—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan,
Stockton, CA
LIMITLESS
I know the science
Some billions of years ago
the universe erupted into being
and some billions of years from now
the Sun will explode in a minor nova
and many trillions of years later
all the stars will go dark
But lying on this blanket
in some unsuspecting farmer's field
watching Perseid meteors
flare across the August sky
it all seems so
limitless
When I hold your hand
(first published by Prolific Pulse Press,
Heart Beats Anthology, 2020)
I know the science
Some billions of years ago
the universe erupted into being
and some billions of years from now
the Sun will explode in a minor nova
and many trillions of years later
all the stars will go dark
But lying on this blanket
in some unsuspecting farmer's field
watching Perseid meteors
flare across the August sky
it all seems so
limitless
When I hold your hand
(first published by Prolific Pulse Press,
Heart Beats Anthology, 2020)
PRACTICE FIRE
"Local Fire Departments participated in a live practice fire at an abandoned motel yesterday. Over 80 firefighters participated and learned elements of fire behavior and crew operations."
I want to set a practice fire
in my life this weekend.
Watch it burn—
gaudy orange flames,
pillars of black smoke
visible for miles
so even school friends
I haven't seen in years
comment on Facebook.
Hop in the car
and just drive.
Withdraw money
from my 401(k).
Run up credit cards
in hotel bars.
Pay a Russian stripper
to marry me in Mexico
before she stabs me
in the back
at the border.
But just for practice
so I can return
to my tidy apartment,
quiet and alone,
then back to work
Monday morning,
smell of soot
still on my breath.
(first published by Gyroscope Review, 2020)
SELF PORTRAIT
A derelict cabin in the woods
yellow linoleum curls in the kitchen
strategic pans hold leaking rain
but behind the pile of moldy clothes
a spiral staircase
Down like a drill into the earth
to a room with piles upon piles
of books—hardcover and paperback
bright new and faded old
smelling of dust and drought
Down again to an arcane museum
with walls of unlabeled paintings
tables topped by collected curiosities
a busted harmonica—strange coins
holy passports—rocks and stones
Down again to where tree roots
barked like branches to be climbed
twist along rivers with sandy banks
of rocks smooth flat and perfect
warm as summer in childhood
Down again to an open field
under a night sky with a leather chair
and writing desk beside a fireplace
and on the mantle—lit by candles
the portrait of a woman
Closest to the sun
at the center of the world
(first published by Panoply, 2023)
A derelict cabin in the woods
yellow linoleum curls in the kitchen
strategic pans hold leaking rain
but behind the pile of moldy clothes
a spiral staircase
Down like a drill into the earth
to a room with piles upon piles
of books—hardcover and paperback
bright new and faded old
smelling of dust and drought
Down again to an arcane museum
with walls of unlabeled paintings
tables topped by collected curiosities
a busted harmonica—strange coins
holy passports—rocks and stones
Down again to where tree roots
barked like branches to be climbed
twist along rivers with sandy banks
of rocks smooth flat and perfect
warm as summer in childhood
Down again to an open field
under a night sky with a leather chair
and writing desk beside a fireplace
and on the mantle—lit by candles
the portrait of a woman
Closest to the sun
at the center of the world
(first published by Panoply, 2023)
ECLIPSE
When darkness struck, I shivered
even though I knew exactly
when it would happen and why,
visiting my daughter's grave
for the first time.
The eclipse wasn't my fault
unlike her death and the divorce.
I had no memory of the accident.
I trusted the investigators
but my guilt was intellectual
unlike that visceral fear
in the pit of my stomach
as the umbra crossed the Earth.
I wouldn't run into her mother
that afternoon at the cemetery
resting in the path of totality.
There were others around
but just for the astronomy.
I was the one looking down.
(first published by Sledgehammer Lit, 2021)
When darkness struck, I shivered
even though I knew exactly
when it would happen and why,
visiting my daughter's grave
for the first time.
The eclipse wasn't my fault
unlike her death and the divorce.
I had no memory of the accident.
