Yes . . . !

 

“… An oval tops the list—“

* * *

—Poetry by Sam Barbee, Winston-Salem, NC
—Images Courtesy of Public Domain and Joe Nolan

 

 

TO RESHAPE DISTANCE
 
My lover vanished down a path lined
with bouquets. Full moon's blur left
her dead scribble on sundown's platelets.
I would swap silence for a familiar tune. 
 
She sought comfort with squared parameters:
corners fixed, easy to grasp. I debate
my transformation to a new shape—
an oval tops the list—melds triangle
and circle, fuses diagonals and circumference.
 
I deform plains,
                           settle on fresh ellipse… 
 
Morning fog and I lean on a corner street-sign.
A piano bangs in some spinster's dusty parlor,
damper pedal open—block chords appropriate
for wide moments. 
                                Crosswalk light changes
and street signs redden, assure me too late
to reconsider shape of distance, how edges await. 
I toast star charts with a half-empty coffee
and reimagine your face,
                                         beaming
behind a partial eclipse—bargaining
the quarter moon with a rind of succulent fruit.  

 

 

 

 

 

VERSIONS OF A SELF
 
Cremation: DNA and trace genetics
to ashes, minced into an unadorned urn.
Thou shalt harvest my gold fillings: yes. 
 
Happy Hour: feast on salsa and tequila—
the worm already bores.  Each shot glass
like my inner circle: yes.
 
Polished rim where my saints come
to quench: yes.
I am still waiting for time 
 
to craft me a dream-field of ordinary things.
A sojourn to gather elm shade: yes.
For now, I shall tolerate
 
cold shoulders even beneath mediocre trees. 
Bribe pigeons above with a pack of seeds—
their shimmering indigo,
 
lush violet dancing in Monday’s prism.
Allow all sins to flex, no. Squeaky-clean
chit-chat, no.  Flocking with the monarchs, no.
 
Easy without bloat of B-Negative: yes.
Do not mope with shallow pulse, no.
Bent knee in the chapel, no. 
 
Convert in a ruddy convent, no.        
Find contentment at a shiny mall,
leaned back at the cineplex, no.           
 
Clod-hop through a ceremonial dance, no.
Erect at the grave, no. 
Shed watches and rings: yes.
 
Know the dead still observe;
know the dead observe, still:
yes, no, maybe.

 

 

 

A LIFE I CANNOT UNSEE                     
 
Primary colors mastered early.
Strummed a twelve-string guitar vibrant
with a young man’s lyrics. 
Held a first-class ticket to anywhere
and back. A Free-Wheeler.
 
This morning, magpies signal autumn. 
Ideas mid-flap. Wing tips shimmer
brighter than turbulence. 
Enchanted nocturnes play
solutions of bliss and blooms.
 
Stale textures seal my eyes. 
Tear ducts crust over. 
Routine damages cut my odyssey short. 
Friction decides the next poem,
which epic to conflate. 
 
Denial an artificial finale, 
silence overlays the debate:
why live this way?
Reliable prophets reward
with rhymes.
 
I choose to not write poems,
purposely. Ignore October’s demise.
Idyllic ballads harmonize. I survive,
to dissect those left for dead.
Visit the steps of my crypt. 
 
Poor me. Forsake my soul
and psyche? Dwindling wisps
of hair must still be combed
before the mirror’s blank page.
A 3-D image, a veiled face emerges.

 

 

 

 

 

ON AN IDLE DAY
 
To avoid a stiff lawn chair, I sway
in the porch swing and watch flowers patter
 
with rain's delight. Worms fuse in soft peat.
Garden phantoms meander into the friction
 
of picket fence gnawing thickets like sly saints.
Bees and butterflies question parameters.  
 
Southbound birds drift to our garden pool
where cement angels witness concentric ripples.
 
An urban forest across the road maintains
decorum, tolerates humid incursion. 
 
I open the white front door, kiss white walls
to smother coarse color. Martyred rhyme
 
echoes in empty air. A chandelier blanches
my gratitude to simple rooms. Clipped rose
 
floats in a crystal bowl. I nudge its petals
against the scalloped edge, time after time.
 
