazarus
told no lies, it was abject
greed that killed the truth
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa
LIGHTNING DELAY
—Caschwa
Relaxing at home watching the
Dallas Cowboys vs. Philadelphia
Phillies on TV. The game was
delayed by lightning, players
drawn in from the field, fans
ushered out of the stands
lots of seats not sat in
lots of steps not stood on
lots of refreshments not vended
briefly got up, went to the
kitchen to refresh my beverage,
returned to my recliner, and
called to my dog to bring me
my slippers
the odds-makers are still puzzling
over the possibilities of that wish
being fulfilled
then I raised the footrest, lowered
the head rest, and took a nice nap
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa
I’M A LEFTY
—Caschwa
some public school teachers with good intentions
went great lengths to teach me the conventions
of putting pen to paper to form letters
but there was something missing I could not
articulate, because each time that I got
pen to paper, scrawls and smears dominated
my work product, so nothing like calligraphy
its peaks and valleys not the recognizable
—Caschwa
some public school teachers with good intentions
went great lengths to teach me the conventions
of putting pen to paper to form letters
but there was something missing I could not
articulate, because each time that I got
pen to paper, scrawls and smears dominated
my work product, so nothing like calligraphy
its peaks and valleys not the recognizable
geography
of any seasoned scribe whose writing earns praise
in the ’60’s I forged ahead with a manual typewriter
which my college professors said made things
of any seasoned scribe whose writing earns praise
in the ’60’s I forged ahead with a manual typewriter
which my college professors said made things
brighter
being so worn out from reading manuscript all day
by and by I allowed word processors to create
being so worn out from reading manuscript all day
by and by I allowed word processors to create
legible
copy on my behalf, plus do spell check, and enable
me to finally create something worth reading
and to this day I take awful notes by hand that even
copy on my behalf, plus do spell check, and enable
me to finally create something worth reading
and to this day I take awful notes by hand that even
I cannot decipher later in the day, another mystery
to lie buried in a stack of papers to be thrown away
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa
THIS IS NOT WHAT THE ANCIENTS
WERE SAYING
—Caschwa
“Thou Shalt Not Kill”, unless
that is the easiest solution to resolve a problem
you are untouchably privileged
you use a military-grade automatic assault weapon
the NRA has your back
you are doing the community a public service to rid the world of certain people
you’ve heard good arguments that the 2nd Amendment gives such approval
why not?
—Public Domain Illustration
Courtesy of Medusa
REVOLUTION! TO THE EXTREME
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Oh, no!
Everything you fought for
And couldn’t be replaced
Has been let go.
There is blood
Upon the snow.
Kerensky
Has been overthrown
By the Bolshevik
Coup against the government.
What shall we do?
There are men with rifles
At every corner
Of every strategic point,
Mapped out by Trotsky,
In his plan to overthrow
The Socialist government
Of Kerensky,
While Kerensky
Didn’t have a clue,
After they got weapons
From the opened armory,
He opened for fear of
Rebellion from the right,
But overnight,
He faced an overthrow
From the left
That overthrew.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa
SCI-FI NOIR
—Joe Nolan
Hunter-killer robots
Teleported through
Time and space,
To strategic places
To ruin and to waste
Anything of value
With disruptor beams
And many other weapons,
Impossible to trace,
Formed by 3-D printers
From twisted imaginations
Blow up all the vehicles
On our interstate highways
With no way to defend
Since they just “transport in”
Seconds before they shoot.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
AMERICA’S PLANTATION
—Joe Nolan
Annihilation is
Antisocial conduct,
Hopefully reserved
For those who’ve
Been convicted
Of crimes warranting
The ultimate price
Of losing your life,
But missiles
Fired in anger
At a boat in Caribbean,
Presage
Aggression against
Venezuela.
It’s just like
Manuel Noriega—
They want to treat
Maduro just like him—
Invade his nation and
Capture or kill him.
The Monroe Doctrine
Is still working
To make Latin America
America’s plantation.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
STILL MIDDLE CLASS?
—Joe Nolan
Let’s pretend we’re all
Still middle class,
Though it feels
Like we are falling.
How many years
Have gone by
Without a decent raise
And some years,
Not any?
If you have a mortgage
Payments are the same,
But taxes, insurance
Maintenance and care,
(Don’t even mention groceries)
Just keep creeping
Upwards,
Making paychecks lame.
So, it feels like falling—
Falling behind—
Background anxiety
In the back of your mind.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa
HOPE
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
The night is murky
The dawn passes through
As the road gets ditsy
The pine roads pass by
The same old Town of dreams and magic
As I wander through
Through the wet sickness
Dry devoid of God's optimal grace
The rain drenched hopes
Come by in surplus
The pink peonies of mahogany lines
Soft dangling daisies hope by
As I come home in unpredictable feelings.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
The purpose of a writer is to keep civilization from destroying itself.
—Albert Camus
____________________
Our thanks to today’s lively contributors, some of whom riffed on our Tuesday Seed of the Week of “Poets Lie”. Of course we do; it’s our stock-in-trade, sending you lies, either pretty or otherwise.
No lie here, though: the wondrous Dancing Poetry Festival from the equally wondrous Natica Angilly will take place in Kensington this Saturday, 9/20, from 12-5pm. Artists Embassy International (www.dancingpoetry.com/aeihistoryandinfo.html/), a non-profit arts organization founded in 1951 by Althya Youngman, was intended to further understanding and peace through the arts. Each year for the Dancing Poetry Festival, successor Natica Angilly and her Poetic Dance Theater Company choreograph the three Grand Prize poems which won First Prize in the spring contest. Other Second- and Third-Prize poems are also read by the authors. This year, SnakePal Claire Baker has won a Grand (First) Prize, so her poem that is posted above, “A Free-Flowing Yes!”, will be choreographed. Claire also won a Third Prize. And another SnakePal, Allegra Silberstein, won both a Second and a Third.
Sacramento poets used to be very active in DP, winning several prizes each year (Laverne Frith won three Grand Prizes over the years) and sweeping down there in our cars and our grandeur to read and claim the goods. Even Medusa was known to hit the podium once or twice (but never choreographed). To see this year’s winners’ list, go to https://www.dancingpoetry.com/2025poetrycontest.html/. Natica has a great flair for color and drama, and it’s always a spectacular event. No reservations required.
Also next weekend in the Bay Area, the 28th annual Petaluma Poetry Walk takes place next Sunday, a day-long event from 11am-8pm, with 26 poets reading in 8 venues. For the schedule and the new anthology, go to https://petalumapoetrywalk.org/.
And here in Sacramento, the deadline for the next Tule Review issue is TODAY! Get your high-heeled pencils on . . .
______________________
—Medusa
______________________
—Medusa
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa
A reminder that
Poetry in Motion meets
in Placerville today, 10:30am; and
Mario Ellis Hill and Jessica Cohn
will read at Sacramento Poetry Center
tonight, 7:30pm.
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!
Poetry in Motion meets
in Placerville today, 10:30am; and
Mario Ellis Hill and Jessica Cohn
will read at Sacramento Poetry Center
tonight, 7:30pm.
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!
