In Autumn Brown

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down to
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Nolcha Fox, Lynn White, Joe Nolan,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Caschwa,
Jerome Berglund, and Christina Chin

 

 

WHAT I KNOW BY ITS ABSENCE   

        at the fairgrounds

How many times I’ve passed this circular
planter without focusing—unmindful
of its centerpiece tree or shrub? Today
it’s gone. Nothing but woodchips in planter.
I was thinking how I keep losing my
car keys, and leaving my pouch of dog treats—
carefully measured out, still sitting at
home on kitchen counter. As I berate
myself for these forgettings, and vow to
be more mindful, I almost miss this rock,
barrier to keep people from driving
on the lawn. Who has painted a cat’s face
on the rock? Quick scribble of eyes, whiskers.
The inscrutable consciousness of stone.

 

 

 

3 TO THE 3rd POWER

dog, cat, dog
make one tri-
cube threesome

they make noise
and furry
partnerships

sometimes they
totally
ignore me

 

 

 

 

TRYING TO READ THE POEM

Five tense fingers clutch
the open book’s spine to keep
it from escaping.
Her other hand is never
at rest, a beast
quivering, trying to catch
a printed word with
all its syllables before
it too gets away—
her lips shuddering
to translate letters
into a sputtering speech.
The effort twitches
her whole body, her mouth so
famished to render meaning.

 

 

 

 

IN AUTUMN BROWN

A doe passed by, on and off all summer,
avoiding me like a stranger, like an interloper.
I kept my distance, diverted my walks
so as not to disturb her, closed myself inside
my walls. Why did she stick around on the west
hill, the northeast fence-line, ready to spook
at my slightest move? Here she is again,
shadowed by her secret—a fawn grown out
of its spots. Where did she keep it hidden,
a place I couldn’t locate on this piece of land
I call mine, and don’t know the half of it?
Now autumn drops its leaves, its veils
revealing what summer kept me from seeing.

 

 

 

CAUGHT IN THE MOMENT

I feel my way to windows before dawn,
this split between dark and daylight, the east
ridge above fields where yesterday a fawn
with its young mother foraged for the least
bit of stubble, and the mole with clever feet—
those claws!—dug for protection underground
against weather. The wind’s insistent beat
keeps changing everything I think I’ve found.
And soon the shadows tangle and assuage,
the raven’s wings carrying it away.
I try to catch these moments on a page
but I find it’s lacking for this new day.
It’s just a bunch of drafts and epitaphs.
I must loose myself from old photographs.


(After first 14 lines of Susan Aizenberg’s “Wind, Bue Sky”)

 

 

 

 

SHOTGUN SHELBY   

New pup squeezes under the dog
barrier, declares she’s riding
shotgun—forelegs entangling
gearshift. What an adventure!

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

WHERE SHALL WE WALK?
—Taylor Graham

Flights of fancy & surprise may
prove the seedbeds of progress.
Open the door. My dogs shall lead
the way to wheresoever.

____________________

New dog Shelby continue to make the Graham house her own, as Taylor Graham’s poetry show us, and our Seed of the Week, “A deer passed by . . .” took place over there, too. When Shelby climbed up front in the car, I’m sure other-dog Otis must’ve said, “Wait—we can do that??”

What did the listener say about the poet who was reading? “I’ve seen verse . . .”

Forms TG has used this week include some Blank Verse (“What I Know by Its Absence”); a TriCube (“3 to the 3rd Power”); a Chōka (“Trying to Read the Poem”); a Sonnet that is also a Borrow-&-Take-Back (“Caught in the Moment”), and two Dribbles (“Shotgun Shelby”; “Where Shall We Walk?”). The Dribble was one of last week’s Triple-F Challenges, and “In Autumn Brown” and “Caught in the Moment” are also Response Poems to our Tuesday Seed of the Week, “A deer passed by".

In El Dorado County poetry this week, find info about EDC’s regular workshops by scrolling 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!

* * *

 

 

Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo

 

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


DEEPER AND DEEPER
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

In search of some silence,
I flee to the forest,
where rocks turn to bridges
and caves deep and dark.
Here time is eternally
captured and waiting
for endings from which
we will never return.

