tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132623202024-03-28T10:03:47.264-07:00Medusa's KitchenWelcome to the Kitchen!—daily poetry from around the world (poetry with fangs!). Read our DIARY, the cream-colored section at the left, for poets local and otherwise. Then scroll down our GREEN AND BLUE BULLETIN BOARDS on the right for more poet-phernalia. And please feel free to be a SNAKEPAL and send your work, events and releases to kathykieth@hotmail.com—see "Placating the Gorgon" in the FUCHSIA LINKS right below here for info. Carpe Viperidae! Seize the Snake!Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comBlogger6725125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-37376458391884916192024-03-28T08:36:00.000-07:002024-03-28T08:36:20.026-07:0031 Days On The Tip Of My Tongue [Nos. 16-31]<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjZ47P8XxkLujdz4LeJYs_E_6lG1H1cl0jERdfKQAMeAJTeMfhHxd3FBjwC7B4C_fNeaL-5e-_SE35twpiTg9wNAoLzAN3fFiD_7bUMqHhgemRp5stuA3vUPx0mnABBUuiMgid0N26ukTTqYSpVZ7ICDPaDCpcQ9kwoUatStim3DsRkEFSRszO1A/s960/dawn.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjZ47P8XxkLujdz4LeJYs_E_6lG1H1cl0jERdfKQAMeAJTeMfhHxd3FBjwC7B4C_fNeaL-5e-_SE35twpiTg9wNAoLzAN3fFiD_7bUMqHhgemRp5stuA3vUPx0mnABBUuiMgid0N26ukTTqYSpVZ7ICDPaDCpcQ9kwoUatStim3DsRkEFSRszO1A/w400-h300/dawn.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><i> —Poetry and Photos by Robert Lee Haycock, <br />Antioch, CA</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>16<br />O Magnum Mysterium</b><br /><br />From the back of my mind </div><div style="text-align: left;">to the corner of my eye <br />the moon swims to the surface<br />And I climb ever so high<br /><br />* * * </div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br />17<br />Of A Most Horrible Magic </b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />For an audience that <br />hasn’t been born yet<br />I just pretend to care <br />look down my book-bent nose<br />and smile silently<br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><b>18<br />Can you make out the words</b><br /><br />Can you make out the words<br />that should catch in my teeth<br />spilled sentences<br />falling from my mouth</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgav_IaFSqK_U8oQpiSGsCfxKBNugcEP6XQhOjF_rrEfZ-o3ZG7Fr000KoeiQTyAarB6WVxF4BAhtqQGB2oGLf-6WpukvXkKPNgyrlTiBKF3nAoFF_tzAPlH184iTttgO8IjxcfTkDvCCkGa6ieVGX4XPHmR8AgFMpOkGnAPjY7Rgwaq1ELijXrtg/s1600/no%20fog%20no%20flu%20not%20a%20flipping%20bit%20of%20work%20to%20do.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgav_IaFSqK_U8oQpiSGsCfxKBNugcEP6XQhOjF_rrEfZ-o3ZG7Fr000KoeiQTyAarB6WVxF4BAhtqQGB2oGLf-6WpukvXkKPNgyrlTiBKF3nAoFF_tzAPlH184iTttgO8IjxcfTkDvCCkGa6ieVGX4XPHmR8AgFMpOkGnAPjY7Rgwaq1ELijXrtg/w300-h400/no%20fog%20no%20flu%20not%20a%20flipping%20bit%20of%20work%20to%20do.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> no fog no flu not a flipping bit of work to do</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><b>19<br />Fiction </b><br /><br />Out of reach memories play blind man’s bluff<br />The rain embroiders little blue stars all over the <br />rosemary bush<br />I can only wonder<br />Under a maiden moon</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> * * * </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><b>20<br />E Coupon </b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />The rolling dark carries you toward morning<br />beggars </div><div style="text-align: left;">choosers </div><div style="text-align: left;">and the rest<br />a frenzied rightness</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> * * * </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><b>21<br />Dreams Decocted</b><br /><br />Take heed<br />I was never a giant</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrmwtYLyMuzRU2kXfjIbd95sO9Nkxyc4LdB857fxCamEl4aNXI881MJLrSyIxybTUrQ5PU99A60f7UNtVHq2G4VmwqamKMsiC_16-HjEkbottHTic1HgJOYwKGgrEf_uG86yC5X8ezyf7rMJ8TcrVzOarCEXMqFnooMj25WTH-tD2AmPjIAzvE9w/s752/leaf.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="565" data-original-width="752" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrmwtYLyMuzRU2kXfjIbd95sO9Nkxyc4LdB857fxCamEl4aNXI881MJLrSyIxybTUrQ5PU99A60f7UNtVHq2G4VmwqamKMsiC_16-HjEkbottHTic1HgJOYwKGgrEf_uG86yC5X8ezyf7rMJ8TcrVzOarCEXMqFnooMj25WTH-tD2AmPjIAzvE9w/w400-h300/leaf.JPG" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><b>22<br />As The Sparks Fly Upward</b><br /><br />Flags of cloud unfurl toward sunrise<br />My boyhood bleeds<br />and never touches the ground</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> * * *<br /><br /><b>23<br />The Paraclete</b><br /><br />This dream wasn’t meant for you<br />Moonlight puddled everywhere<br />Nothing but this pile of words<br />Maddening the night</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> * * * </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><b>24<br />My Blue-Bearded Heart Notwithstanding</b><br /><br />A pyred orchard<br />the parting gift <br />of cherries we see <br />through memory’s eyes</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg39zplGYOz2cMIthr7FMaRlvWqUjFaJNVZxPRZ6XNwkd26DRk60RTIFMIHc1iyggoARa4zTuh2Z5m747I9bWxlKw_MRuQtqK-cnL1pYLVIDDY-KGkfMlIjP9fJaauZsQ4KaRrOvkLdvLVvjrHsWZbezzo8_6YWv6e9zH2p5OpBurizx3QeDmIlAA/s1600/downtown.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1198" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg39zplGYOz2cMIthr7FMaRlvWqUjFaJNVZxPRZ6XNwkd26DRk60RTIFMIHc1iyggoARa4zTuh2Z5m747I9bWxlKw_MRuQtqK-cnL1pYLVIDDY-KGkfMlIjP9fJaauZsQ4KaRrOvkLdvLVvjrHsWZbezzo8_6YWv6e9zH2p5OpBurizx3QeDmIlAA/w300-h400/downtown.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Downtown</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><b><br />25<br />A Self-Addressed Envelope</b><br /><br />Every stoplight sings a song to me <br />of who I once was<br />to tell me why my hair keeps catching fire</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> * * * </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><b>26<br />Compendia </b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />I hold morning in my singing hands<br />Those clouds followed me all my yesterdays<br />The angels drew lots to decide which of us would <br />remember</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj05XUdB4aR-d_W66IfwmGccIPt8uqw_Yncz277sO0ybYnK7IF9DcCMtYEo_hjqKPAxQCjEJ8qWPeyD2QlGP8o2V3tjfy1HUlYxzJbHir2yB4gJL32N1wC8CDhSXEQIjJBUcZ4wP8qrz_XkIqapb7achMzUxxZP8eP1BCLO4s_GwXLXmOU2rqiWOg/s1600/near%20courtland.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1199" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj05XUdB4aR-d_W66IfwmGccIPt8uqw_Yncz277sO0ybYnK7IF9DcCMtYEo_hjqKPAxQCjEJ8qWPeyD2QlGP8o2V3tjfy1HUlYxzJbHir2yB4gJL32N1wC8CDhSXEQIjJBUcZ4wP8qrz_XkIqapb7achMzUxxZP8eP1BCLO4s_GwXLXmOU2rqiWOg/w300-h400/near%20courtland.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Near Courtland</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><b>27<br />Chicharrones and Licorice </b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Like a morris dancer doing the samba <br />my mind is given to wander<br />with a smirk on her lips</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> * * * </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><b>28<br />The Sweet Tang of Incipient Decay</b><br /><br />I’ll weave a song with calloused tongue<br />to the tumult of butterfly and flower<br />and all the silence between our fingers</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> * * *<br /><br /><b>29<br />An Acquired Taste</b><br /><br />the noughts <br />the crosses<br />live behind unseeing windows<br />the shooting stars</div><div style="text-align: left;"> the broken people</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUoCU70yYOAiv8hcBct8D7g8HuGs7PXpibVfbkwXR08MBrzMeBZHMQ9Rg3uLZRtBV0y8WSze_Qqt-CZBZdtPdKCZcnq-8DySLDR3aY3nAFHpkJqtDUvPHuawPni1CphyszNFR6wTYwmndyrj1wsOAw89dPoAaqgnQzMS3RbOOa5rYqYXQrKquA9A/s400/most%20home.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="300" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUoCU70yYOAiv8hcBct8D7g8HuGs7PXpibVfbkwXR08MBrzMeBZHMQ9Rg3uLZRtBV0y8WSze_Qqt-CZBZdtPdKCZcnq-8DySLDR3aY3nAFHpkJqtDUvPHuawPni1CphyszNFR6wTYwmndyrj1wsOAw89dPoAaqgnQzMS3RbOOa5rYqYXQrKquA9A/w300-h400/most%20home.JPG" width="300" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Most Home</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><b>30<br />Almost One Of Those Moons</b><br /><br />I dare not touch the ground<br />tumble down story upon story<br />with guttural noise and smeared ink</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> * * *<br /><br /><b>31<br />Dreams of God</b><br /><br />Vainly trying to conjure<br />A man I was once<br />She banged out Two Timing Woman<br />The hammers covered in tinfoil<br /><br />__________________<br /><br /><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />A little talent is a good thing to have if you want to be a writer. But the only real requirement is the ability to remember every scar.<br /><br />—Stephen King<br /><br />__________________<br /><br />Today’s post is a continuation of yesterday’s from<span style="color: red;"> Robert Lee Haycock</span>, and many thanks to him for these two days of poetry! The photos are ones I have gleaned from some of the first pictures Robert had posted in Medusa’s Kitchen back in 2013. Thanks, RLH, for 31 flavors of your days!<br /><br />__________________<br /><br />—Medusa</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh41tPlzSOAetLt8T7sWCHr37IC749vJ0hS8afn_Btx-spVMS2x5OtMLalkM3AsJweMTh7UhXB_ybPjBPvi7ajeVrpfR153UmpHGirvrpeBScgQpYWmWpUrGzocew7O3q5fu7w5ZAGePy2QBJQaJdg6bBuJ17dDfJPEEFzjXMIbZX8HUBDh1BFLTg/s400/caution.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh41tPlzSOAetLt8T7sWCHr37IC749vJ0hS8afn_Btx-spVMS2x5OtMLalkM3AsJweMTh7UhXB_ybPjBPvi7ajeVrpfR153UmpHGirvrpeBScgQpYWmWpUrGzocew7O3q5fu7w5ZAGePy2QBJQaJdg6bBuJ17dDfJPEEFzjXMIbZX8HUBDh1BFLTg/w400-h300/caution.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> —Photo by Robert Lee Haycock</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A reminder that</i><br /><i><span style="color: red;">Molly Fisk</span> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>will present a workshop</i><br /><i>on <b>Writing As Activism</b></i><br /><i>in Nevada City today, 4pm.</i><br /><i>For future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXf4xuDa4CBzfM8Nc2ShyphenhyphenfMPJtwYIcJcjBXe7KLqdh3NxZrEe2umue-enYze0OxDZ4NQvqBHXdiuqCRZM5u1PR9g6pPqx-gbTMu71MK53ff1Qdv0bxY_x2rWdswiFa0Itx8VlBaYl-ckd6LXcn9DeF18hyphenhyphen-lQz0L6WyUkdXL35KO9H7GPzrNnqTg/s261/moon:hand.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="261" data-original-width="171" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXf4xuDa4CBzfM8Nc2ShyphenhyphenfMPJtwYIcJcjBXe7KLqdh3NxZrEe2umue-enYze0OxDZ4NQvqBHXdiuqCRZM5u1PR9g6pPqx-gbTMu71MK53ff1Qdv0bxY_x2rWdswiFa0Itx8VlBaYl-ckd6LXcn9DeF18hyphenhyphen-lQz0L6WyUkdXL35KO9H7GPzrNnqTg/w131-h200/moon:hand.jpg" width="131" /></a></div><i>"I can only wonder</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>under a maiden moon..."