Life By Life

 —Poetry by Joshua St. Claire, York County, PA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

snow clouds
or the Blue Mountains?
solstice dusk

    ~ ~ ~

fountain silver
a grey catbird teeters
at the edge of reality

    ~ ~ ~
    
her grandsons gathering
her grandmother’s tulips
seedtime

     ~ ~ ~

Oak Island
even here all waves are his
Hokusai 

 

 

 

 

briefly the same
akitsu
vulture


    ~ ~ ~

believe me
it’s better this way
cherry blossoms

    ~ ~ ~

The Book of Common Prayer
sunlight fading
on a distant hill

    ~ ~ ~

cerulean
she chides me
for my cheek

 

 

 

 

how much more
can we take?
all day rain

    ~ ~ ~

back to school
I flash in and out of existence
under a dying streetlight

    ~ ~ ~

a bullfrog’s hop
from the trashcan
sandwich wrapper

    ~ ~ ~

all day snow
life by life
layers of limestone 

 

 

 

 

flawless macadam
a dandelion seed falls
into the end of time

    ~ ~ ~

as if
I would ever tire of you
sycamores

    ~ ~ ~

wisteria blossoms
my slow journey
down your neck

    ~ ~ ~

until
I have exhausted my voice
the sky

 

 

 

 

long night
Orion lights his cigarette
from mine

    ~ ~ ~

our brief time
together
ranunculus

    ~ ~ ~

rising again
into the orichalc sky
ice moon

    ~ ~ ~

my wife
whispering at my ear:
cowbird chick

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Only the very weak-minded refuse to be influenced by literature and poetry.

―Cassandra Clare, Clockwork Angel

______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Joshua St. Claire for today’s fine poetry! Check out last Saturday’s Kitchen for more of his poetry, at http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2025/10/salt-wind-cherry-blossoms.html/.

 

 

 

 Our brief time together:
Ranunculus

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

LittleSnake at his Halloween

costume fitting . . .

 










 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Coming To Grips

 —Poetry by R. Gerry Fabian, Doylestown, PA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy

of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA 

COMING TO GRIPS WITH IT ALL

I am walking to the Cherokee path.
The road is rutted and winding
as it goes up the hill.
Settlers followed.
Halfway up is a clearing
where wagons coming up or down
could pass each other.

When I was younger,
my father tried to take the tractor
to the top to bring down
a bundle of cut logs.
He didn’t make it.

These days, I have to rest
and hydrate at the clearing.
My legs groan and perspiration
comes much too quickly.
Soon like the Cherokee,
this passage
will just be part of a series
of what used to be.

 

 

 

 

AUDITORY DETOURS

The all-night
disc jockey
is working his magic
like a tent-show barker
selling elixir
that will cure anything
that has the shape
of movement
as she drives
along Route 72
outside of town
at 3:00 a.m.
Eastern Standard Time.

She is leaving
before it’s too late.
She wants to embrace
tomorrow’s dawn
on her own terms.

And she almost has it
until
she slows
for road construction
and the DJ
plays
the one song
the causes her emotional engine
to seize up.

 

 

 

 

AVOIDING TOLL ROADS

Walking slowly along
the dusty back road
of my last few years
I notice
the twists and turns
of immediate indecision;
the wide wheel ruts
common to my fastidious routine;
the gully dips
where I was swept away;
the flash flood rantings;
the strewn rubble
that cluttered my every move;
the overgrown shoulders
that bore the unskilled labor
until I reach
this dead end—
where I got off.

 

 

 

 

THE DAILY YOU

Forever is a per diem occurrence.
You’re the front page.
It may not be world news
but see that people keep paging through
your business and financial sections.
Please find some space for comics.
Beware the obituary disappointments!
Otherwise—
meet your deadlines
and keep the price of your daily labor
at a level everyone can afford.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

NO DEPOSIT — NO RETURN
—R. Gerry Fabian

The beer can
on the side of the road
is crushed and discarded.

Once highly sought
for its intoxicating beverage;
there's nothing left.

I've been that can
and so have you.
No matter what happens—
let's not toss it out
the window.

______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to R. Gerry Fabian for today’s fine poetry! (Ironically, he sent us a beer can poem before it was even Seed of the Week!)