I trusted the investigators
but my guilt was intellectual
unlike that visceral fear
in the pit of my stomach
as the umbra crossed the Earth.
I wouldn't run into her mother
that afternoon at the cemetery
resting in the path of totality.
There were others around
but just for the astronomy.
I was the one looking down.
(first published by Sledgehammer Lit, 2021)
THE END
We ravaged our hotel room
like an aging rock star
after a career
of gold records and groupies.
We overachieved,
accomplishments both gory and glorious.
We flung our fellow men to the Moon,
our robots to the stars.
We tamed the wilderness,
consumed it whole
until Poseidon swallowed the seaside cities,
Thor hammered the flatlands
and Shiva burned the rest,
leaving our balding corpse
naked on the toilet,
gasoline overdose
still in our veins.
(first published by Postcard Poems and Prose, 2015)
We ravaged our hotel room
like an aging rock star
after a career
of gold records and groupies.
We overachieved,
accomplishments both gory and glorious.
We flung our fellow men to the Moon,
our robots to the stars.
We tamed the wilderness,
consumed it whole
until Poseidon swallowed the seaside cities,
Thor hammered the flatlands
and Shiva burned the rest,
leaving our balding corpse
naked on the toilet,
gasoline overdose
still in our veins.
(first published by Postcard Poems and Prose, 2015)
DONATING A PINT
My blood looks like wine
as it pours from vein to vial,
a fine Pinot Noir
though with better legs.
I'd like a transfusion,
direct from bottle to arm,
bypass my burning stomach,
molten core of misery.
A nice Merlot will lighten
the mix flowing to my brain,
relieving regrets remembered
when I drink too little.
Like the Antichrist, I'm turning
blood into wine, one glass at a time.
(first published by NC Bards Against Hunger Anthology, 2020)
My blood looks like wine
as it pours from vein to vial,
a fine Pinot Noir
though with better legs.
I'd like a transfusion,
direct from bottle to arm,
bypass my burning stomach,
molten core of misery.
A nice Merlot will lighten
the mix flowing to my brain,
relieving regrets remembered
when I drink too little.
Like the Antichrist, I'm turning
blood into wine, one glass at a time.
(first published by NC Bards Against Hunger Anthology, 2020)
OUR LITTLE SECRET
Like a black lace bra
under a frumpy sweater,
our love remains hidden,
therapeutic and dangerous.
At an affair with friends,
nothing bold as a wink
passes between us,
just narrowed eyes
and raised brows
across the room,
the subtle signals
that spark excitement
and revive the confidence
that time has neither drained
nor left us crumpled.
There are still desires to fulfill
and plenty of poor judgment
to exercise.
(first published by Contemporary American Voices, 2016)
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Like a black lace bra
under a frumpy sweater,
our love remains hidden,
therapeutic and dangerous.
At an affair with friends,
nothing bold as a wink
passes between us,
just narrowed eyes
and raised brows
across the room,
the subtle signals
that spark excitement
and revive the confidence
that time has neither drained
nor left us crumpled.
There are still desires to fulfill
and plenty of poor judgment
to exercise.
(first published by Contemporary American Voices, 2016)
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
If you reveal your secrets to the wind, you should not blame the wind for revealing them to the trees.
—Khalil Gibran
___________________
Newcomer Bartholomew Barker works with Living Poetry. He has published a full-length collection, a chapbook and been nominated for a Pushcart and the Best of the Net. His work has recently appeared in Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Panoply, Tipton Poetry Journal, Gyroscope Review and the Naugatuck River Review among others. Welcome to the Kitchen, Bartholomew, and don’t be a stranger! (See more of Bartholomew at www.bartbarkerpoet.com/.)
____________________
—Medusa
Snow time ain't no time to STAY OUTDOORS AND SPOON...
So shine on, shine on, harvest moon (for me and my gal!).
Maybe you're too young to remember this old song. Some of them have rhymes that'd knock your socks off. Snow time ain't no time . . .
I told you—I saw the harvest moon—
Bartholomew Barker
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!