</i><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><i><br /> </i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><br /></div><i><br /></i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-80373958202432411122024-03-27T08:39:00.000-07:002024-03-27T08:39:06.049-07:0031 Days On The Tip Of My Tongue [Nos. 1-15]<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBzI0i9EXNRejMH0JB6dqOjtagOBbWEXfaC-iUqhlvBWcQ2wKqxP6l5ESBxBk5aztkacjFzxFVt1ZzU8tOAnxTZVh0-MIeq1mu8uJeipin0nWW0ZWrc1fU-ofT3ZRW6VS7jLhfxJeM2ahwPyjtJaEwCkLi2kmoLmewF7aXy47zibtl_UA4WIgJkg/s1600/ducks.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBzI0i9EXNRejMH0JB6dqOjtagOBbWEXfaC-iUqhlvBWcQ2wKqxP6l5ESBxBk5aztkacjFzxFVt1ZzU8tOAnxTZVh0-MIeq1mu8uJeipin0nWW0ZWrc1fU-ofT3ZRW6VS7jLhfxJeM2ahwPyjtJaEwCkLi2kmoLmewF7aXy47zibtl_UA4WIgJkg/w300-h400/ducks.JPG" width="300" /></a></div> <i>—Poetry and Photos by Robert Lee Haycock, <br />Antioch, CA</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>1<br />Tables of Content </b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />These words do not fit <br />In a house made of bottles <br />She touched my shoulder<br />With sleep in her hand</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> * * * </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><b>2<br />Palimpsest</b><br /><br />Shall I tell you a story of once or twice upon a time? <br />An excuse to burn things for beauty?<br />The children shout.<br />I hear lullabies. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> * * * </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><b>3<br />A High Sulking Fog</b> <br /><br />Limned upon a marbled page<br />Many footed lines feast <br />The foolscap's rough tooth <br />It galls the oaks to think it </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Sh7nfq2a0hytZ7Uz2X_IjLP6__ewA8xcrWqTr15R4k7RooOiu1vVNqQajlhtls5AzJZXEsEbncQrwlDeYwhHY10oT7iRYFubCQ19NV-XL30x8ulXQZXeaClQNBAc50ZOYT-YLn7YzYYOpWeYKpABn3nr2dUblf-Zl9J93UemsujPe-n6YmjhdA/s1600/raven.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Sh7nfq2a0hytZ7Uz2X_IjLP6__ewA8xcrWqTr15R4k7RooOiu1vVNqQajlhtls5AzJZXEsEbncQrwlDeYwhHY10oT7iRYFubCQ19NV-XL30x8ulXQZXeaClQNBAc50ZOYT-YLn7YzYYOpWeYKpABn3nr2dUblf-Zl9J93UemsujPe-n6YmjhdA/w300-h400/raven.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><b>4<br />So Tell Me But Tell Me So </b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b> </b><br />Possessed of a tin ear </div><div style="text-align: left;">and a pornographic memory<br />I tried to unwrap a dream</div><div style="text-align: left;"> but the word got out</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> * * *<br /><br /><b>5<br />listen to the morning open her new eyes</b><br /><br />every single star in this sad sky<br />got tangled up in the trees last night<br />tripping down ill lit streets <br />on the tiptoes of my tongue</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> * * *<br /><br /><b>6<br />A Raucous Chorus</b><br /><br />sings solfège<br />behind the cafetorium<br />and I hear no end of voices</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhyg5pqAxYgKWlj8aNYqsPl3QkjYzstJZQ4Rs6OAYSLJkVoUlUvS6j-jwzD2sMHyat0LosWwoZssrujg8xIK8b66FW-KFCVlScXOhMbUeSwemBV1nb3k4l_VcaJ-d3F8Xfwfw5CfMJU1RYgjA6bAHQEsWijE_tGOAzIAtqEeKG42YBylzcue7MtA/s800/blackbird.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhyg5pqAxYgKWlj8aNYqsPl3QkjYzstJZQ4Rs6OAYSLJkVoUlUvS6j-jwzD2sMHyat0LosWwoZssrujg8xIK8b66FW-KFCVlScXOhMbUeSwemBV1nb3k4l_VcaJ-d3F8Xfwfw5CfMJU1RYgjA6bAHQEsWijE_tGOAzIAtqEeKG42YBylzcue7MtA/w300-h400/blackbird.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><b>7<br />Her Thousand Tongues</b><br /><br />her thousand tongues beg me to come away<br />so I close my eyes and walk through walls<br />that we didn’t know were waiting</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> * * * </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><b>8<br />This is the tomb of the woodpecker that <br />was Zeus! </b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />A landscape from a </div><div style="text-align: left;">long-forgotten dream<br />whispers to the wheeling dark<br />There is a rabbit on the moon </div><div style="text-align: left;">And an old man with a lantern</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> * * *<br /><br /><b>9<br />My elbows on the checkered oilcloth</b><br /><br />remembering my first Orange Julius<br />a little moiré star that pointed to an adjacent <br />numerical scale<br />a song I didn’t know I had forgotten <br />the taste of my last words</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCSeZGt5iP6yBvXBS2s9e4QnLWuswjjcNgMSd3HnvPZMgqtkth7m6J_OCa0Sx90YUTsyImiosLe9rKFTRdESIQQOJUTOZfdtIY-1c1kZtuwLfX5fKWQf_rB-aisaHcVXSiuJHCDeIbIjUnmzhW6K2tluXpAEbKH-sqZK0QxoKu5uIp7xlQSCJuNA/s721/enraptored.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="721" data-original-width="533" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCSeZGt5iP6yBvXBS2s9e4QnLWuswjjcNgMSd3HnvPZMgqtkth7m6J_OCa0Sx90YUTsyImiosLe9rKFTRdESIQQOJUTOZfdtIY-1c1kZtuwLfX5fKWQf_rB-aisaHcVXSiuJHCDeIbIjUnmzhW6K2tluXpAEbKH-sqZK0QxoKu5uIp7xlQSCJuNA/w296-h400/enraptored.JPG" width="296" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i> Enraptured</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><b>10<br />All These Houses We Thought Were Dreaming </b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />a thousand times and then one more<br />street lamp dandelions in the fog<br />my thoughts wandered off the bus </div><div style="text-align: left;">a stop too soon</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> * * *<br /><br /><b>11<br />Shadow Puppets </b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />She dances ‘til her hair’s aflame <br />dreams a smile as she dies<br />cosseted by ghosts</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> * * * </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><b>12<br />I shaped a golem and brought him to life</b><br /><br />I shaped a golem and brought him to life<br />many blustery years ago <br />He never had an easy time of it<br />A little-known fact left a bad taste in his mouth</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEagmogRtEsr_nE1_vIdoOGC2zBCmB9CyAy_LvCJEg5Cwu7e6i1wk_vgQVpP0XJKEQXd1MKstWakacQ2v7T0nhx_rrO2D4MrAsNfUknPlT7T5To1RgYzV9MJ4ulUPM8A9PeH5e1OI12WNnjBYXpubna7RKRt2a18GPTOlnMejiH2Ij0ICugUl57g/s1600/high%20chaparral.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEagmogRtEsr_nE1_vIdoOGC2zBCmB9CyAy_LvCJEg5Cwu7e6i1wk_vgQVpP0XJKEQXd1MKstWakacQ2v7T0nhx_rrO2D4MrAsNfUknPlT7T5To1RgYzV9MJ4ulUPM8A9PeH5e1OI12WNnjBYXpubna7RKRt2a18GPTOlnMejiH2Ij0ICugUl57g/w300-h400/high%20chaparral.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>High Chaparral </i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><b>13<br />My Well-Tempered Radio </b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Look through my eyes<br />Bassoons and didgeridoos<br />I thought I knew the name of every thing</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> * * *<br /><br /><b>14<br />Talking Through My Hat</b><br /><br />I didn’t see <br />these noisy roses<br />throw out the nines<br />a sixpence song to<br />hoard a windfall of shadow</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> * * *<br /><br /><b>15<br />from the green room of your dream</b><br /><br />leaf-laden heads bent in prayer<br />to a big blue bag of precious nothings <br />listen to my flowers sing</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> __________________<br /><br /><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />If the portraits of our absent friends are pleasant to us, which renew our memory of them and relieve our regret for their absence by a false and empty consolation, how much more pleasant are letters [and poems] which bring us the written characters of the absent friend.<br /> <br />―Héloïse d'Argenteuil, </i>The Letters of Abélard and Héloïse <br /><i><br />__________________</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /> Joy in the Kitchen today as Prodigal Poet <span style="color: red;">Robert Lee Haycock</span> returns from who-knows-what journeys. This SnakePal first visited us in 2013 and was a regular contributor of poems and photos. But then… well… people drift away. But now he’s back, with new poems, and I have paired them with some of the first photos of his that were posted ‘way back when. Today we have numbers 1-15 of his “31 Days”, and tomorrow we’ll have numbers 16-31. Thanks, Robert Lee!<br /><br />__________________<br /><br />—Medusa</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3X_WShStfnnLufwyVpStiuZxVckyKOgbE1B_XN8QlP2wOOOtCvtSP-YIuEZdBwMnpaOfPkWzW5uXiWAN2O2KTGaWEsqc82IcohBovsmtAkORqpyA-8EAYTS0gPu6D7MZsP8Tn7b6Mx616laHmp7Hs77AkfU-hZTpknElKuHuBo-K0mllWf8Ti8Q/s1600/contra%20loma.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3X_WShStfnnLufwyVpStiuZxVckyKOgbE1B_XN8QlP2wOOOtCvtSP-YIuEZdBwMnpaOfPkWzW5uXiWAN2O2KTGaWEsqc82IcohBovsmtAkORqpyA-8EAYTS0gPu6D7MZsP8Tn7b6Mx616laHmp7Hs77AkfU-hZTpknElKuHuBo-K0mllWf8Ti8Q/w300-h400/contra%20loma.JPG" width="300" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Contra Loma</i><br /><i>—Photo by Robert Lee Haycock</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>For future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDSeR4L-mpQ94lKaaWX8IvwMz8jnGZp-0NSaeh7SF0L6NZd-ljS37osjuN2e-NdvFCA2i_v0l14AYvtNAUgKYhGDI82cQxw_15z5rWDnVv0gyLrf3GrkfwroJFwZMjxVt64v1htKCZ7Z9pVVe17Jr4RL7AkzieeUOLEDnhQCGt74Rk_WevgdUmjQ/s370/talks%202%20crow.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="169" data-original-width="370" height="91" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDSeR4L-mpQ94lKaaWX8IvwMz8jnGZp-0NSaeh7SF0L6NZd-ljS37osjuN2e-NdvFCA2i_v0l14AYvtNAUgKYhGDI82cQxw_15z5rWDnVv0gyLrf3GrkfwroJFwZMjxVt64v1htKCZ7Z9pVVe17Jr4RL7AkzieeUOLEDnhQCGt74Rk_WevgdUmjQ/w200-h91/talks%202%20crow.png" width="200" /></a></div><br /> </i><br /><br /><br /><br /><i> </i><br /><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-31104696729535036092024-03-26T08:35:00.000-07:002024-03-26T16:20:16.583-07:00Balance<div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo9cJj8UfjVce6sUW8LCVCJKKxOsjXMbWgCFpM93R2kY2KWra5eUxQdV4LpyYeyeGt4d39l9-YWugfz53UmWVx0ac-aMgxHXZ2nInwxnqouQKYx247TzNfwcMJT8FMLo7h1pg1Bt-LCgTUQjm2iiCgq9LYuuhYsq0YchTziAQDjUqB7ty6269t3w/s3648/THE%20BALANCE%20(079).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo9cJj8UfjVce6sUW8LCVCJKKxOsjXMbWgCFpM93R2kY2KWra5eUxQdV4LpyYeyeGt4d39l9-YWugfz53UmWVx0ac-aMgxHXZ2nInwxnqouQKYx247TzNfwcMJT8FMLo7h1pg1Bt-LCgTUQjm2iiCgq9LYuuhYsq0YchTziAQDjUqB7ty6269t3w/w400-h300/THE%20BALANCE%20(079).JPG" width="400" /></a></div><i> The Balance<br />—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,<br />Sacramento, CA<br />—Photos by Joyce Odam</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">THE CHOREOGRAPHY IN WINTER<br /><i>(After “Arctic Heart” Poem Cycle by Gretel Ehrlich)<br />—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />She is the dancer made of light.