 

 

 

 

A reminder that the
MoSt Autumn Nature
Poetry Reading and Walk
takes place in Modesto
this morning, 9am.
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!

 

 

          

Ghosts By Daylight

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddler’s Friday, with poetry by
Lynn White, Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
and Caschwa

 

 

OCTOBER

blizzard of
falling leaves
flee the wind

dim morning
clouds bundling
a cold sun

wind bears news
this known world
blown away 

 

 

 

 

GHOST OF WAKAMATSU

Her ghost by daylight shadows panes and sills
so subtly that you’d never see. And yet
you feel her presence in the house and hills,
transplanted exile who could not forget,
for homesickness, her language with its net
of courtesy across the sea—so far
away and irretrievable, a star
that could not guide her home. Her breath stirs lace
of curtains at a window, door ajar.
Her hand so light of touch. Her unseen face. 

 

 

 

 

RORSCHACH TEST
aspen carvings

It’s a lizard
but what about these wings?
This might be a bird on its nest.
And on this tree, I’d say it’s a bear—
or bighorn sheep—do bighorn live here?
Now this for sure is a thunderbird.
Is it even a carving, or nature’s own work?
Is this a wolf or a coyote?
Or a dog—those sheepherders
had a dog to run a thousand sheep
while they carved their art into aspen bark.
How’d you like to spend all summer
here in vast Sierra wilderness
with just your dog, a band of sheep,
maybe horse or pack mule for company
and wild critters on every side
to inspire your art? 

 

 

 

 

FISHFLY

They say it’s threatened,
what I found dead—
amazing
wide-winged
bug
bug
wide-winged,
amazing
what I found dead—
they say it’s threatened. 

 

 

 

 

A TRAIL’S TEMPTATIONS

August is like crepitus—stepping on
dead stubble—except for blackberries.
That month is gone. September too,
when a few ripe fingerfuls
found my mouth. Now, even here,
where natural water lies so near beneath
the summer dust, keeping the berries
sweet and plump just weeks ago,
now blackberries hang in untouched
bunches shriveled, wizened. I pluck this
and that one thru prickles of bramble.
A flick of sweet to the tongue,
a mouthful of seedy chaff.
And at trail’s end, at the horse place
in a paddock nearest the wild vines,
a stallion—graceful white
as a sheik’s steed, soft gray muzzle,
blackberry eyes. He moves to meet me
at the fence, fruitless bramble
between us. I reach but cannot touch. 

 

 

 

 

RECYCLING MATH

What’s the equivalency between 3 used
AAA batteries & 4 empty
beer cans, all picked up in a shifting maze
of trails where used to be homeless camp?

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

EDGE OF BUSINESS PARK
—Taylor Graham

The sign says beware of Rattlesnakes, but
all we find is, alas, a dead King Snake—
a friend.

___________________

As always, our thanks to Taylor Graham and her dog-pals, Otis and Shelby, for today’s fine poetry and photos. TG writes that she and the dogs “drove up to Hope Valley last Monday for aspen carvings. I expect more poems & pix are coming from that.” For more about the high country Basque carvings and their sheep, go to https://www.fs.usda.gov/wildflowers/beauty/aspen/carvings.shtml/.

Forms TG used this week include a Dizain (“Ghost of Wakamatsu”); a TriCube (“October”); a Dixdeux (“Edge of Business Park”); a List Poem (“Rorschach Test”); a Blank Verse Quatrain that is also a Response to our Tuesday Seed of the Week, Empty Beer Cans (“Recycling Math”); and an Egg Timer (“Fishfly”). The Egg Timer and the Dixdeux were two of last week’s Triple-F Challenges.

In El Dorado County poetry this week, Poetic License meets in Placerville on Monday, 10:30am. And for info about EDC’s regular workshops, scroll 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 Lynn White, Nolcha Fox, and Stephen Kingsnorth:


GETTING LUCKY
—Lynn White, Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales


Once they brought you luck,
especially if persuaded
to cross your path.

Now their luck has turned
and they’ve become familiar
as the witches’ little helper,
cursed as the devil’s disciple.