* * *

THE TUNNEL LESS TRAVELED
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

I can see the tunnel less traveled,
Clear as clear can be,
Down a tunnel
Into rock
Too small for you or me.

It’s not like
There’s really a choice
So we’ll venture
Into the chasm
Into which we can fit
Since there’s no alternative
Even for the desperate.

* * *

CAVING
—Lynn White, Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales


They waited
for the crack
that would let in the light.

They waited
for the roof
to cave in
knowing
that would let in the light.

It’s all just piles now
rocks lying there
in the open
in the light.

But they’ve not finished yet.
They can still see
a dark tunnel
ahead
waiting
for them
to let in the light.

* * *

DRIPPING WITH POWER
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

There’s channel churning into rock
that’s chipped—a deeper pitted block,
like pestle, mortar, grinding on,
but cup worn out—its surface shaved
by charging globules’ constant stream.

Caverns yet measureless to man
alongside caves where waves shaped stone;
such subterranean beneath,
uncovered tunnels rarely seen.

When speleologists at work—
as spellings cast beyond our grasp—
subversive movements, underground,
our earth remoulded out of sight.

But let the water do its work,
that constant patient water drip,
like Chinese torture by repute,
mere drop of fluid, all the time.

In parallel, the ancient schemes
as Plato’s shadows, other dreams,
geology mixed metaphys,
those deep recesses duly joined.

For droplets carve out granite stock,
the power of little, matrix trick;
so given space, that wearing bears
the logic task of baring rock.

* * *

Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) has devised a new form: 12, 11, 10 syllables, with no rhyme scheme. I do believe that’s what we call a Nonce, a form made up for one-time use:

 

 

  

COMPETING VOICES
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Doctors tell me I’m getting older every day
Old joints tell my I’m aging by the second
The bathroom scale refuses to take sides

There’s food in the fridge demanding to be eaten
Today’s Taco Tuesday, I’ll hit the drive-through
Stay on budget, cries my shrinking account

I’ll record the show with the longest commercials
which allows me to speed through ads on playback
Or maybe I should just read a good book

Used to go swimming almost every summer day
Used to ride my bicycle over mountains
This was while someone else handled the chores

Now I have a house with big chores and expenses
Am I trapped inside the American dream?
It’s Taco Tuesday, I’ll hit the drive-through

* * *

Carl has also sent us a List Poem:

 

 

 

 

 TAKE WHAT LIFE GIVES YOU
—Caschwa

· Went fishing, caught a cold
· Was already over 21 when voting age lowered 

to 18
· Put lots and lots of miles on my bicycle, before 

helmets were required
· Wore boots, gloves, and helmet while riding 

my motorcycle, did not prevent harm but did 

reduce it
· Just showed up at the Grand Canyon with a 

hiking buddy, met a guy who had made reserva-

tions for 3, allowed to hit the trail that same day 

with people who had booked a year in advance
· Attempted to make s batch of cookies, the dough 

united in protest, ended up making one very 

large cookie
· Schools teach how to count change, show piggy 

banks as a place to hold them. When will they 

teach about dollars?
· I have a grown son, now taller than I am, much 

bigger feet, and he is one college degree ahead 

of me
· The Great Depression taught my parents to hold 

onto material things for a long time; I don’t have

enough free space for that, so I am trending         

towards favoring digital formats
· Real, authentic, licensed, insured, medical 

doctors saved and reattached my thumb, saved my 

leg, rebuilt my ankle, kept me on life support         

while I was in a coma, and generally nurtured me 

back to good health; I see a wolf in sheep’s 

clothing when I view a politician posing in a lab 

coat

* * *

I guess you could call this poem from Carl a Political Haibun:

 

 

 

WE MUST DO SOMETHING
—Caschwa

It is as big a hint as we’ll ever get,
to wake up in an igloo and look
face to face at an iguana. They don’t
dwell in frozen climes, but prefer high
up in the tree canopy of humid, tropical,
rainforests. Our extended pursuit of
carbon-based materials to burn for
power that is sold for a big profit has
likely caused elements of change in our
weather patterns that we cannot reverse.
If only we could burn all those denials,
delays, disarrays, and disregard that is
propounded by the mere mention of
“Climate Change”—but no, we have to
live with it. Because now it has become
too big a part of the flow of money into
the pockets of oil barons, etc.