<br />He is the shadow to which she molds.<br />Both are the same movement,<br />entwined and separate. <br /><br />Folds and folds of soft blue envelop them:<br />the sky and the sea; the blue earth into which<br />they evolve.<br /><br />Softly the music follows like the echoes of old<br />voices, the lost sad cries, and the repetitions.<br /><br />These are the hands of air reaching toward <br />other self—endlessly there; they open <br />and close like mouths of wordlessness.<br /><br />This is the grope of silences worn over <br />hearts of joy and hearts of sorrow.<br />Nothing will ease the tension of love.<br />It is the dance.<br /><br />She goes toward a motion in the dark.<br />He follows. It is another blue. <br />Another cloth of time.<br />It hangs still, then billows.<br /><br />The living creatures of sorrow appear <br />and are vain. They want their turn.<br />They flow and lift in exquisite precision.<br /><br />They steal the dance; and the ones <br />who cannot dance steal them. <br />It is an agony of souls <br />who have found each other.<br /><br />Light is the ghost here, repeats itself<br />until the floating is memorized<br />and the sensation is known,<br />even as the next movement begins.<br /><br />The blue cloth does not end; it is <br />the mother of weeping.<br />It contains all there is of invisible music<br />that comes from everywhere.<br /><br />She is weariness that does not exist.<br />He is the alter-energy. Together they<br />form a continuation even as the stage<br />becomes what they escape from <br />and what they escape to.<br /><br />Put the two bodies together now<br />before they dissolve past recognition—<br />blue ice and white ice—black ice—<br />the scar of their experience, <br />or is this only another recognition?<br /><br />A ghost face with bleak eyes looks in to <br />the room where they dance. It is a dream. <br />The face is an old bone sculpture. <br />Its presence is inevitable. <br />They dance to it and around it.<br /><br />Mirrors do not live here.<br />They long ago lost their meaning<br />became the continuous blue <br />through which another color insinuated.<br /><br />Ache of cold waits for them to<br />end this futility; she will refuse it—<br />contorts to suggest the agony of self<br /><br />There is a trust to remember; <br />it borrows light to repair light. <br />The curtain tears again.<br />Light will mend it.<br />Nothing pours in but more blue. <br />It is the music.<br /><br />Love is the experience; <br />they give it to one another, <br />tell it again all winter, when time is a cave,<br />when there is nothing but <br />the one word to say to each other.<br /><br />Now their motion swirls like echoes,<br />though they are motionless.<br />Light pours around them, melting. <br />The vast blueness extends beyond silence.<br />Time quivers and is gone. Applause.<br /><br /> <br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/22/17) </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh78oc1Bo0jAypsmaMzP5VTRLVUPqJnA0P3oRzuiJd7T1SenmS8nTdA3w_RSr2a1VWLw-jN7MlE1pErkGW0ehA5nmZkeWOoISB7sbbQxnyCKs_SpygGWqUIliWC_d3r4sqHUhQfr4xbrUSSDa1cGH2wg-lSslxj-nLSGo52VMyVAidPz7lyOpdHGw/s3403/THE%20MEANING%20(074).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2568" data-original-width="3403" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh78oc1Bo0jAypsmaMzP5VTRLVUPqJnA0P3oRzuiJd7T1SenmS8nTdA3w_RSr2a1VWLw-jN7MlE1pErkGW0ehA5nmZkeWOoISB7sbbQxnyCKs_SpygGWqUIliWC_d3r4sqHUhQfr4xbrUSSDa1cGH2wg-lSslxj-nLSGo52VMyVAidPz7lyOpdHGw/w400-h301/THE%20MEANING%20(074).JPG" width="400" /></a></div></span></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The Meaning</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />SKY DANCER<br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />arching past feathers<br />body strength<br />bird strength<br /><br />will <br />of warrior<br />will <br />of dancer<br /><br />arms stretch back <br />to become <br />wings<br /><br />head back <br />closed eyes <br />reach blue sky<br /><br />_________________<br /><br />THE ABSTRACT LIGHT<br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />Woman sitting in the garden<br />in stippled light,<br />in artist pose.<br /><br />The abstract light<br />plays with her face,<br />her thoughts, her clothes.<br /><br />Nothing matters but the day<br />that turns. The hour<br />slows.<br /><br />The garden whispers,<br />spreads its shadows,<br />glows.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5to0Rk9Y1SyD7VGMvz7oiJSeQUKSjfs_-z2WprDBBbPh6lsURdRLPuzBTYODH31UI0x37-GW_vKrTUJ90pf1LDPdVYY_e7m2Ln9TfTk0f7BexaSAA2364F4eSdZotRnoaGXt0_3RvHHWiOD15RTuaUbEcZzc-2HZBhYPd8u4QINZfEAo-uoZZfQ/s3447/FIXED%20(015).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2532" data-original-width="3447" height="294" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5to0Rk9Y1SyD7VGMvz7oiJSeQUKSjfs_-z2WprDBBbPh6lsURdRLPuzBTYODH31UI0x37-GW_vKrTUJ90pf1LDPdVYY_e7m2Ln9TfTk0f7BexaSAA2364F4eSdZotRnoaGXt0_3RvHHWiOD15RTuaUbEcZzc-2HZBhYPd8u4QINZfEAo-uoZZfQ/w400-h294/FIXED%20(015).JPG" width="400" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Fixed </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i><br /><br />ADMIRER, ROSE AND RAIN : <br />A TRIANGLE<br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />She is bending to smell a rose.<br />Will it allow her nearness? <br /><br />Which is the most beautiful<br />to any admirer—<br /><br />self to self—<br />or rose to rose?<br /><br />Does the rose open fully?<br />Do her eyes close?<br /><br />Will it dare to rain <br />and ruin her hat—fill the rose <br /><br />with sudden raindrops<br />to hasten her away—splat, splat . . . ? <br /><br /> <br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/13/11;<br />5/8/12; 8/22/17)</span></i><br /><br />_________________<br /><br />IN BURNING LIGHT<br /><i>(The Old Gods...)<br />—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />It is as quiet as the shimmer of gold.<br />And timeless. The moment holds : <br /><br />A deer and a crow <br />looking at each other in a knowing.<br /><br />There is no menace.<br />Why fear?<br /><br />The old trees flex their shadows against <br />the golden patch of sunlight.<br /><br />There is no evil.<br />Why fear?<br /><br /><i><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/26/19)</span><br /><br /> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAOX4NSz5MpShcsS3Nuvd5xiav1ZfF6Ymrti3I0szKXwaZD_NMARrJFtdzgkauD4h9iOevR2HVQ2CgSSoF-zmPnELinRHamKnjgjWghfQ6ECcLvZ7gc7yV4P9VBdCi1__TX6GE1u3-ApLiFIs7lTfvbY-mznUgLcXLAhAH_jogZIjfyWeEd0m5Ig/s3648/IT%20WAS%20THE%20RAIN%20(005).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3648" data-original-width="2736" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAOX4NSz5MpShcsS3Nuvd5xiav1ZfF6Ymrti3I0szKXwaZD_NMARrJFtdzgkauD4h9iOevR2HVQ2CgSSoF-zmPnELinRHamKnjgjWghfQ6ECcLvZ7gc7yV4P9VBdCi1__TX6GE1u3-ApLiFIs7lTfvbY-mznUgLcXLAhAH_jogZIjfyWeEd0m5Ig/w300-h400/IT%20WAS%20THE%20RAIN%20(005).JPG" width="300" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> It Was The Rain</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i><br /><br />THE COLDNESS OF WINTER<br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />It’s all a blue measure, this pending in the air. <br />It’s in the swish of your heavy skirt <br />and the encroaching purple shadow<br />under the dark umbrella that you carry. <br /><br />The weight of winter presses in<br />and you try to hurry, <br />though you have only to count<br />from one house to another.<br /><br />Sounds crunch underfoot and <br />you almost wish for the wind to bring <br />its howling voice across your mind <br />which is going in such moody directions. <br /><br />The windows <br />stare through you<br />and you<br />do not return the stare. <br /><br />Habit sustains you. <br />Maybe the day will lengthen<br />and the light take on a late glow, <br />just enough to press against for warmth.<br /><br />Maybe your shadow will still be there <br />if you turn around as if <br />to change your mind and go back—<br />a small defiance to make a turning point,<br /><br />something to break the thaw of winter<br />in your heart—<br />a point you can win against . . .<br />regret is such a silly rule to measure by.<br /><br />__________________<br /><br />HABITATION<br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />And now the<br /> birds of winter<br /> oppress the sky,<br /> where now,<br /> and how,<br /> can I fly</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYif_kqete2ru5v8WWpxSgmWdWQY002GfoB0Ck5WXURvtlAXTiUbV7s3HdB-hxTYwsiUezbqZSy-voJFkH_frO0v9TWfCcwk85Xkg0kFt1r1kJfUOtgZxxDbQiNcjMa8KyiaBqFL0iUs1dc0XbX06Bx_-k9CNQ7cY3Blir8R7Xn8fCz2G1SboY9g/s1824/THE%20SECRECY%20(038).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1824" data-original-width="1368" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYif_kqete2ru5v8WWpxSgmWdWQY002GfoB0Ck5WXURvtlAXTiUbV7s3HdB-hxTYwsiUezbqZSy-voJFkH_frO0v9TWfCcwk85Xkg0kFt1r1kJfUOtgZxxDbQiNcjMa8KyiaBqFL0iUs1dc0XbX06Bx_-k9CNQ7cY3Blir8R7Xn8fCz2G1SboY9g/w300-h400/THE%20SECRECY%20(038).JPG" width="300" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The Secrecy</i></div><br /><div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><b>Dear Sister,</b><br /><br />Once again I implore you to remember me,<br />I am the one who conjured you, and now you<br />abandon me to myself. <br /><br />You will not share the mirror or the comb <br />when I look at you from the glass. <br /><br />How have you grown so vague?—wavering <br />at the back of my mind like something denied. <br /><br />I still own your existence. Why do you refuse<br />mine? Our mother calls from the other room, <br />but I can’t make out which one. Why do you <br /><br />smile at that?—suddenly here in a rag of light <br />that catches against an idle thought—just as if <br />there is only grief and love that binds us.<br /><br /><br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7jLdVsW760q7rMh3IV-R7bX_sfbjizCt2pnp9BKgMkJDOW9PsTsXrHQb3f_9w7aoZs7hZAVOnwGfP9e0iq41Uga2UOS7aAuANqW1S7gflvZOtsG1NHpKuoVa6M3_n_TXw44gCqiuDks4knv2Tgmf4JnxXHtxP7orM6tbXlzd8WAQkoH8iy6Blyw/s2736/MORE%20LIKE%20NIGHTTIME%20(099).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="2736" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7jLdVsW760q7rMh3IV-R7bX_sfbjizCt2pnp9BKgMkJDOW9PsTsXrHQb3f_9w7aoZs7hZAVOnwGfP9e0iq41Uga2UOS7aAuANqW1S7gflvZOtsG1NHpKuoVa6M3_n_TXw44gCqiuDks4knv2Tgmf4JnxXHtxP7orM6tbXlzd8WAQkoH8iy6Blyw/w400-h400/MORE%20LIKE%20NIGHTTIME%20(099).JPG" width="400" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> More Like Nighttime</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i><br /><br />DEARTH</div><div style="text-align: left;">Street Art b<i>y ana 9112.Brussels, Belgium<br />—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />Cowering now, wings folded, she waits for the <br />next need to move her toward night or toward <br />morning in the crevice of the hallway <br />of the white stone building <br />of one more desperation;<br />she shivers from the <br />feelings she <br />has found <br />as if one more <br />unworthy love<br />has found her in<br />a moment of doubt <br />and transpired her from <br />the myths of herself to <br />the new reality. Now she <br />is left on a cold staircase <br />with a dream that will not waken. <br />The old shadow has pulled away <br />and left her timeless. She hugs herself <br />and waits, but something has forsaken her. <br />Maybe it will come to her before the need is<br />beyond redemption.