____________________

Today’s LittleNip:
 
TRUE NORTH
—Sam Barbee
 
My boots repeatedly hike
toward a magnetic horizon’s
sugary misdirection. A side-track
along an ill-advised route drawn
by disastrous whim. Tested diversions
prying me off course, those far from
Redemption. Renegade points
—only saccharin for the soul.
 
But when disoriented in darkness,
I peek down to my faithful compass:
phosphorus dial, the silver needle
pointing N  E  W  S like a magic wand
unmasks clarity. Its green-yellow face
fixed, the arrow redirects. Reconvinces
how useless the surplus 359 degrees attest

—dots and lines leading nowhere sweet. 
 
____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Sam Barbee for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Visual Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA













 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For 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!

 

 

 

What I Have Done

 The Journal 

* * *

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Original Art by Joyce Odam

 

 

THOUGHTS FROM THE SEVENTH DAY
OF AUGUST
—Joyce Odam

This I have done :
stared at the sun too long.

Thought the wind in my hair
was mine.

Ached
to be bird.

Welcomed and given the pain
of love.

Looked through the golden eyes
of the summer lion.

Turned into leaves
soon after.

Belonged to nature
as no human should.

Walked through the souls
of the dead.

Worshipped
weeds and flowers.

Practiced the sorcery
of thought.

Knocked
wood.

Destroyed myself
with seven sins.

Danced in the arms
of a shadow.


(prev. pub. in Arx, Nov. 1969; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/21/18)

 

 

 

A Thought One Has 

 

 
WATERMARK
—Robin Gale Odam

Pressed into the morning,
visible in a slant of light, trace
of your exit—crisp as parchment.


(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2016; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/7/23; 8/22/23)

 

 

 

Aminal

 

READING BACKWARDS INTO LIFE
Its sad journey...

words float into soundlessness  
unspoke . . .

hop-scotch was always made
of white chalk . . .

charity shoes were always
tap-dance . . .

how tenderly the careful hand,
holding a butterfly . . .

herds of butterflies unfolding
in the skies, now disappearing . . .
   
a lone word for, mar-ve-lous
trails after . . .

all is all  ,  knowing  ,  unknowing
simply dissolving . . .

backward  ,  outward  ,  evolving
oh sigh   ,   oh echo   ,   oh cry . . .
 

 

—Joyce Odam


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/27/23)

 

 

The Timetable

 

DEATH OF THE CLOCK
—Joyce Odam

After the moment has closed the hour
there will be no other.

The clock will close time
as we close a finished book.

We shall be caught in
some foolish moment of our doing :

raising a hand to strike,
breathing, chewing,

all the ticking in life
will stop,

and the eyes of the mind
have a final knowing :

no more metric feel, or sound,
or measure will be—

no deadline to hurry to, or miss—
except this one.


(prev. pub. in Cape Rock Quarterly, Spring 1967;
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/21/13; 4/27/21)

 

 

 

 Ways To Worry

 

NIGHT RAIN BLUES
—Joyce Odam

“Our house was in sound of the church bells”

Who hears the bell-sound in the rain
      —the soft wet dripping as it
                  muffles the neighborhood,

or is it the hollow song of the
         rooster from somewhere in the
                   distance—somewhere rural.  

The rain makes everything
         hollow; its waning fills
                  the night, which is morning.

How can one bear the realities that
         stifle and insinuate themselves
                  with such knowing ? 

It is all helpless irony—the rain
        that is here, and welcome—
                  the rooster’s wet crying.  

There are too many sorrows to share.
         They are swift and brimming.
                  They are released at this hour.

Oh, do not mind them,
        they are harmless
                  —beyond crying.


(prev. pub. in Medusa's Kitchen, 10/11/16; 10/2/23);
and Song of the San Joaquin, Winter 2022)

 

 

 

Without Shore

EXCERPT FROM THE RAIN
—Joyce Odam

It was the way into darkness,
a trickery of rain, a collage of shadows;

a form, then another, merging into glass light;
a sound like a laugh; then no one there.

You left your umbrella hanging on a knob.
I dropped a quarter under a chair.

We left the others, knowing the night
would hold them a little longer,

laughing, they waved goodbye
and blurred together.


(prev. pub. in Poetry Now, 2001; and
Our Black Umbrellas [Mini Chap], 2002) 

 

 

 

 Where Shall We Go With This?