When we take away
an iguana’s source of warmth,
Mother Nature dies

* * *

And some Haiku from Carl:

 

 

 

SO COOL

Mounted inverted
dustpan on the hood, so I
called it a hot rod

    ~ ~ ~

REFRIGERATOR MAGA NUTS

Most are expired or
very obsolete, but they
keep on deceiving

    ~ ~ ~

WIDOWER

I am no longer
half of a couple, I am
all of no longer


* * *

Jerome Berglund and Christina Chin have sent us some Tan-Renga:

 

 

 

THREE TAN-RENGA
—Jerome Berglund (italics) and Christina Chin (plain text)

from the sidelines
watching them tear each
other to pieces
not the first nor last
hyenas

    ~ ~ ~

got too many
socks to be keeping
the shredded ones
a few for mismatched
socks day

    ~ ~ ~

on the grass
auburn cushions
stained 
pigeon feathers
scatter


* * *

And here is an Ars Poetica about writing and painting from Stephen Kingsnorth:

 

 

 

 Rain on the River
—Painting by George Bellows (USA), 1908

BOXING CLEVER
—Stephen Kingsnorth

A player courted, basket, base,
though chose that ball, art students league,
this radical of ashcan school
waxed lyrical from left of field.
What drove to brush ’fore graduate,
reject sport scout, leave commerce part,
withdraw athletics, focal point
of painting as his primal call?

It was the urban working class
of city grime in real rough,
from boxing ring of gruff appeal,
atrocities of gruesome scenes.
Dissenter—Wesley middle name—
he stood for lines, unpopular;
supporting war against the Hun,
defending those against the same.

How dare he paint what had not seen?
His quick response to critics’ form—
‘for had no ticket’—sportsman talk—
Da Vinci absent, upper room.
For illustrator, books, the norm
to craft response from written word;
so seasoned ethics, politics,
he framed stark, dark, reality.

If river, rain and misty steam
were all ingrained, washed over work,
then harsher life must be revealed
in lithograph or oily truth.
From elementary blackboard chalks
’twas class controlled his pupillage;
iconoclast up till sad end,
until life ruptured far too young.

__________________

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 CHALLENGE!!!

 

See what you can make of these challenges, and send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.) Try a Distorted Diablo—“devil” for the season. “Rhymed at the discretion of the poet.” I like that:

•••Distorted Diablo: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/distorted-diablo

•••AND/OR an Egg Timer. I have no idea why it’s called that, but, well, such is life. (We’ve all got an egg timer in us, just waiting to go off, yes? Now THERE’s a thought…)

•••Egg Timer: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/egg-beater

•••AND/OR maybe toss us a Dixdeux (dee-DUH) or two…

•••Dixdeux: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/dixdeux

•••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 “Empty beer cans”

____________________

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

•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Blank Verse: literarydevices.net/blank-verse AND/OR www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-the-difference-between-blank-verse-and-free-verse#quiz-0
•••Borrow-&-Give-Back: Take someone else's poem, write it out then remove even-numbered lines and write your own in their place; then remove odd-numbered lines and write your own.
•••Chōka: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/choka AND/OR https://girlgriot.wordpress.com/tag/choka
•••Distorted Diablo: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/distorted-diablo
•••Dixdeux: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/dixdeux
•••Dribble: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/dribble
•••Egg Timer: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/egg-beater
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Haibun: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form
•••List Poem: clpe.org.uk/poetryline/poeticforms/list-poem
•••Nonce Poetry Forms: www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/nonce-forms-what-they-are-and-how-to-write-them
•••Response Poem: creativetalentsunleashed.com/2015/11/18/writing-tip-response-poems
•••Sonnet Forms: https://blog.prepscholar.com/what-is-a-sonnet-poem-form AND/OR poets.org/glossary/sonnet
•••Tan-Renga: https://www.graceguts.com/essays/an-introduction-to-tan-renga
•••TriCube (devised by Phillip Larrea): Each stanza is three lines, three syllables per line, any subject
•••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.)