<br /><br />___________________<br /><br />PONDERING THE GESTALT THEORY OF<br />POETRY AND ALL ITS APPLICABLE <br />COMPONENTS (an acrostic)<br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />G od knows I wish I could </div><div style="text-align: left;">E nvy without fault and<br />S ustain the mathematics of art<br />T o which my mind is ever at want—<br />A lthough I yearn holistically <br />L ike some Eureka! in the nick of time—<br />T hat knows my need and saves me.<br /><br />___________________<br /><br />GOING CRAZY <br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />Walking around with walnuts in my hand <br />wondering what to do with them <br /><br />beginning to cry <br />then stopping short of rage. <br /><br />There are so many of them. <br />Three. <br /><br />Too heavy to throw away. <br />There are no others. <br /><br />Why must I have to decide <br />what to do with them? <br /><br />Open them . . . <br />Throw them away . . . </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_ykadK3K6RULvdIZLU5CH1E2cmyiccMSPJ8qhSuxqkIcHYJcRRoNpsJf9ZllQ9JzRc-XnS5wry7WIqUD0RiSJJpFvvJYsvHEssjIumOhnCJRZeTSCyDcRDy7UAiWzSOkpF6ELJqhT7k5oNAwVgeZQe2_JfjaJg2YMMUGi90cEy3YO-uJCKweK0A/s3648/IN%20TIME%20(018).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_ykadK3K6RULvdIZLU5CH1E2cmyiccMSPJ8qhSuxqkIcHYJcRRoNpsJf9ZllQ9JzRc-XnS5wry7WIqUD0RiSJJpFvvJYsvHEssjIumOhnCJRZeTSCyDcRDy7UAiWzSOkpF6ELJqhT7k5oNAwVgeZQe2_JfjaJg2YMMUGi90cEy3YO-uJCKweK0A/w400-h300/IN%20TIME%20(018).JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>In Time </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />now to remember <br />it was then and nevermore <br />ever shall I pine <br /><br />gathering the cherry fruit <br />we were in the childhood then <br /><br /><br /><i>—Robin Gale Odam</i><br /><br />______________________<br /><br /><i>And, as Easter approaches:</i><br /><br />ALSO EVIL LOOKING ON<br /><i>(Hieronymus Bosch. </i>The Adoration of <br />the Magi<i>. Oil on Oak Panel. 1490-1500)<br />—Robin Gale Odam</i><br /><br />His mother cannot keep him,<br />for the child king is of a splendor.<br /><br />All will come to see, they will <br />come—the reverence in a white <br />raiment, the humble in a simple robe <br />of blood, the curiosity of innocence with <br />a shield of war at his heart, confusion <br />in a veil of hope, wisdom with gifts of <br />passion, and the donkey waiting in <br />the shadowed doorway<br /><br />—also evil looking on, looking <br />out from darkness, watching from <br />the dark, and wearing a hunger.<br /><br />_____________________<br /><br /><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />WRITER <br />—Robin Gale Odam<br /><br />I keep you because<br />if I let you go <br />I may have nothing more<br />to say.<br /> <br /><br /></i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(prev. pub. in</i> Brevities<i>, January 2020) </i></span><i><br /><br />_____________________<br /><br /><span style="color: red;">Joyce and Robin Gale Odam</span> have walked the tightrope today (our last Seed of the Week)—their poems teetering on the razor’s edge of love and winter and darkness, and we thank them, as always, for their fine work.<br /><br /><b>Our new Seed of the Week is “Spring Chickens”.</b> 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 <b>Form Fiddlers’ Friday</b> for poetry form challenges, including those of the <b>Ekphrastic</b> type.<br /><br />Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week. <br /><br />_____________________<br /><br />—Medusa</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOyfvDOc7qLtEIDGAZ_oKqMlftXr_yJCxM35HEapGBYBpIvMAB6tiSk3r1P_yqp0ErBJuTZ_xx68EGAomu2ClqRH_ktvYTOOKsy69f-mUfyhf0dq0XjmYG15hgcifyM58DZBW-cjk45PQYQk6wxMCBnWMN3WOCaSvkKw1Ek540tvWvHEJrCmFYDg/s1028/dux:mom's%20back:quick%20dive%20jn.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="686" data-original-width="1028" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOyfvDOc7qLtEIDGAZ_oKqMlftXr_yJCxM35HEapGBYBpIvMAB6tiSk3r1P_yqp0ErBJuTZ_xx68EGAomu2ClqRH_ktvYTOOKsy69f-mUfyhf0dq0XjmYG15hgcifyM58DZBW-cjk45PQYQk6wxMCBnWMN3WOCaSvkKw1Ek540tvWvHEJrCmFYDg/w400-h268/dux:mom's%20back:quick%20dive%20jn.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>And spring ducks, too... (can you see</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>the mother?)<br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>—Public Domain Photo Courtesy</i><br /><i>of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> <br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A reminder that</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Twin Lotus Thai Fourth Tuesdays</b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>presents <span style="color: red;">Frank Dixon Graham</span> and</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: red;">Anna Marie Sprowl </span>tonight, 6pm.<br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>For info about this and other</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw2Wxf8qbnQRTeEW8PKkQSOrZKtETy2Smebm6ehCe3DD5akc_OlJAFfvwLCXNAeJ9_PIyGZTj_lR2OPA0UBNIO9XRveA7VTPxGXomyZM53u1AChjq7PiSIOIN4DXo8xgj14wgV0h6rk92IV2aUIRLzwYKaehBR7W8aJ3AovzoYwtXuIy9dzK3uXA/s237/snicken.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="237" data-original-width="213" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw2Wxf8qbnQRTeEW8PKkQSOrZKtETy2Smebm6ehCe3DD5akc_OlJAFfvwLCXNAeJ9_PIyGZTj_lR2OPA0UBNIO9XRveA7VTPxGXomyZM53u1AChjq7PiSIOIN4DXo8xgj14wgV0h6rk92IV2aUIRLzwYKaehBR7W8aJ3AovzoYwtXuIy9dzK3uXA/w180-h200/snicken.jpg" width="180" /></a></div> </i><i>Snicken</i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div></div></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-17022762609814026292024-03-25T08:35:00.000-07:002024-03-25T08:35:20.945-07:00One Step At A Time<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEganI9vSzP1pZfcQzZFdQkFEixpXJl86Ak0gcw0P4z10NRs4jKWe4EFNrm3WSa_kmBo9B4Hf3R7lqrz_ATPRPxrFxxABZoQEH1t7zmEoOOxLpx7CdlVtY5icQPJm3hyphenhyphenczPIb_knY2vy9uOqZ42ddnW24NECdmBGbvx_8noN-jCyYcvI-jUNB8GHbw/s170/blondin.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="163" data-original-width="170" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEganI9vSzP1pZfcQzZFdQkFEixpXJl86Ak0gcw0P4z10NRs4jKWe4EFNrm3WSa_kmBo9B4Hf3R7lqrz_ATPRPxrFxxABZoQEH1t7zmEoOOxLpx7CdlVtY5icQPJm3hyphenhyphenczPIb_knY2vy9uOqZ42ddnW24NECdmBGbvx_8noN-jCyYcvI-jUNB8GHbw/w400-h384/blondin.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <i>Charles Blondin crossing the Niagara River, 1859<br />—Public Domain Photo<br /><br />* * *</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br />—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,<br />Sayani Mukherjee, Caschwa, and Joe Nolan<br />—Original Photo by Caschwa<br />—Public Domain Photos Courtesy<br />of Joe Nolan and Stephen Kingsnorth</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;">TIGHTROPE<br /><i>—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY</i><br /><br />One step at a time, umbrella in my hand, <br />I walk the line from infant to old age. <br />Below me is disaster, let me pick one, <br />maybe monsters or volcanoes or a stroke. <br />A monkey on the right is sawing through <br />the line,<br />it trembles, when it spills me it will spill way <br />more than <br />beans.<br />Death is on the left, rubbing his hands.<br />He’s salivating to dine and wine on little <br />crunchy me.<br />There is no good direction, flip a coin,<br />my only exit is an airplane<br />that promises a ride to outer space.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIREMShXH7y4IVE9L9vo7ppcGHry4771d6ieVTGvMyAWi-UFtY2UVbwB7MTEvv_BsCH4cByO2nRlkvJs2CxvBwXRoxLjOiuu3A9alWfyXMAtCAEIGK3eh87zPTJJu909zdug4Dm_ttP1CjEG7CuGgfYujgSRLHMHjfR5Gysm7oyUUQbXqccLYCXQ/s839/mtn%20goat:pinnaclejn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="839" data-original-width="564" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIREMShXH7y4IVE9L9vo7ppcGHry4771d6ieVTGvMyAWi-UFtY2UVbwB7MTEvv_BsCH4cByO2nRlkvJs2CxvBwXRoxLjOiuu3A9alWfyXMAtCAEIGK3eh87zPTJJu909zdug4Dm_ttP1CjEG7CuGgfYujgSRLHMHjfR5Gysm7oyUUQbXqccLYCXQ/w269-h400/mtn%20goat:pinnaclejn.png" width="269" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Photo Courtesy </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">of Joe Nolan</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i><br /><br />TIGHTROPE TALK<br /><i>—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales</i><br /><br />The tightrope’s all about the gap,<br />from crossing line to where might drop;<br />but also if the word divides,<br />another gap for tight rope scene,<br />for how it’s seen gives us its mean.<br />My college trunk at porter’s lodge—<br />did tight-tied knots hold fast as chains?<br />Or trussed up victim, kidnapped, shot?<br />And trusting hold in abseil leap;<br />again, ascent—less mountain goat?<br /><br />But Blondin’s name synonymous<br />with entertainment over rifts;<br />Niagara, the showman’s walk,<br />on foot, in sack, wheelbarrow wheeled,<br />his manager on piggyback.<br />At Crystal Palace—near my birth—<br />he crossed the rope by bicycle,<br />a model, engineered, New Cross—<br />and where I went to school indeed—<br />another tightrope, by report.<br /><br />The tests, sobriety, I’ve seen<br />as tripping some fantastic line;<br />need balance, bar both light and long,<br />but not that hangdog look, like noosed.<br />So can we talk without offence<br />as Blondin walked without a fence?<br />So try the ply, how thick that strand<br />and set out on toe-curling trail.<br />In stirring air and atmosphere<br />we recognise risk, overspill.<br /><br />It is all in the grip, you see,<br />a sampler of the knots displayed,<br />their anchor in those crampon stakes.<br />And if you’re diplomat at large<br />you’ll know the score, the gauge employed,<br />a talker, knowing strains involved,<br />each accents hanging in the air,<br />a charmed snake, Mesmer, swaying thrill.<br />As concentration, words unspoke,<br />with conversation, silence gold.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtWjy4higbyMqgOlzW0CPBMKf49z_SFF84rPg69qXVd8salNXukfQ8lBaUojF3HmdB0qGginiUDyGqkLGsyC34PjuanY0LOfzq4YlBQ6TA0f9sXoqXePUvaIxXOkJi4uhjL8CmYl0yUbMyojNliZFVt2T-Uubn3Q8lByeRQJQz4Eg_XRzM18iM_w/s292/polecat%20sk.