     
WINTER HELD MY SOUL

they danced into summer,
my sweet liar
and the clever thief

             —Robin Gale Odam


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/22/23)

 

 

 

Nothing Left To Give

 

 
THE UNCUT STONE OF EACH OTHER  
—Joyce Odam

let us begin
they said
admiring the uncut
stone of each other

and they began the
chisel and shape
of their designs

cutting too deeply and
endlessly to free
the other’s perfection

when they were almost through
they cringed from
the damage love had done

and vowing at least
some restoration
raised their artist tools
again


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/22/23) 

 

 

 

No Compromise

 

THROUGH HER EYES
—Joyce Odam

There is a look that women wear
when your eyes are caught
with theirs,

when you want to know
her
because she will not be known.

And you will look back, or away,
and her look will follow you.
You will almost know her thoughts.

You will lose her then.
Her look is too private to go deeper.
It is a final look—

one that shifts
one feeling to another,
If you ask, she will tell you,

but never what you want to know,
or think you hear,
or guess, or let go—too close to risk.  

 

 

 

A Whisper Of Language 

SUNSETS
—Joyce Odam

Sometimes the call is faint and from
a distance unrecalled,
the first reminding

But a call was there
sifting between the silences,
I strained to hear it

It had words, muffled and tender,
it had urgency,
it made a promise too thin to hear

Had I time enough I would have followed
the first echo, I counted on the loyalty
of love that was as fragile

What in this terrible moment of loss
took precedence, what did I lose
that mourns so heavily in me now

I search the golden end of every sunset,
feeling, knowing, and remembering,
but all the sunsets glow like this
and none remember me

 

 

 

The Clues

 

TO PRAY ME FORTH   
—Joyce Odam

If God is the circle
and I am the circle
then there is no if

If one is many—and many
is one—which is plural
and which is circular

How does one round a circle
like the sphere of anything
and what is depth

What is the center of depth
where the holy star
burns in the dark forever

If forever is timeless and is
contained in a dream,
what is sleep

If understanding is knowing,
and knowing is the dark brilliance
what is doubt

If serenity is at the center of want
and need is the essence of want
what is the perimeter

If the spirit is round
in a shapeless place
what holds the void together

Is it we who are
holding the soul together
if we are ever in the last circle of . . .  

 

 

 The Politics of Love

Today’s LittleNip:

origami heart
now a wad of blue paper
someone else’s trash

           —Robin Gale Odam


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/22/23; 12/19/23)

________________

Welcome to 2025 to Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam, and thanks to them for their fine poetic thoughts on our Seed of the Week, “Before I Knew Better”.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Brandishing Her Sword”. Many NorCal residents love the beach town of Santa Cruz. But unfortunately, part of the Santa Cruz Wharf (about 150 feet of it) collapsed into the sea after storms just before Christmas (https://www.nbcnews.com/video/fbi-says-new-orleans-attack-suspect-suspect-driver-acted-alone-228327493531). I have the image of Nature “brandishing her sword”, slicing off the tip of this beloved structure in a fit of fury. But that’s my image—write about it if you want, or go wider and use that metaphoric sword however you see fit. Who is "she"? Wife, boss, mother bird? . Then send your poems, photos & artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from. And see every Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

". . . how tenderly the careful hand, holding a butterfly . . ."

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For 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 at 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!

 

Is it we who are
holding the soul together . . .?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Forever

 Curious George Goes to the Library

(Books are Forever!)

—Illustration by H. A. Rey (1898-1977)
* * *
—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Claire J. Baker, Devyanshi Neupane, 

Shiva Neupane, Joe Nolan, and 

Caschwa (Carl Schwartz)
—Visuals by Medusa, Stephen Kingsnorth,
and Joe Nolan 

FOREVER
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Forever was all I knew
before I knew better.

The sun only set
so that I could fall asleep.

Everyone I loved
could never age.

Winter was a word between
leaf fall and flowers.

Bandages and kisses
cured what ailed me.

Now I know better,
and I’d rather never know.

 

 

 

 —Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth

 

GENTLY
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Before I knew better,
Santa climbed chimleys,
Mums were paid, housewives,
and all had grey hair.
Bert, Madge’s brother,
sweets shared with siblings,
policemen, perfect,
Dads all wore bowties—
all wrote italic;
wrestling above board,
fantastic, my world.