But still they sit,
still as night
glossy coat
shining black,
eyes gleaming
like silver stars
purring.

* * *

CAT ON THE HUNT
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

I hear the scraping of her nails
upon our metal roof.

I don’t know how she climbs so high,
or where she calls her home.

I think that she is waiting for
the rats to nibble on the moon.

If I try to rescue her,
She’ll melt into the night.

Maybe she’s just telling me
it’s time to go to bed.

• • •

INSCRUTABLE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

A Persian cat? Night on the tiles,
with turrets, decorated roof,
metallic gleam for real or dream,
but why hide symbols on the ridge,
such decoration out of sight,
more hieroglyphs, Rosetta Stone?

Inferred disguise of cat burglar?
How many lives, without some pause,
familiar, but witch in mind?
See flourishes round crescent, haunch—
out on a limb, cats don’t space haunt—
for kit at one with moon about.

So are its thoughts ethereal,
lune nonsense heard in nursery,
of cows deemed jumping over moon,
while dish, with spoon, were runaways?
But placid cat no puss in boots,
and I fear rhymes of no import.

A scimitar of blade-like light,
as if a flag flies in the night,
but field of red has taken black,
the sunset turning into dark.
Does feline think aligned with stars,
a chorus line on limelight stage?

So here’s a mix of Middle East,
to Ottomans, their histories,
defining Asia, Europe’s line,
a scene from western ignorance,
as if those ancient empires void,
along with those, jungle consumed.

A hot tin roof this cat not on,
but cool cat, as ancestor gods,
awaiting prey, muezzin’s call,
unless serenity abates,
and instinct takes Turkish delight—
but where are we, this moggie plot?

* * *

A Haiku from Caschwa (Carl Schwartz):

 

 

I AM THE ONE BEING TESTED
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Had two dogs, and taught
them both tricks, but neither one
could unlock a safe

* * *

And an Ekphrastic poem by Stephen Kingsnorth:

 

 

 —Painting by Yuna Ogino 

THROUGH LOOKING GLASS
—Stephen Kingsnorth

Here’s pane-full insights, outside in,
boundary-bursting breaking through,
edge-walking on the lip of words.

A teeter, totter, waver swing,
the toddle wobble, quiver quake,  
reel weave careen sway as fore-seen.

’Tis scenic mind-map, mindful been,
a quaver maybe, not galumph,
as clomp towards the trompe l’oeil.

Yet delicately waddle on
with glyphs a-plenty, blended inks,
to spin the spangled, treasured sap.

See window onto where folk been
as listen, draw, conclusions sought;
their images must be proclaimed.

Though mizzle, drizzle, falling drain,
precipitating what moods reign,
it’s brainpower whirls us into safe.

Though edgy, striding into strange
where strangers met are walking on
to find the rainbow, golden end.

An alchemy etched on our screen,
as letting spreads our sprinkled dream,
and what deemed secret soon revealed.

__________________

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 CHALLENGES!

See what you can make of these challenges, and send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.) These darker nights, we need a Lanturne:

•••Lanturne: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/lanturne.html

•••AND/OR another short one, the Septolet:

•••Septolet: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/septolet.html

•••AND/OR: leave us hanging with the Question Poem:

•••Question Poem: penandthepad.com/write-question-poem-6933078.html

•••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 “The Owl Who Waits”

____________________

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

•••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
•••Dixdeux: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/dixdeux
•••Dizain: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/dizain-poetic-form
•••Egg Timer: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/egg-beater
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Haiku: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/haiku-or-hokku AND/OR www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Lanturne: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/lanturne.html
•••List Poem: clpe.org.uk/poetryline/poeticforms/list-poem
•••Quatrain: www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-a-quatrain-in-poetry-quatrain-definition-with-examples
•••Question Poem: penandthepad.com/write-question-poem-6933078.html
•••Response Poem: creativetalentsunleashed.com/2015/11/18/writing-tip-response-poems
•••Septolet: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/septolet.html
•••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
 

 
 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
the release of Six Ft. Swells’
new anthology happens
tonight in Grass Valley, 5:30pm.
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!