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="192" data-original-width="292" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtWjy4higbyMqgOlzW0CPBMKf49z_SFF84rPg69qXVd8salNXukfQ8lBaUojF3HmdB0qGginiUDyGqkLGsyC34PjuanY0LOfzq4YlBQ6TA0f9sXoqXePUvaIxXOkJi4uhjL8CmYl0yUbMyojNliZFVt2T-Uubn3Q8lByeRQJQz4Eg_XRzM18iM_w/w400-h263/polecat%20sk.png" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> <i>—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth</i></span></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i><br /><br />POLECAT<br /><i>—Stephen Kingsnorth</i><br /><br />Like iceberg, topmost only seen,<br />you know the swan, serene above,<br />web madly paddle underneath—<br />that’s not the case, topcat with cream.<br />But here the balance must demand<br />a concentred feline mind,<br />no errant swish, even of tail,<br />for pole beneath, not tightrope width.<br />Who cares the pinhead, angel stand,<br />when you can watch me steadied, sat,<br />and as brigade is called to tree,<br />am I, in air, out of my depth?<br />But why consume myself with this,<br />when you show only topside self,<br />your calm exterior a mask,<br />and balanced view easily swayed?</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_mUugtxfYQ4t4mSxcuaFow5aFUA83wf6PDePOodnONwSotR5EMAQcUKFIjfNXrhglNnl312UP7wpIKYSa8QU5VZnPqsy5E-NhB-KfYAKRfIzcMyRqP2kUIF_TabSoDBbioOR-UHXrwFnU2izIHRhKFPaRA9dTinZ4Mvxq5N65BIcVnH0518JtHQ/s863/cat:chair%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="863" data-original-width="651" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_mUugtxfYQ4t4mSxcuaFow5aFUA83wf6PDePOodnONwSotR5EMAQcUKFIjfNXrhglNnl312UP7wpIKYSa8QU5VZnPqsy5E-NhB-KfYAKRfIzcMyRqP2kUIF_TabSoDBbioOR-UHXrwFnU2izIHRhKFPaRA9dTinZ4Mvxq5N65BIcVnH0518JtHQ/w301-h400/cat:chair%20jn.png" width="301" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan</span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />FALLEN<br /><i>—Sayani Mukherjee, <br />Chandannagar, W. Bengal, India</i><br /><br />My suburban areas full of life <br />One pace at once <br />The mismatched codes of conduct <br />The daisy drowned too much <br />A paper flower flowing across <br />The bemused spoken cave <br />For the fallen tree had its source <br />The sounds and choirs of unsung tree <br />A tattoo-laden western upfront <br />I had the time of my life <br />God's favorite flower child <br />The Apollo journal of white lies <br />A heavenly hero of downtrodden youth. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcCW6P8_9-28xbyaqUuUAk0s25wXNKa0uHE2P9ivED6Z7_KamByBlFcXb-R6nL6K492qAjj52EPky-ybtLXigSfLs9OB1zebTMLKY5q82Jb81cmGtIA6mJEDUX_1oOA1x1a_2NTarSnC9odN1LfpCyowLJKE5Xn3VMDnKn4g5KzJYqpbJ_2mhiGA/s1143/girl:flwrs%20on%20head%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1143" data-original-width="643" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcCW6P8_9-28xbyaqUuUAk0s25wXNKa0uHE2P9ivED6Z7_KamByBlFcXb-R6nL6K492qAjj52EPky-ybtLXigSfLs9OB1zebTMLKY5q82Jb81cmGtIA6mJEDUX_1oOA1x1a_2NTarSnC9odN1LfpCyowLJKE5Xn3VMDnKn4g5KzJYqpbJ_2mhiGA/w225-h400/girl:flwrs%20on%20head%20jn.png" width="225" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Photo Courtesy </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">of Joe Nolan</span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />SKIN <br /><i>—Sayani Mukherjee</i> <br /><br />The autumn towers burned down <br />The asphalt over my tea cup towel <br />An ever-growing stained glass <br />The dizzing morning atmosphere <br />The yellow fence of dark dribbled mouth <br />I asked for a green-waved stream <br />For the burning atmosphere <br />I don't know the price of mountains <br />Or the sea-grown weed skins <br />Signs marched over the ivory towers <br />For the vigil of a sun-scratched smile. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkblZBNQnS7c984hGBH24Tqh_rWooXXHIIJCSrmjs9yUS0k3Ys8Ahf77HrsX6Xk3yd1PTlx661FUJf9oaSzNphF48Ss69GLLkfnfA-AvATEEncKiL8KTMHxF_089Jk1p1fVZ0-Y9MXr-QwSrBprYTEEJuNfCuQxj_i6s6AVf1hYufBvUCRIx1_1w/s400/cherry%20tomatoes.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkblZBNQnS7c984hGBH24Tqh_rWooXXHIIJCSrmjs9yUS0k3Ys8Ahf77HrsX6Xk3yd1PTlx661FUJf9oaSzNphF48Ss69GLLkfnfA-AvATEEncKiL8KTMHxF_089Jk1p1fVZ0-Y9MXr-QwSrBprYTEEJuNfCuQxj_i6s6AVf1hYufBvUCRIx1_1w/w400-h300/cherry%20tomatoes.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Photo by Caschwa</span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i><br /><br />OVER-RIPE AND ALMOST ROTTEN <br /><i>—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA </i><br /><br />Our Declaration of Independence <br />boldly declared that the 13 British <br />Colonies were now states, each of <br />which had complete independence <br />(like the ancient Greek city-states). <br />Didn’t make that up, go ahead and <br />read the Declaration of Independence <br />for yourself. <br /><br />in an instant, the new states felt <br />they’d been bamboozled because <br />now, some hand is quicker than the <br />eye negotiations had reduced them <br />to the status of being one state among <br />13 united states, each having to share <br />the same Congress which had full <br />authority over all the states to declare <br />war, contract alliances, conclude peace, <br />establish commerce, and make other key <br />decisions. <br /><br />gone was their full and complete <br />independence, and in its place was <br />the bombastic, disgruntled voice of <br />“we didn’t agree to all that!” which <br />has pervaded the political landscape <br />ever since. <br /><br />adding fuel to this fire, the bigger, new <br />and improved government freed the <br />once legal slaves without paying the <br />slaveholders, and mandated, as if magic <br />could make it happen, that freed slaves <br />were now full citizens and were even <br />entitled to vote; we all know now that the <br />magic was AWOL and the changes set <br />forth in the new laws didn’t just happen, <br />but instead simmered stewing for centuries <br />to follow. <br /><br />in the mean time, “free” blacks faced fiery <br />discrimination, segregation, brutal attacks <br />and death when they tried to assimilate as <br />per the law of the land; they were forced <br />to the back of the bus literally and figuratively <br />in all manners of how they were to conduct <br />themselves, put in the plight of Sisyphus, <br />pushing huge boulders uphill. <br /><br />Well don’t feel badly, people have finally <br />come to their senses and things have now <br />changed for the better. Oops! spoke too <br />soon, per the current news, millions of <br />Americans still blame the government <br />for being stuck with the same old shit.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHRxAqQfDG2KiAYbjtLkqfnEYsrRbjAWXpFKbefg0gI0xdkkyql-nI0ErntmxsNOhx4ZIILjU0EV2OHkMX8VM5FnR0A3QraGEBGtIvpMN_QARwpvJ6Iq5Y8w0MDXbYTrcXERxzPjVHejA0lmDcshopV50UQgDkNZ4ZfOrSEp2xgVHl7zMJWPRHpA/s944/tree:brick%20wall%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="708" data-original-width="944" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHRxAqQfDG2KiAYbjtLkqfnEYsrRbjAWXpFKbefg0gI0xdkkyql-nI0ErntmxsNOhx4ZIILjU0EV2OHkMX8VM5FnR0A3QraGEBGtIvpMN_QARwpvJ6Iq5Y8w0MDXbYTrcXERxzPjVHejA0lmDcshopV50UQgDkNZ4ZfOrSEp2xgVHl7zMJWPRHpA/w400-h300/tree:brick%20wall%20jn.png" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan</span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />KILLING A TREE<br /><i>—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA</i><br /><br />A tree can be killed<br />By cutting its roots,<br />By burning its leaves,<br />By grinding its seeds<br />Into dust.<br /><br />Who will mourn<br />The death of a tree<br />That was in the way?<br /><br />One that had <br />Grown too tall,<br />Become diseased,<br />Lost its charm,<br />No longer pleased,<br />Its time to go away?<br /><br />When a tree is gone <br />Tractors will roll on<br />Over fresh-found dirt<br />Without the shade<br />Of leaves, above.<br />Wind will not be swayed. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7nkTThajPV_jPUmrJsOj2ey9XdyPb06DwynocaHow1b1_7yvss8oE7suuOkwOe-VsVUMhyJIzU2m1doDekqzDN66x5D5TPRv4zqUVo0jCHalVWgr2ZFbriHH8k456pLtk-oyZEn7awF35EO8HLca0vK5yAmL4OPIXmW0m9POD4Lbpj90s6TI6SQ/s526/tree%20hugs%20itself%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="517" data-original-width="526" height="394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7nkTThajPV_jPUmrJsOj2ey9XdyPb06DwynocaHow1b1_7yvss8oE7suuOkwOe-VsVUMhyJIzU2m1doDekqzDN66x5D5TPRv4zqUVo0jCHalVWgr2ZFbriHH8k456pLtk-oyZEn7awF35EO8HLca0vK5yAmL4OPIXmW0m9POD4Lbpj90s6TI6SQ/w400-h394/tree%20hugs%20itself%20jn.png" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Ancient Tree Hugging Itself</i><br /><i>—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i> </i></span><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />REPLACING KAMALA WITH NIKKI?<br /><i>—Joe Nolan</i><br /><br />Another smiling face<br />To put in place<br />To mark a shining<br />Ticket.<br /><br />What we need<br />To replace<br />Someone<br />We felt<br />Had grown<br />Too dim.<br /><br />It’s just another election.<br />We need a winning ticket—<br />Something we can sell,<br />Another hollow shell,<br />Marked by smiles</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">On the outer wrapper.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZuEt6tFPOccV5xwABPm5Ut4CldJmPL0fW-TrrqBM7j90hi-oPIu7LDKZN4-lQ-7G-xkp9V3CEnHHISUSpzKGWDc45v1AS4v7c2s-Q4k4w891Vw2w9tksJb58qraZu-6hV7SrmlKU4s1EYYOti74QzfbdhzH8KNtynDleDrHvf_S_Fu1SLomIhgA/s830/donkey:tree%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="830" data-original-width="664" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZuEt6tFPOccV5xwABPm5Ut4CldJmPL0fW-TrrqBM7j90hi-oPIu7LDKZN4-lQ-7G-xkp9V3CEnHHISUSpzKGWDc45v1AS4v7c2s-Q4k4w891Vw2w9tksJb58qraZu-6hV7SrmlKU4s1EYYOti74QzfbdhzH8KNtynDleDrHvf_S_Fu1SLomIhgA/w320-h400/donkey:tree%20jn.png" width="320" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />IN THIS LAND<br /><i>—Joe Nolan</i><br /><br />In this land <br />The soil is mixed<br />With tears, blood and sweat,<br /><br />The restless sound of<br />Roaming armies,<br />The pounding of <br />Their horses’ hooves,<br /><br />The screams of the wounded<br />And those who’d soon be dead,<br /><br />The running fear<br />Seeking escape,<br />From genocide<br />Without warning,<br /><br />When a camp <br />Is set for slaughter<br />Amid cavalry’s laughter.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9PkhlseJyz_OycJ4dOxjDEaehNt5jlffrhsvI7ymXGzTw0XVAIN271Vi6A9BQAyZsBV1iE1AHVzjlbH79BQ_AOHGkh_7_KeAN4UIAa73LNSw_LLVyeF0nY8oqw5e4c_PjgtyzWGfI5AxZYrQhDtNYGuuMN5oegZOZA_A7nlpYRAxj1zAt0mkNdA/s682/daffodils%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="682" data-original-width="663" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9PkhlseJyz_OycJ4dOxjDEaehNt5jlffrhsvI7ymXGzTw0XVAIN271Vi6A9BQAyZsBV1iE1AHVzjlbH79BQ_AOHGkh_7_KeAN4UIAa73LNSw_LLVyeF0nY8oqw5e4c_PjgtyzWGfI5AxZYrQhDtNYGuuMN5oegZOZA_A7nlpYRAxj1zAt0mkNdA/w389-h400/daffodils%20jn.png" width="389" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan</span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i><br /><br />DAFFODILS<br /><i>—Joe Nolan</i><br /><br />My daffodil, my darling!