Then slowly I learned,
chimleys were chimneys,
waged jobs, friends’ mothers,
though mine was older.
Madge’ ‘brother’, lover,
most ate whole packet,
corrupt, some coppers,
bowties eccentric,
Dad calligraphic,
staged was the wrestling,
as I met real world.

But when I knew better
our homelife uncommon;
for sport not played Sundays,
nor papers read Sabbath,
all beer was of ginger,
and Christmas not Xmas.
If Kipling not cake time,
as Raffles not raffles,
with grace as the first course,
norm, gollies on jam jars,
loose tea never tea bags.

My mother, known Sister
(for Deacon, not incest);
their first-born died infant.
I not empathetic,
through ignorance, sadly,
their annual mourning
alone and passed lonely.
On Sundays Dad hoovered,
then polished all footwear,
on laid-out newspapers—
their liberal news view.

I little knew suffering—
as wartime, him conchie,
by neighbours, excluded,
for pacifist’s faith views;
with County-bred in-laws
who ill-thought their marriage,
and soldiering cousins,
dismissing his conscience.
Their second, brain damaged,
him turning poetic,
salvation found in verse. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

APOLOGY
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

You, Robbie,
warm & real as
you were,
end up as a scrap
of address,
found in a catch-all
drawer,
this winter eve
while
looking for matches.

You, Robbie,
warm & real as
you were.


(First printed in Blue Unicorn; and in
Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/7/22)

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo 

Courtesy of Medusa

MY SCHOOL UNIFORMS
—Devyanshi Neupane, age 5, Melbourne, Australia

My hat is blue
My shirt is blue
My pant is black
My bag is blue
And my shoes are black.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

WHAT IS LOVE?
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia

Love is definitively
Infinitive.
This formless pulchritudinous entity
Cannot be measured by any scale of expression.
Nor the words can serve
The meaning for it.
The only vehicle of love is heart
By which the feelings get transported,
And serve the purpose of love
In the heart. 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo 

Courtesy of Joe Nolan

SEAFOOD SMORGIE
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Who let all
The lobster-men in
With pink, hard shells
Instead of skin?

Crabs,
Who all walk sideways
Who can’t pair up
To dance,
So, instead of snapping fingers
They pinch and
Slyly glance
From side to side.

Who brought in
The squid to skin
To make his calamari?
So slippery,
Squishy,
Slimy.
So much better
With some butter,
When they’re fried.
If not, they might slide,
Slipping off the table
As any squid
Worth his lemon’s able.

 

 

 

The Future is Reduced

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

NEW YEAR’S GREETING
—Joe Nolan

Fair to partly cloudy,
The way it was described—
The weather front
That bore the brunt
Of normal, human suffering,
Sweeping in
Across the land,
Invading from the sky.

We can’t expect
Perfection
In a world of hungry-ghosts
Who slaughter
Half their neighbors
To gobble up their land.

Let me make this
New Year’s greeting
In a spirit to convey
My hope for you
To cope with fear
Adversity and tears
And all inclement weather
That seasons do command
And somehow find some sweetness
In love for your fellow man.

 

 

 

European Robins

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

WE CHOSE WELL
—Caschwa, Sacramento,  CA

It was a Thursday, October 19, 1989 when
my wife, Jo Lynn, and I decided to take our
five-year-old son to the Natural History
Museum in Exposition Park, Los Angeles

I already had a pass for free admission to
the county museums that I used daily to
visit the La Brea Tar Pits Museum in
Hancock Park on my lunch breaks

In my own experience of elementary school
field trips, I remember visiting the Natural
History Museum and leaving with the wish
that I could return and spend longer at the
exhibits I liked the most

So we drove over to Exposition Park and all
the parking was taken, except then one car
pulled out and left and we were lucky to get
that spot

We ventured into the building and viewed a
very large, ancient, big-mouth fish that was
known for its predatory practices, went to the
exhibit depicting Los Angeles, where they
dimmed the lights to present the sights and
sounds of what happens after sunset. This
particular exhibit was known for putting me
to sleep, and yes, I did doze off again!