* * *

—Artwork Courtesy of Public Domain

 
 
 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ghost of the Swirl

 In the Clouds
—Painting by Jacek Malczewski (Poland) c. 1894

* * *
—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnort

 

 

FROM THE CLOUD OF DUST

From earth to earth, and dust to dust,
is this a ghoul, ghost of the swirl
from yellow field, sand sundried track
where sky, trees, field, path stratified?
With speckled cloud, long pine line thinned,
weed growth of green ’gainst meadow gold,
though wheel tread rutting parallel,
set lines are drawn for wight erupt.

So are they shades or one in whirl,
these dancers of one move unfurled,
dust devil’s grit confusing eye
or phantoms raised as spectral wraith?
No will-o’-wisp, phosphine oxide,
or lantern swamp to misguide fools,
this dry five, more, evolving shape
writhes wrist chains, grim skull, digit reach.

Polonia, emerging sons,
from shackled hands of Poland’s past,
can Motherland be symbolised;
or demon mad, Poludnica?
A tromp l’oeil, imagined mind,
a marriage, surreal, well-earthed,
out on a limb, unmeasured step,
that breath, wind, spirit blows as will. 

 

 

 

 The Sahara
—Painting by Gustave Guillaumet (France), 1867

CONCENTRATE EVADED

A mirage—in the past preferred—
romanticised, idealised,
when Gustave, grand, but simple shows
infinity in solitude.

See on those waves, both beached, far reach—
set crests, dips, statuesque through span—
horizon hint of caravan,
its passing, mirage as that past?

Below mist mellow yellow sky,
monotony, bleached bands of sand,
old skeleton, cold, frozen tones,
sole camel carcass in the waste.

Alone, soul-search, did Guillaumet
seek desolate to feel the real,
as isolated wilderness
revealed erased, evaded truth?

Stretched parchment skin, yet sinew tent,
parched bones soon crumble into grains,
for space, time aeons, concentrate,
deserted places, Sahara.

 

 

 

 Boulevard Montmartre
—Painting by Camille Pissarro (France), 1897

ARCHITECTURE PASSAGE

The Hôtel Russie offered lift,
a Grand framed window overview,
above the throng, along, nightlong,
here carriage queue for Moulin Rouge
around the bend, so out of site.

Observant programmed episodes,
like Haystacks, Rouen Cathedral,
a baker’s dozen plus, impressed,
for cash required as principal—
not portraits, Paris wealth elites.  
 
En plein air pain had brought inside,
as pointillism set aside
for full life, movement, shimmer sense,
both aerial and linear,
those nightlights under canopies.

An architextured cityscape
in urban oeuvre, boulevard,
a bustle like blurred photographs
of crowds beneath trees, beyond shops,
where some suit selves for Mardi Gras.

In light of change for tutored young,
his Passage as Van Gogh, Cezanne,
transitions, modern, pathways new—
warm glow of gas, glass panes above
yet stream of street, electric lights.

Eccentric strikes, eclectic sprites
play in the damp road mirrorwork;
that downpour passed, as glower clouds,
so were his final points, the stars
of pure paint over layered oils?

 

 

 

 

“Dance for Parkinson’s” —with whom I (Stephen) share a weekly zoom session run by English National Ballet—prepared a choreography around Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue.  With other hubs around the country, we were filmed in preparation for this year’s World Parkinson’s Day publicity. This poem was written after filming, reflecting on that choreography and our preparations for the performance. [Stephen, as you know, suffers from Parkinson’s Disease.]


RHAPSODY

It’s Blue, red cheeky shock, caught out,  
and raised jazz hands in Parky shake,
fantastic tripping in the light
as zooming changed scenes played about.   
Here’s marching New York, taxi splashed,  
both hail and hearty subway track,
the hanging, yawning, coffee sniff,
again the cab, derisive, dashed.   
But wither going, wobble high,  
then drawing rainbows over sky.  

From bird to portrait, arms stretch, spout  
of leaping fish, wrong name dished out,
arm run to hornpipe, tick tock clock,
the upper body, boxing bout.   
Conducted by the music played,   
poor sense of power when notes delayed,
with carpet bagging focal shots   
on mangled legs, those feet displayed   
and tremors floored in filming plot,   
a dance routine somewhat forgot.     