<br />The yellow’s in the field<br />And taller trees<br />Must bend and kneel,<br />To beauty, they must yield!<br /><br />Daffodils<br />In early Spring<br />Over meadows<br />Run and sing<br />Up and down the hillsides.<br /><br />Upon the green,<br />Bright yellow, seen,<br />All across the glade!<br />The sweetness of Spring air,<br />Of beauty, all is made!<br />My daffodil, my darling!</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga6V6MdCs7Pwtkv5DoAUgkZ8IFG4CPIfF6Mf6G5VqaOHoHQpJ5tTainOcxkcgAP2ulc4F3Z3aR0ruqBSw-shPPWkGv0TjKvUd2mOcdojWm4MwKDpC3dnQxR7DGBe-2_JOjyn8GxNDLupqTViBNyHbIdUnZISUWF_UsrxN8gShuuReC-A6LVwlHVw/s400/fit%20in%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="400" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga6V6MdCs7Pwtkv5DoAUgkZ8IFG4CPIfF6Mf6G5VqaOHoHQpJ5tTainOcxkcgAP2ulc4F3Z3aR0ruqBSw-shPPWkGv0TjKvUd2mOcdojWm4MwKDpC3dnQxR7DGBe-2_JOjyn8GxNDLupqTViBNyHbIdUnZISUWF_UsrxN8gShuuReC-A6LVwlHVw/w400-h400/fit%20in%20jn.png" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan</span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />JIGSAW PUZZLE<br /><i>—Joe Nolan</i><br /> <br />A jigsaw puzzle, <br />Once completed,<br />Had been scattered to the wind.<br /><br />The cover-box with picture,<br />To provide a clue,<br />Had its picture skinned—<br />To glue on post-cards,<br />Describing recent trips.<br /><br />Shall we begin?<br />It only has a thousand pieces,<br />All of them down-wind.<br /><i><br />____________________<br /><b><br />Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />Life is always a tightrope or a feather bed. Give me the tightrope.<br /><br />—Edith Wharton<br /><br />____________________<br /><br />—Medusa, with our thanks to today’s contributors as they celebrate life as a tightrope (our Tuesday Seed of the Week), rather than a feather bed.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu9_GKEw0Bk9Z79PsQWnXAYoEgcJDy1CLEDNVQsRkmMy47byX8s4-RdwmSrPPEssh7r6qOoNHF6uphnGOtHO1HgDwBEij2CuBJ0p1iJN0gGxPzlDytqJDjE7wQCD3C_D1SFYBtGlOhPK5YGUNkSDq1I4CJjEmGk9nbtJr9pgQUpIUlnPeU-rMZhg/s528/to-do%20list%20jn.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="528" data-original-width="461" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu9_GKEw0Bk9Z79PsQWnXAYoEgcJDy1CLEDNVQsRkmMy47byX8s4-RdwmSrPPEssh7r6qOoNHF6uphnGOtHO1HgDwBEij2CuBJ0p1iJN0gGxPzlDytqJDjE7wQCD3C_D1SFYBtGlOhPK5YGUNkSDq1I4CJjEmGk9nbtJr9pgQUpIUlnPeU-rMZhg/w349-h400/to-do%20list%20jn.png" width="349" /></a></div><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Joe Nolan</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A reminder that</i><br /><i><b>Sacramento Poetry Center</b></i><br /><i>will feature members of the</i><br /><i><b>Hart Center Workshop</b></i><br /><i>tonight in Sacramento, 7:30pm.</i><br /><i>For info about this and other</i><br /><i>future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitP_H5eP1T5qbCDC96idUJcleSsevasw0lULUh7BAiPB8UoO4963Ku8RQr8-YCxaKwAlAhNksktdA1fpjoxar-1HXYZREd8Ux71C2vX6pGno-sc0vTatwFXFuNmFI-Oq_kREfxSZmjFZb47RBouPKl9mTIae8UCRqr3i-QhxMIquv-uJt_l1ymCA/s249/rainbow%20heart.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="202" data-original-width="249" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitP_H5eP1T5qbCDC96idUJcleSsevasw0lULUh7BAiPB8UoO4963Ku8RQr8-YCxaKwAlAhNksktdA1fpjoxar-1HXYZREd8Ux71C2vX6pGno-sc0vTatwFXFuNmFI-Oq_kREfxSZmjFZb47RBouPKl9mTIae8UCRqr3i-QhxMIquv-uJt_l1ymCA/w200-h162/rainbow%20heart.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /> </i><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><i></i></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-30838010883197741292024-03-24T08:38:00.000-07:002024-03-24T08:39:01.452-07:00Mystic Lovers<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih30vdGJr7vUa7fqsq2A_PmkvyxN-hwZ4ewCLgmsmBu906pxWe19PC25RdpzoPGCJ6-sVT7I3B5vRS2mE4x_OCSqjt81ePm9kb1NdXaxm5kRDT2Zi_nQANz0BKSBEuD9eCkv7x89Qqa7ISR0vOSFi990UTNMAJiQGd7EYerSPTdYquUzQTwoC1Mg/s1200/pink%20single.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih30vdGJr7vUa7fqsq2A_PmkvyxN-hwZ4ewCLgmsmBu906pxWe19PC25RdpzoPGCJ6-sVT7I3B5vRS2mE4x_OCSqjt81ePm9kb1NdXaxm5kRDT2Zi_nQANz0BKSBEuD9eCkv7x89Qqa7ISR0vOSFi990UTNMAJiQGd7EYerSPTdYquUzQTwoC1Mg/w400-h400/pink%20single.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><i> —Collaborative Poetry (tan-renga) <br />by Uchechukwu Onyedikam of Lagos, Nigeria, <br />and Christina Chin of Malaysia<br />(Italicized lines are by italicized authors)<br />—Orchid Photos Courtesy of Public Domain</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>closer…<br />the sound of horse hoofs</i><br />the melody <br />in her heart<br />the strums of banjo </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />—<i>Christina Chin</i>/Uchechukwu Onyedikam <br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><i>her love—<br />a masterpiece <br />of cosmic pull</i><br />bridging the gulf of two <br />distant fervent hearts<br /><br />—<i>Christina Chi</i>n/Uchechukwu Onyedikam </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicAnKzzpn1pOfolj16ioiJCEgGLuDAHr4lr7jEyWWZSMwxOUCtEp7z7dqD8e1-nR72X2e3D_oeg9QJ3MwzJP8icX82petStilkTa21FWXUDU8tponjlSS2zKF8VuwJ5lwf0wE3pU2cIEWxiDGkB8RVsXja-QJMGMuMuYH9E4SL-PxsPb85rMXnTQ/s4000/white.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="4000" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicAnKzzpn1pOfolj16ioiJCEgGLuDAHr4lr7jEyWWZSMwxOUCtEp7z7dqD8e1-nR72X2e3D_oeg9QJ3MwzJP8icX82petStilkTa21FWXUDU8tponjlSS2zKF8VuwJ5lwf0wE3pU2cIEWxiDGkB8RVsXja-QJMGMuMuYH9E4SL-PxsPb85rMXnTQ/w400-h400/white.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><i>expecting a beloved—<br />she arranges the orchids <br />in a certain way </i><br />a mystic lover<br />worthy of note <br /><br />—<i>Christina Chin</i>/Uchechukwu Onyedikam <br /><br />* * * </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />oh beloved <br />across the bridge <br /><i>come <br />stay a while till <br />the stars are gone</i><br /><br />—Uchechukwu Onyedikam/<i>Christina Chin</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj35hwPFa9DzFb_exqZlt8MbXWH8lVL9atsvEO7bffREMxwwEKJaSKUq5YpLVYPF-S0jZm0FP2EjO6yC-wHcNewUl2WFfsq8I7y4ZNw8qJQl3TsbYIo7DTcd05O2H0Gk0PL4d-tdObvHiabycnSsQ5JWco7DHqiJTKfMlLsj5zg0VajEfSM3ufZ1g/s259/purple.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj35hwPFa9DzFb_exqZlt8MbXWH8lVL9atsvEO7bffREMxwwEKJaSKUq5YpLVYPF-S0jZm0FP2EjO6yC-wHcNewUl2WFfsq8I7y4ZNw8qJQl3TsbYIo7DTcd05O2H0Gk0PL4d-tdObvHiabycnSsQ5JWco7DHqiJTKfMlLsj5zg0VajEfSM3ufZ1g/w400-h300/purple.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br /><i>a sudden hostility<br />of normal period</i><br />lights off—<br />clinging onto him tightly <br />the reptilian skin rips<br /><br />—<i>Uchechukwu Onyedikam</i>/Christina Chin</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> * * * </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />the toad<br />flicks its tongue<br />the taste of liver<br /><i>washed down with<br />a glass of red wine</i><br /><br />—Christina Chin/<i>Uchechukwu Onyedikam</i> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhayzwXY0b06B7_lkoqG_cyVSGLgqK7ibCMxYiNgMNmq9PYDhXMRrMe1wRXttkBJX8ey5PCiD5Vr92q8iU5JX2uaEN1azxkhSB2TkMAhmZlQdkOwPwOHVPW79TLogTzujOdEwQKUIiueRC_VuODMNJehXu7tTRrMIQ-tMhg7Td6ogFLuizk9rgJ-g/s275/stripes.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhayzwXY0b06B7_lkoqG_cyVSGLgqK7ibCMxYiNgMNmq9PYDhXMRrMe1wRXttkBJX8ey5PCiD5Vr92q8iU5JX2uaEN1azxkhSB2TkMAhmZlQdkOwPwOHVPW79TLogTzujOdEwQKUIiueRC_VuODMNJehXu7tTRrMIQ-tMhg7Td6ogFLuizk9rgJ-g/w400-h266/stripes.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />ancestral spirit—<br />cemented on the rocks <br />pawprints<br /><i>the dangling pendant<br />of the neckpiece </i><br /><br />—Christina Chin/<i>Uchechukwu Onyedikam</i> <br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><i>half awake<br />slowly reaching<br />for the phone alarm </i> <br />only takes deep night to rise<br />the full yellow sun<br /><br />—<i>Christina Chin</i>/Uchechukwu Onyedikam </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcx5KHVWEWX5xTTE8MuDRn5tBFe3lKNhivR7EhJ5Ed8C1fHELJQ8FOKUgRFCJhGFXdSKgivA0dkrQaK5xroKM5e8-ICKTYJnBgeydcsVfRa0MsBms59eIwY9Few8wnXuXHCRfkuvYskCnF1sh8udJA7F3d6GV3CvsSNUhudeww3CvtO1RFu5I_Kw/s275/yellow.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcx5KHVWEWX5xTTE8MuDRn5tBFe3lKNhivR7EhJ5Ed8C1fHELJQ8FOKUgRFCJhGFXdSKgivA0dkrQaK5xroKM5e8-ICKTYJnBgeydcsVfRa0MsBms59eIwY9Few8wnXuXHCRfkuvYskCnF1sh8udJA7F3d6GV3CvsSNUhudeww3CvtO1RFu5I_Kw/w400-h266/yellow.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> ailing african child <br />in the book <br />of yesterday<br /><i>reads about<br />a strange city boy</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> —Uchechukwu Onyedikam/<i>Christina Chin</i><br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><i>chaka chak <br />song</i><br />to the rhythm <br />of whirling wind <br />festival dance </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> —<i>Christina Chin</i>/Uchechukwu Onyedikam</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> _____________________<br /><br /><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />If I had a flower for every time I thought of you…I could walk through my garden forever.<br /><br />—Alfred Tennyson<br /><br />_____________________<br /><br />Welcome back to the Kitchen to <span style="color: red;">Uchechukwu Onyedikam</span> and <span style="color: red;">Christina Chin</span>, who first visited us with their intriguing <b>tan-renga</b> collaborations on Jan. 25 of this year. For more about these poets, go to <a href="https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2024/01/dark-moonearthrise.html">https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2024/01/dark-moonearthrise.html</a>/. For more about tan-renga, see <a href="https://www.graceguts.com/essays/an-introduction-to-tan-renga">https://www.graceguts.com/essays/an-introduction-to-tan-renga</a>/.<br /><br />_____________________<br /><br />—Medusa, with condolences to SnakePal <span style="color: red;">Taylor Graham</span>, whose dog, <span style="color: red;">Loki</span>, passed away last night. Orchids to you, Loki, and to TG, too.<br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb1-IPmv7msAe0YyVp-UoUMBJ5YHjqldYaJcytt8wBIue-PaD2CdGOaU3I0-Kk1H2CfkDjnAfCHSjfXymw8SaHwahCS1VtQNsgCo_YbgtTHdBIckUgLCrp7LH1XeNF1CjZTYPbFn4Xgz8yu-jXuXuj-okS6-DsJhVEPX9sFT01-vqKxPGkHYDWMQ/s1025/gang.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="625" data-original-width="1025" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb1-IPmv7msAe0YyVp-UoUMBJ5YHjqldYaJcytt8wBIue-PaD2CdGOaU3I0-Kk1H2CfkDjnAfCHSjfXymw8SaHwahCS1VtQNsgCo_YbgtTHdBIckUgLCrp7LH1XeNF1CjZTYPbFn4Xgz8yu-jXuXuj-okS6-DsJhVEPX9sFT01-vqKxPGkHYDWMQ/w400-h244/gang.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A reminder that</i><br /><i><b>Storytelling Sundays</b></i><br /><i>takes place in Placerville</i><br /><i>this afternoon, 4pm.