We spent a good part of the day visiting lots
of great, ancient finds and then visited the café
for lunch. My strongest memory from this was
how hard it was to get a sandwich for our son
that didn’t come with onions on it.

After returning home I made contact with my
brother and his wife and they were astonished
that we didn’t know….didn’t know what? Didn’t
know that at the day and time of our visit to the
museum, the Rolling Stones were playing in the
Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum, located so very
close to the Natural History Museum. Looked it
up and yes, there were a lot of other events we
could have shared with our five-year-old son on
that date:

    · The Tiananmen Square Massacre
    · France’s biggest-ever bank robbery
    · The fall of the Berlin Wall
    · The Romanian Revolution
    · Overturning of the Guilford Four convictions
    · New opening of the Wonders of Life Pavilion
      at Epcot

So all in all we thought we had made a pretty good
choice.

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

DONE
—Caschwa

wrote
poem
in five words

_________________

Welcome to 2025, with thanks to today’s contributors—some of whom have written about our Seed of the Week, “Before I Knew Better”. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

SnakePal Taylor Dibbert of Washington, D.C. has a new book out, Takoma, available on Amazon at https://www.amazon.com/Takoma-Taylor-Dibbert/dp/B0DPJ3JCLZ/ref=sr_1_1?dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.ldX1g7a8Pht2bzGUbKp0pARQ9oxYMIbn6BfD9Ce4v0INlueSsThSFUvUFAuG3uVMXwU_HR5sPo5YwX5PdE7WDBUjF9I8FVgmD7ag5oX0MJTHnwv6TVKIS2a3fZqhY0xg.y68pfnRJ_6Zxb-n0_NnK_w5HuEis-Zp9rytJdfubVu4&dib_tag=se&qid=1735862700&refinements=p_27%3ATaylor+Dibbert&s=books&sr=1-1&text=Taylor+Dibbert/. Congratulations on your new project, Taylor!

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center
remains closed this week,
and will return to readings
next Monday (1/13), with
Youth Open Mic, 7:30pm.
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!

 

 

Dancing Naked on a Bedroom Wall

 —Poetry by Richard LeDue, Norway House,
Manitoba, Canada
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

THE FOLLY OF WINGS

Time crashes more than it flies

with credit card bills,
online videos about saturated fats,
an overgrown lawn,
potholes the size of small graves,
grocery store bouquets
50% off because it's the day after Valentine's,
and prepaid funerals
proving how much you love someone,

only for a sensible eight hours of sleep
to give a sermon most sleep through,

and another dying bird finds god
inside a cat's mouth.

 

 

 

 

 

More and more

I am an old doll:
untouched for years,
except for the dust,
who greys my hair
as part of its game
with rules I only guess.

I am a deflated ball:
abandoned to tall grass
and glory left for dead
in a brain-sized past
lost to the whisky-
coloured present.

 

 

 

 
 

IN THE AWKWARD PAUSES

The more I say nothing,
the more I learn
the importance of silence,
sitting on a tongue like a snowflake,
and that there's no words to cure cancer
or to fix the potholes in the road
we call capitalism, and that even

as the shadows dance naked
on a bedroom wall,
we're taught how clumsy words can be
afterwards, when loneliness whispers
in the awkward pauses
between promises that sound right
because they're lies. 

 

 

 

 

 

NEVER AGAIN (UNTIL NEXT TIME)

My head pounding for another drink,
almost like there's an angry drunk
living inside my brain,
banging on the wrong door
again, while I read some back issues
of an indie poetry magazine,
trying to figure out what a poem is,
trying to ignore the noise thinking
has become, while the sound of flipping
pages sound like sharp whispers
saying something viscous
about me,
which most people would only share
with someone they love.

 

 

 

 

A LEGIBLE X

When the only decision you support
is getting blackout drunk,
it makes forgetting to vote easier
because a ballot will never be a hangover
reminding you how love songs
aren't about you,

especially in a country that believes
in right and left more than loneliness,
who lives in the corner of your eye,
just to move whenever you're sure
you see something,

leaving a light bulb
to seem more like a dark corner
inside a mind talking to itself at 6 AM,
rather than any idea
about revolution and democracy.