Glissando rise through frame landmarks,   
with overview as curtains drawn,
eggs over easy, take out drink,
ways broad, Bronx, Harlem, Central Park.   
We shuffled here and wiggled, bopped,   
our elbows screwed up to the screen,
and left stepped, forward, back, again,
then circled, shaped until we dropped.  
This ballet, dance, body unbends   
as giggle with far distant friends.  

 

 

 

 

SEERS

We know they’re filtered, coffee grounds—
the same for sound bites that we hear,
now with AI, the site’s not clear,
but open-eyed—save tromp l’oeil?
For fear, deception, anchor points,
like verify on broadcast news,
so, spot what differs, puzzle page,
my belt and braces, shapes compared.
When talking to the colour blind,
I know their blue is brown to me,
so labels differ, spectrum’s range,
but they still know when autumn dressed.
One may be day—a sunny beach—
the other night with limelight shift;
but reason and experience
suggests art trickery afoot.
We need our seers, with second sight—
I call them poets in disguise—
who see beyond first glancing show,
wait long enough for afterglow.
Perhaps it’s back to stand and stare,
maybe reflect what’s really there,
the tree from Eden to the skull,
or Bhodi lore, to contemplate.
The more I see of canopy,
the acorn with inherent growth,
webbed mycorrhiza underneath,
I see tree teleology.
For if alone, this tree in pose,
unsettles me with eroteme,
the Greenman has fulfilled his cause,
and pilgrimage for me begun.

 
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/7/25)

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

People want to give up the responsibility of being able to understand and because they can't understand then they have faith, and they put their faith in other people who say they can understand.

― Paul Stamets, Mycelium Running: How Mushrooms Can Help Save the World

____________________

Our thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for his fine poetry today, and public domain photos to go with it. Stephen starts October with his ghost, and ends his post with its mention of seers and mycelium, the ever-present fungus (with mushrooms, its way of blooming) that covers the earth, fascinating him (and me!) with the way it connects all of us. Thank you, Greenman!

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Thank you, Greenman!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 A reminder that

Lawrence Dinkins and Bob Stanley

are reading in Davis tonight, 7pm.

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!

 

 

 

Sriracha, Avocados, & Coffee

 —Poetry by Scott C. Kaestner, Los Angeles, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 HUMMINGBIRD

Suspended
In midair
Wind swirling
Wings fluttering
Yet somehow motionless
Does time stand still
                                 only
                                 for
                                 you?

 

 

 

 

BLUE SABBATH

It was a wicked sunny blue
Sunday afternoon
nothing to do so did
something instead
green sacrament
blue sabbath
and the sky wasn’t
the only thing high
my mind must be fed
I am not dead
I am alive
a soul seeking light
shadows don’t exist
the Summer sun does
and I do too
on a wicked sunny blue
Sunday afternoon.

 

 

 

 

SRIRACHA, AVOCADOS, & COFFEE

There are only a few things in life
that make everything better.

Sriracha, avocados, and coffee
are three of them.

Politics and religion
are not.

 

 

 

 

THAT PLACE

where the walls are blankets
holding in the warmth
of being there.

that place, where your head lays down to rest along
with your mind and soul.

that place, where dreams are cast into the ether, 

that place, if you can’t find it then create it.

that place, roam free but always follow your heart
back to that place.

 

 

 

 

LIFE & DEATH

When we cease to look at the world with wonder...
        we die.

When we fail to see the possibility in  it all... we die.

When we stop letting love and empathy into our
        hearts... we die.

When we let fear and hate seep into our souls...
        we die.

When we see ourselves in the eyes of our enemies...
        we live.

When we realize the sun will still rise in spite of
        it all... we live.

When we look in the mirror and embrace what we
        see... we live.

And when we know there is always room to grow...
        we prosper.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

LOST
—Scott C. Kaestner

If you don’t get lost
you’ll never find your way
confusion is the path to clarity,
uncertainty the key to unlock reality.

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Scott Kaestner for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

 Scott C. Kaestner

A reminder that
C. Knight’s Steakhouse
wants to start a reading series
in El Dorado Hills—show up
tonight, 8pm, if you’re interested.
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
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Would you like to be a SnakePal?
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