</i><br /><i>For info about this and other</i><br /><i> future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKH4kITeyIM2UD21aT8785f8LwH-cQG4b86R9pMBhyphenhyphen2zt3Fa383CRDs92c9_VUhGpk1MjPHmkUe0ELfAu6c-KPMK7SxiKN7kwQ6XINsusZikJKekhCxKfNZe1v6UpmszMv2u9MzSIjwpXlePy8O6Sc7g7MFHZ4sxMc8q_YOKgOi9o1DezCfS8gWg/s226/purple:flower.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="226" data-original-width="223" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKH4kITeyIM2UD21aT8785f8LwH-cQG4b86R9pMBhyphenhyphen2zt3Fa383CRDs92c9_VUhGpk1MjPHmkUe0ELfAu6c-KPMK7SxiKN7kwQ6XINsusZikJKekhCxKfNZe1v6UpmszMv2u9MzSIjwpXlePy8O6Sc7g7MFHZ4sxMc8q_YOKgOi9o1DezCfS8gWg/w197-h200/purple:flower.jpeg" width="197" /></a></div><br /> </i><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><br /><br /> </div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-32581538802433713382024-03-23T08:34:00.000-07:002024-03-23T08:34:54.049-07:00Love is All...<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMBKdG96ydcbE7SR3vhTHluZnAY-SqG8lztvIsnZq25kzuPg6ZltbSVGcf5aOsx98S2trJOS__3l_oe5LkvouwIqwRvdOvDZwCzF-T4_EDO81QdkHb9GoaLEjwPSR1NOODkGpY5NHY6HLtuphO_YCKY6Ioe2BXOgEebfCBSofhT5OT050h41pTPQ/s1920/reading.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMBKdG96ydcbE7SR3vhTHluZnAY-SqG8lztvIsnZq25kzuPg6ZltbSVGcf5aOsx98S2trJOS__3l_oe5LkvouwIqwRvdOvDZwCzF-T4_EDO81QdkHb9GoaLEjwPSR1NOODkGpY5NHY6HLtuphO_YCKY6Ioe2BXOgEebfCBSofhT5OT050h41pTPQ/w300-h400/reading.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><i> —Poetry, Photos and Original Artwork by <br />Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, West Covina, CA</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">LET’S GO TO THE BEACH<br /><br />Let’s go to the beach,<br />and stay until the stars<br />come out. Don’t say no.<br />The waves are calling <br />you out. It’s not so far.<br />This is an invitation<br />no less. Feel the air.<br />Feel the wind, that ocean <br />breeze. It kisses your face.<br />It does not break it.<br />Let’s go to the beach<br />without any reservations.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR1SkYurH73EpMCMPbf0PVEusRcVNIu9m-CmIxaz0aOMR2dwOd9kStbnHVlrsWfSQ-9tATEUUdsVogGSD-Vbp0wn2jdi3xaNsAXpXCXRljleWDWMxw7Ux2SJ4ZqQMk9YVQRVL3kPmNXw017NVQe7pYeO_mdSM4gohCCASiYthrfUmbtkbA8OilYw/s1920/mtn.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR1SkYurH73EpMCMPbf0PVEusRcVNIu9m-CmIxaz0aOMR2dwOd9kStbnHVlrsWfSQ-9tATEUUdsVogGSD-Vbp0wn2jdi3xaNsAXpXCXRljleWDWMxw7Ux2SJ4ZqQMk9YVQRVL3kPmNXw017NVQe7pYeO_mdSM4gohCCASiYthrfUmbtkbA8OilYw/w300-h400/mtn.jpg" width="300" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />LOVE IS ALL YOU NEED<br /><br />Let us make words with pomegranate seeds<br />on the ground we walk on. I will start with love with <br />red stains bleeding. Who’s up next? Come outside <br />and make the next word. Isn’t it great to make words <br />with fruit?</div><div style="text-align: left;">With one seed you can make a period. It can end <br />there. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Can I tell you a secret?<br /><br />Love is all you need on any given day.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVShwYGR7dNhWxuRz9WS0fpl9iyGHzbzZkTs0qjZY-IFu7Ohx25jtke7qaO_LnZndc0PIT0Kg5o_xMu_Pp65JfpBU1B_IdhwUzK81i51w7_t8CfRUa6lIsTJAPyNAqg0fOWEVxGNeDauD51bGSEXhl38oDLziXpAhCtPX27U8pYLOm3ZBYxZYg-A/s1920/raining%20stars.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVShwYGR7dNhWxuRz9WS0fpl9iyGHzbzZkTs0qjZY-IFu7Ohx25jtke7qaO_LnZndc0PIT0Kg5o_xMu_Pp65JfpBU1B_IdhwUzK81i51w7_t8CfRUa6lIsTJAPyNAqg0fOWEVxGNeDauD51bGSEXhl38oDLziXpAhCtPX27U8pYLOm3ZBYxZYg-A/w300-h400/raining%20stars.jpg" width="300" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">HOW MUCH WINE<br /><br />Soak up the wine<br />right now<br />like a good sponge <br />and float.<br /><br />How much wine to<br />the sea?<br />Like a sponge you<br />must be.<br /><br />It drowns so good<br />under<br />water, drink wine<br />and plunge.<br /><br />Swim ashore and<br />nothing<br />and everything <br />for wine.<br /><br />Float free in <br />liquid wine.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMk0OlI18r4yayQOAmTpDkSCh9cSLXVE8XetMTgiDhxxaSlg0b6EmptL-mI-KEFiCmw-OblQdLB7BhQhKljjqQIcnQugWxyks3ZSurR4GHUkaITr6R2OE9fIIWmoNVL2lmQHt3AizYSGQxNEjxg0IgIHRR_XzsbRNC90vceWn-J2yQ5QN9fyQDUw/s1920/dark%20sky.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMk0OlI18r4yayQOAmTpDkSCh9cSLXVE8XetMTgiDhxxaSlg0b6EmptL-mI-KEFiCmw-OblQdLB7BhQhKljjqQIcnQugWxyks3ZSurR4GHUkaITr6R2OE9fIIWmoNVL2lmQHt3AizYSGQxNEjxg0IgIHRR_XzsbRNC90vceWn-J2yQ5QN9fyQDUw/w300-h400/dark%20sky.jpg" width="300" /></a></div> <br /><br />WHEN YOU SAY GOODBYE<br /><br />How small I feel when you say goodbye.<br />I go back to childhood <br />and then I disappear <br />until all the steps I have taken<br />have been erased by your goodbye.<br /><br />The door of opportunity is shut <br />and it will remain closed.<br />It leaves a scar in my heart.<br />It is goodbye that leaves me numb.<br />It leaves me lost<br />never to be found.<br />I take a dip into oblivion.<br />The light inside of me flickers out.<br />Goodbye turns me into nothing.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjARO0n8oMr0D3_HJzZL2YhD7PqTpxUlTiHw_SH7K8NjBTs73kXBrtRsHbrylCAShEipsomO6whSYiI5d85LFjcTxxPI2UhaXx0bjkXreqqRfGHXzKuAvArgQOr3C2K_vTtny-G7jSf0U9XMT7uZkeiiqOnQ5BDrIanRuGLCkx1lPDhenBI56jpVw/s1920/red%20sky.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjARO0n8oMr0D3_HJzZL2YhD7PqTpxUlTiHw_SH7K8NjBTs73kXBrtRsHbrylCAShEipsomO6whSYiI5d85LFjcTxxPI2UhaXx0bjkXreqqRfGHXzKuAvArgQOr3C2K_vTtny-G7jSf0U9XMT7uZkeiiqOnQ5BDrIanRuGLCkx1lPDhenBI56jpVw/w300-h400/red%20sky.jpg" width="300" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />UNDER CRIMSON SKIES <br /><br />Under crimson skies,<br />how disheveled <br />and unkempt <br />my hair has become.<br /><br />Looks are overrated <br />when you do not<br />have a thing<br />to prove or strive for.<br /><br />The beautiful stars<br />fall into the sea<br />with bright lights,<br />and I only <br />want to sleep<br />with eyes shut. <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvUGZJylt6tjtd0LbprEOCA8IAzaUHyphL2I9hcu-APOomeGQUP4FpHq_o_WLg8JI3ol7emKnrgbbGBefNMcP8933OHSHX5ZnPPouY041-0SrSB_gX-a9lPMSo_QOFmOKE_0o0O94DStJ_9mJtW67pvq8SpiFJ6J8HLevBRNryF80q5kMoc-7EjA/s1920/yellow%20flwr.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvUGZJylt6tjtd0LbprEOCA8IAzaUHyphL2I9hcu-APOomeGQUP4FpHq_o_WLg8JI3ol7emKnrgbbGBefNMcP8933OHSHX5ZnPPouY041-0SrSB_gX-a9lPMSo_QOFmOKE_0o0O94DStJ_9mJtW67pvq8SpiFJ6J8HLevBRNryF80q5kMoc-7EjA/w300-h400/yellow%20flwr.jpg" width="300" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">LIKE A STONE<br /><br />Like a stone<br />I sit without thoughts,<br /><br />a cold<br />hard stone<br />thoroughly round<br /><br />as my spirit <br />hibernates.<br /><br />Like a stone<br />I do not weep <br />even if<br /><br />I am living<br />waiting on death.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXnlQ_LJ7OiZVpPzG1_HudGupUFALPezkgXhUIu-Md7QJOYh6drXH5_r8yO3KNPYybZjgEvej6HTFz4QrZqLIguoCytoTEU0kACPL-xqzkD1iCcLY2aBTUXB-XxpBnlK8TmlRIZrWL3iaI7AnTC5pLihj0TA0KA4a2_EeJohtvN9rU4cVHi9Em5Q/s1920/moon:stars.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="1440" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXnlQ_LJ7OiZVpPzG1_HudGupUFALPezkgXhUIu-Md7QJOYh6drXH5_r8yO3KNPYybZjgEvej6HTFz4QrZqLIguoCytoTEU0kACPL-xqzkD1iCcLY2aBTUXB-XxpBnlK8TmlRIZrWL3iaI7AnTC5pLihj0TA0KA4a2_EeJohtvN9rU4cVHi9Em5Q/w300-h400/moon:stars.jpg" width="300" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />BORN IN THE SKY<br /><br />Born in the sky<br />up above the earth<br />persecuted by <br />beasts with evil hearts.<br /><br />Hounded by winds,<br />hiding in the clouds,<br />like a racehorse <br />you ran to the moon.<br /><br />You were one of<br />a kind, your heart took<br />on lightning bolts as<br />your hands blocked the blows.<br /><br />You wanted love,<br />a drink of water.<br />You traveled the sky<br />with hope in your heart.<br /><br />Above the town,<br />far from the thrown rocks,<br />you waited your turn<br />to land safely.<br /><br />__________________<br /><br /><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />Keep your eyes on the stars, and your feet on the ground.<br /><br />—Theodore Roosevelt<br /><br />__________________<br /><br />—Medusa, with thanks to <span style="color: red;">Luis Berriozábal </span>for his fine poetry and visuals today!</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-MWyej7CYZDHaO9YiBAIWugFELOkKzr40EwQIPfAk03j-TQXRhZmMfyCeKRSveEhOHhaAV6bjhpEMJ-MQfVopVgnzDsDfR4htOBo-HCvRSfAMj1hXyfVD-Hs6V2O5SElWkp4AQXorgqBVreoY6oJfIt-ICAYKfFWjLQIdpiC-4F99Fp7b5CPX9A/s250/path:sea%20kk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-MWyej7CYZDHaO9YiBAIWugFELOkKzr40EwQIPfAk03j-TQXRhZmMfyCeKRSveEhOHhaAV6bjhpEMJ-MQfVopVgnzDsDfR4htOBo-HCvRSfAMj1hXyfVD-Hs6V2O5SElWkp4AQXorgqBVreoY6oJfIt-ICAYKfFWjLQIdpiC-4F99Fp7b5CPX9A/w320-h400/path:sea%20kk.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Let’s go to the beach!</i><br /><i>—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain</i><br /></div><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A reminder that the</i><br /><b><i>“Explore Riparian Landscape Through </i><br /></b><i><b>Art, Poetry and Native Plants”</b> workshop</i><br /><i>takes place in Georgetown this afternoon.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>And there will be a</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Celebration of Life</b> for </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: red;">Juanishi V. Orosco</span> from 2-4pm at the </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Washington Neighborhood Center <br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>in Sacramento.</i><br /><i>For info about these and other</i><br /><i>future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho8doNh2ZJ1yaGxV_h5_v-4KizSNSg1xlxgvnXR0HN-wUi9oo5gJWYUQYWbgfSwJS6Ufhe9eofioc4YzjpWqe91eFy7V1EuG77qiI2bCyP-zyEavZ-0neuuBdDyXReTgx-EAvsJubNjcXez26ijfc3nUY9mwLDhnQ6mKeC90dNdCqyGFhNiNABiw/s266/moon%20under%20curve.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="266" data-original-width="190" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho8doNh2ZJ1yaGxV_h5_v-4KizSNSg1xlxgvnXR0HN-wUi9oo5gJWYUQYWbgfSwJS6Ufhe9eofioc4YzjpWqe91eFy7V1EuG77qiI2bCyP-zyEavZ-0neuuBdDyXReTgx-EAvsJubNjcXez26ijfc3nUY9mwLDhnQ6mKeC90dNdCqyGFhNiNABiw/w143-h200/moon%20under%20curve.jpg" width="143" /></a></div>Born in the sky...<br /> </i><br /><br /></div><i><br /><br /><br /></i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br /> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-6885105126499724692024-03-22T08:34:00.000-07:002024-03-22T08:40:38.133-07:00Earth Day!