 

Harvest Moon means

Harvest Time!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Laundry in October

 

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Nolcha Fox

 

 

A CERTAIN STRANGER

I tried to open sleepy eyes
and look into the mirror.
A bad idea before the coffee
hit my fainting heart.
I saw a woman unfamiliar,
no one I’d ever seen before.
someone haunted by her choices,
someone sorry for her faults,
someone wishing for love lasting,
someone running from dark shadows,
someone lost in bad decisions,
someone doubtful of beginnings,
someone moving
toward a certain death.

 

 

 

 

THE WOMAN AND THE SNAKE

I am a gift you don’t know how to open.
Best leave me alone, you’ll find yourself inside.
I am the snake in every woman,
The woman in every snake.
Walk carefully. Avoid dark alleys,
red light districts, no-tell motels.
I leave behind red slippers,
a hint of jasmine,
an opium dream.
Of course, you’ll seek me out.
I am a myth that winds round your body,
a tail that grows larger with every telling.
I’m the place you’ve always longed
to visit, the place you’ve never been.

 

 

 

 

ALL EYES

Eyes disguise
my true intent.
They distract, you
lose the scent.
You don’t know if
I came or went.
I leave you in
ambivalence.

 

 

 

 

ALONG FOR THE FALL

What do I hear? Ears
must be twirling cochlear, fear
racing fast as heartbeat song. Wrong
of me to play along, belong
with lemmings, never think, sink
into salty drink, hoodwinked.

 

 

 

 

I HATE LAUNDRY IN OCTOBER.

The nights are long.
They drop their stars
before I’m home
from work.
But I still have
a pile of dirty
stuff to wash
before I go to bed.
I stumble through
the field and trip
on pumpkins
as I grope for
clothespins
and the line.
One pin in hand,
I hang the sheet
to scare the
neighbor kids.

 

 

 

 

GOSSIPMONGERS

Trees lean in mist
above the road
to whisper about drivers
who speed this stretch
on Halloween,
and often don’t get home.
They can’t decide if
they like red or white,
if cars or trucks
are more desired.
They agree, and laugh
with glee, that fires
are the best.

 

 

 

 

FALL

I wonder if the trees might fear
the fall of falling leaves
as much as I fear falling
when wind blows fall
into white chill and ice
is on the sidewalk.

 

 

 

 

OPEN FOR BUSINESS

The graveyard gate is always shut.
But every Halloween, that gate
mysteriously is open.

The caretaker swears it isn’t him.
He's too busy getting drunk
with buddies at the bar.

I think the residents get tired
of jumping gates, ripping clothes
that earlier were whole.

Now they walk unhindered
down the path, into the town
to scare up some good screams.

Satisfied, they drift away.
They’ll be back to live it up
same time, same place next year.

 

 

 

 

STINGY JACK

He loved his drink.
He cheated death three times.
Jack is the face of pumpkins
we carve on Halloween.
I don’t know yet if we can hallow
Jack on All Saints Day.
If he is not sober yet, he may
be drying out in Purgatory.
All Soul’s Day, we hallow him
and pray him up to Heaven.
We remember Jack three days
a year when spirits wander.

 

 

 

 

CATCHING YOU

You were the whistle of a train
ripping through the velvet night.
I couldn’t catch you.

You were the V
of homebound geese.
I couldn’t catch you.

I always loved you
but you wanted something else.
I couldn’t catch you.

Now you’re underneath a marker
I can touch.
I finally caught you.

 

 

 

 

AWFUL

My awful cough
is the aunt
who visited for
the weekend
and stayed for
two weeks.
She painted
my bedroom
fluorescent pink
and rearranged
my kitchen.
I’m so glad
she’s gone.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

FAVORITE FALL
—Nolcha Fox

Frequently falling
foliage fiery
foxy flaxen
faded fizzle.
Fireplaces
flicker, fume.
Fermenting
fluids, flushed,
flabbergasted,
fickle forecasts,
fondly fall.

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Nolcha Fox for today’s fine October poetry, and for finding the photos to go with it!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

Practice Fire

 —Poetry by Bartholomew Barker, N. Carolina
—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)

 

 

 

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)

 

 

 

 

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)

 

 

 

 

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)

 

 

 

 

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)

 

 

 

 

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:

 

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!

 

 Still smokin’ . . .