 

 

 

 

AS THE EDUCATED ARGUE
ABOUT THE PAST

People peopling history,
only to turn names into chapters
inside textbooks, channelling the spirit
of phone books no one cares about anymore,
while students pretend to read
and memorize all the important dates,
only to learn without knowing it
that the living usually find the dead boring,
unless there's something morbid
to feed one's morbid curiosity,
or to be more literary:
the moss on a gravestone is a class
we all have to take,
and the worms don't care
if we pass or fail.

 

 

 

 

SECONDHAND

Reading an inscription in messy cursive,
thanking someone I never met
for something I never saw,
only to realize it sparked my imagination
more than the book itself
with its lack of hearsay
or plainness that can't be
misinterpreted, and even the dollar it cost
seemed a just verdict
for another failed attempt at immortality,
which I am also guilty of.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

There comes a time when the world gets quiet and the only thing left is your own heart. So you'd better learn the sound of it. Otherwise you'll never understand what it's saying.

―Sarah Dessen, Just Listen

__________________

Welcome back to the Kitchen, Richard! Richard LeDue has a new chapbook on Amazon, Mourning the Petals (https://www.amazon.com/Mourning-Petals-Poems-Richard-LeDue-ebook/dp/B0DNN5WL7P/). Congratulations on your new project, Richard!

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For 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!

 

 

Another Day~

 —Poetry, Photos, and Original Art
by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, 

West Covina, CA

 

 

SLANTED AFTERNOONS

If I can change one thing,
it would be the stars in
the sky. I could start with
their names and their location.
I would let them linger longer.
I know it is useless days I always 
return to. My eyes give me away.
They wander like clouds and make
their own rain on slanted afternoons.
Every day seems like Sunday.
That is what I want to change.

 

 

 

 

IN DARKNESS

In darkness 


trees disappear 


their colors too


still the birds sing


not in flight


their cries
heavy and urgent
the olive trees
don a gray hue
along the moon’s
spotlight 
a shadow trembles
as if frozen in fear
a light shower
falls from the sky
over the trees
like a faucet
it shuts down
birdsong
from the trees

 

 

 

 

TODAY IS ANOTHER DAY

I will not see you
today just like all
week. My mind is
not on anymore.

Today is another
day with small hope.
I’m climbing the wall
like a forlorn insect.

I take a small nap.
I will open the bar
and drink till I sleep.
My bar is not far.

My bar is in the kitchen.
The fridge is stocked.
I bought beer and wine,
a sea full of spirits.

I am on the third round.
I could go a few more.
The sea is overflowing.
I need no boat or canoe.

A few hours of this
and I will hit the wall.
The lamp is bright.
Today is like the last.

 

 

 

 

SPEAK TO MYSELF

I speak to myself.
I do not understand
my words. I speak
without pause
about the time life
ended for us.
My childhood tongue
spoke to me about
the dreams we had.
I had enough of
these words that made
my day my nightmare.

 

 

 

 

PLEASANT SCENT

You bring the flower
to your nose
to get to the pleasant scent.
The aroma becomes
too much as
you cut up the flower and
put it in a vase
with cold water.
In a few days
you mourn its death.
The scent lingers for
a little while.
The vase is emptied
of water and flower.
Into the trash it goes.
The shriveled petals
decorate the garbage
can in red and green.

 

 

 

 

GOOD NEWS

I bring you good news.
I opened the front door.
There were no clouds.
The sun was shining.

There was no traffic.
I had a full tank of gas.
I could go anywhere.
I decided to come back.

I stepped back inside.
I locked the front door.
I went back to bed.
I went back to sleep.

I hoped for a good dream.
I bring you good news.
Everything will be alright.
Please do not disturb me.

 

 

 

 

DYING HERE

Dying here,
In this world.
This tongue knows
No language.
This world is
Chaos and
Death. A new
World will rise
Like fire and
Smoke. Just wait
If you can.
Already
The world molds.
Bring lemons
Or olives.
Already
Mankind brings
Words for the
Speechless tongue.
Have no fear.
It’s burning.
When will you
Speak? Dying
Here, I rise.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Some days it is a heroic act just to refuse the paralysis of fear and straighten up and step into another day.

—Edward Albert

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Luis Berriozábal for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

 Still, the birds sing…
—Public Domain Photo

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 











A reminder that

Nancy Gonzalez St. Clair will offer

a workshop today in Lodi, 11am.

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!