<div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX09HUCsG_hitlOd34ZdhtxODl53g8WDcDZ4q5LAshjDNSYzI_YYm9yNiKRrQO-tS31gLIPWgGs4FYC7MVvvO0SKVoq6qrL7tC4s7q_KLYnZAuEuOqg54Bo1E-fgIc58DX4dFNAqTJUWJbKNkEn583q6z8Zszs5iwsgdM9aUUww-ZeHUfiV4UNLg/s1920/march,%20Wakamatsu%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX09HUCsG_hitlOd34ZdhtxODl53g8WDcDZ4q5LAshjDNSYzI_YYm9yNiKRrQO-tS31gLIPWgGs4FYC7MVvvO0SKVoq6qrL7tC4s7q_KLYnZAuEuOqg54Bo1E-fgIc58DX4dFNAqTJUWJbKNkEn583q6z8Zszs5iwsgdM9aUUww-ZeHUfiV4UNLg/w400-h300/march,%20Wakamatsu%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <i>—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,<br />Placerville, CA<br />—And then scroll down for<br /><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Form Fiddlers’ Friday</span></b>, with poetry by<br />Claire J. Baker, Caschwa, Stephen Kingsnorth, <br />Nolcha Fox, John Rowe, Steve Brisendine, <br />and Joshua C. Frank</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">MARCH, WAKAMATSU FARM<br /><br />Morning celebrates wind across green—<br />fields of lavish unmown grasses moving<br />in glistening waves across acres at whim <br />of gale and gust, north the way wild geese <br />will fly—for now, in such a wind, <br />they float on pond waves awaiting thunder. <br />March is in–between, its Ides recalling <br />Caesar’s fall, marked by the Bard.<br />This March is Easter rising with flowers <br />from the dead. In buckeye woods, <br />more green–fingered seedlings <br />than I could count, and the wild plum <br />just budding; the first rosy vetch, <br />the first scattered buttercups. <br />I lean into the wind, walking under <br />tilting circles of one high turkey vulture.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8YtTcDce9dSpi8fcemlWP0j2CwuUNFINwsCGvxzyV-iHjY0qIAA0khgX7MQeq4vyD4LMxhmh-xoG4hGrBUG71H8RvWFknEaD0eUqSWcLyGnUIg4Kkw9iXiyqeXgTr-uc_yl-C4XrNfRIqHqAVm8gZjguiJtcUEeguhBn9sB7J-zrBGyWhznH9tA/s1920/flower%20tree%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8YtTcDce9dSpi8fcemlWP0j2CwuUNFINwsCGvxzyV-iHjY0qIAA0khgX7MQeq4vyD4LMxhmh-xoG4hGrBUG71H8RvWFknEaD0eUqSWcLyGnUIg4Kkw9iXiyqeXgTr-uc_yl-C4XrNfRIqHqAVm8gZjguiJtcUEeguhBn9sB7J-zrBGyWhznH9tA/w400-h300/flower%20tree%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />KITES <br /><br />This is the season for kites—<br />can you fly them in<br />a rainstorm?<br /><br />By the gas pumps, a bird-kite—<br />is that a good place<br />to fly one?<br /><br />I found the kite on the ground—<br />can a dead bird fly<br />like a kite?</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqipXFX4nbtHS6AJodnWUgO9lQDl6cApmTXqCMBKgzGBNNHomjcA_0Dmktfq9yJoXy3RpRGkYf3DQROZXXMJpjV1KhZP8LnYbWRhBBNI_Ep3fUbI622kGmLKSM46H0qgyfok5lO-7nVOqXActfVgYJjjmOQtQ3fvrJeVzh7IjITIOERxrbiwhnjg/s1920/stream%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqipXFX4nbtHS6AJodnWUgO9lQDl6cApmTXqCMBKgzGBNNHomjcA_0Dmktfq9yJoXy3RpRGkYf3DQROZXXMJpjV1KhZP8LnYbWRhBBNI_Ep3fUbI622kGmLKSM46H0qgyfok5lO-7nVOqXActfVgYJjjmOQtQ3fvrJeVzh7IjITIOERxrbiwhnjg/w400-h300/stream%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">REMAINS<br /><br />I haven’t walked here in months, and now<br />No Trespassing signs all along the edges. So I walk<br />the edges, tabulating what I find just off pavement.<br />A pile of—call it randomness—trash<br />from uninvited campers, even the orderly ones<br />(rake, shovel, and fire extinguisher in the brush).<br />Since then, lots of rain; even dry marsh is mud.<br />And the dead eagle my dog showed me— <br />Golden Eagle—nothing’s left now, all picked <br />clean. Even the wishbone’s gone. Just <br />a single deep-red feather, and the wish of flight.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd2GOVpGscG0gkNVpvHF86c4vebAqDgTAo9etFbP4K7hu7zC1kf2whuJN6FJ4r4_QWVSmIUDyf-zzWuwbHUx_uo9q-E4M674zIRztCXpwKtrTRFgNss8eVp1Joh4MRIo-chYPyDbs73FttV38cEDnKcAHxZThCmfcAlj_waPiFitZVzKepdTLE2g/s1920/greens%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd2GOVpGscG0gkNVpvHF86c4vebAqDgTAo9etFbP4K7hu7zC1kf2whuJN6FJ4r4_QWVSmIUDyf-zzWuwbHUx_uo9q-E4M674zIRztCXpwKtrTRFgNss8eVp1Joh4MRIo-chYPyDbs73FttV38cEDnKcAHxZThCmfcAlj_waPiFitZVzKepdTLE2g/w400-h300/greens%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />PAPER KITES, FEATHERS<br /><br /> Where are the kites that sail<br />this windy lion-to-lamb springtime sky?<br />Where are the fields of bright green grass to hail<br /> the season passing by?<br /><br /> No children run the field,<br />the white-tailed kite I found has ceased to fly.<br />So much that time has changed. The old ways yield<br /> to new. And winged birds die.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixmzA3vnJzlJtKb_Wr10joSv3EvxxWBjZ7n7ZYZ86LDk6ztJgu1PQT2RnRUtjJr3Pq6eSTk-UiXH9EF4V9LHpG0IqmLZYsbE0AegvLoGNFsDzeKtjIxteeH42ZPIZTAM0nnYnJZZOJTCn3muQcQhCj9gxBFrW3mmeqNK3b-OhbJiQgzV_2h2PJBw/s1920/pinks%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixmzA3vnJzlJtKb_Wr10joSv3EvxxWBjZ7n7ZYZ86LDk6ztJgu1PQT2RnRUtjJr3Pq6eSTk-UiXH9EF4V9LHpG0IqmLZYsbE0AegvLoGNFsDzeKtjIxteeH42ZPIZTAM0nnYnJZZOJTCn3muQcQhCj9gxBFrW3mmeqNK3b-OhbJiQgzV_2h2PJBw/w400-h300/pinks%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />MANY VOICES <br /><br /> <i> RIPE AREA workshop, Wakamatsu Farm</i><br /><br />This concert on a sunny morning by the pond—<br />mockingbird in a leafless oak <br />as prelude to the songs of springtime birds—<br />while we listen by hydrophone <br /> to sounds of underwater<br /> crackling of photosynthesis<br />and, unseen in the realm of sky, a wrentit sings—<br /> tiny bugs weave through water-<br /> forest just offshore—<br />we humans are seated on pasture ground,<br />stork’s-bill, pig’s-root play a sweet-stringed <br /> tension between earth and air<br />silent on my ear, <br />in harmony with bees about the clover—<br />two black phoebes sing their high, thin ti-wee<br /> from a phone-line above the pond,<br />a man plays recorded thumps, hums,<br /> mysterious underwater sounds<br />of plant or animal, then joins in with clarinet,<br />and here’s shining pepperweed, imagine<br />its voice in the red-purple spectrum<br /> and song sparrow trills, tree swallows<br /> swoop and loop over water—<br /> that deep hum from under, <br /> is it the tadpoles?<br />And this mid-March sun, if we had<br />the instruments, what song would it sing?<br /><br />____________________<br /><br />CITY OR COUNTRY?<br /><br />No skateboarding on city sidewalks, <br />no flying kites or doing a polka in the streets. <br />Too many cars, too many downcast people. <br /><br />Let’s walk in the field instead, before <br />it gets sucked into suburbs. No special plans, <br />just see what’s growing green and lush <br /><br />before the mowers. Bring your kite <br />if the spirit moves you, or we’ll just walk<br />and count buttercups, <br /><br />and sing along with all the birds <br />on this lovely <br />cloudy windy sunshiny day. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs3pm25oWcpI3c4P-mnGDE7M4zBDJPwy-i8L0V7_cNmW9pgWfUdzgOMScwH2LBmG8Fmt3zpl1LNfqh9Sh-pykEhaa48_TMHSaiGsrVlnnFLObn3Pf1euAN1BQkWTsc6xibJxc_-CjcP7himyk3HVHI1hzbp2_sQazvnTz_f77pDa1E20YhrvooxA/s1920/its%20time%20long%20past.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs3pm25oWcpI3c4P-mnGDE7M4zBDJPwy-i8L0V7_cNmW9pgWfUdzgOMScwH2LBmG8Fmt3zpl1LNfqh9Sh-pykEhaa48_TMHSaiGsrVlnnFLObn3Pf1euAN1BQkWTsc6xibJxc_-CjcP7himyk3HVHI1hzbp2_sQazvnTz_f77pDa1E20YhrvooxA/w400-h300/its%20time%20long%20past.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />ITS TIME LONG PAST<br />—Taylor Graham<br /><br />Leafless oaks reflect<br />in grinding rock filled with rain—<br />world turned upside down.<br /><br />_____________________<br /><br /><b>Earth Day!</b>—right on the heels of the Equinox, and freeways are rampant with roadside poppies. And who better to sing of the earth than <span style="color: red;">Taylor Graham</span>! Today she has sent us a <b>Word-Can Poem </b>(“Remains”); a<b> Quinzaine</b> (“Kites”); a <b>Bryant</b> (“Paper Kites. Feathers”); and a <b>Haiku</b> (“Its Time Long Past”). She says her “Many Voices” began as a <b>List Poem</b>, but then took off with a mind of its own into something more complex. We all know, of course, how that is, since our writing efforts frequently go off in their own directions. </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>TG’s “March, Wakamatsu Farm” and her "Many Voices" remind us that she and <span style="color: red;">Katy Brown</span> will be holding a <b>Wakamatsu workshop</b> on April 14. Info/registration link: <a href="http://www.arconservancy.org/event/capturing-wakamatsu-a-poetry-walk-workshop">www.arconservancy.org/event/capturing-wakamatsu-a-poetry-walk-workshop</a>/.<br /><br />But every day is Earth Day, of course, and SnakePals sing her praises, day after day. <br /><br />This Saturday afternoon in El Dorado County, there will be a workshop in Georgetown called <b>“Explore Riparian Landscape Through Art, Poetry and Native Plants”</b>. Then on Sunday, <b>Storytelling Sundays</b> features poetry and music and art in Placerville. For news about El Dorado County poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s <b>Western Slope El Dorado</b> on Facebook at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry">www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry</a> or see <span style="color: red;">Lara Gularte</span>’s Facebook page at <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077">https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077</a>/. (Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!) And of course you can always click on Medusa's <b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b> (<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>) for details about future poetry events in the NorCal area. <br /><br />And now it’s time for… <br /><br /><br /><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><span style="font-size: large;">FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY! </span></span></b> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6_3oxKIhaeBnDFFpIeGhs3f3kntSACFS-sJ8CRp1VMg4-iMTnQk5u7vfSP8Bb6O66bDb-tRgb54_yXtjb-DvMeFH_R21V6qPzM47cWXK54t_HoaVXWQfBK9UXTrB_-UoUgnDR0N202RdQ37uokNlLQn1PZ7NREf06jVvJukJH-xEMkKh_aXdzUw/s1024/kokopelli.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6_3oxKIhaeBnDFFpIeGhs3f3kntSACFS-sJ8CRp1VMg4-iMTnQk5u7vfSP8Bb6O66bDb-tRgb54_yXtjb-DvMeFH_R21V6qPzM47cWXK54t_HoaVXWQfBK9UXTrB_-UoUgnDR0N202RdQ37uokNlLQn1PZ7NREf06jVvJukJH-xEMkKh_aXdzUw/s1024/kokopelli.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="751" data-original-width="1024" height="147" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6_3oxKIhaeBnDFFpIeGhs3f3kntSACFS-sJ8CRp1VMg4-iMTnQk5u7vfSP8Bb6O66bDb-tRgb54_yXtjb-DvMeFH_R21V6qPzM47cWXK54t_HoaVXWQfBK9UXTrB_-UoUgnDR0N202RdQ37uokNlLQn1PZ7NREf06jVvJukJH-xEMkKh_aXdzUw/w200-h147/kokopelli.png" width="200" /></a></div> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>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.)</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /> There’s also a 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. Got any more resources to add to our list? Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com for the benefit of all man/woman/poetkind!<br /></i><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">* * *</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXWLFDGYd9yicjRvxFVVWBKeKV5BDKh40Vj8JmbHAqvFq-1YM2Za_uGusAMdPraLRV8hEM89rRUpse31sbTeFwqe-yXD9C76GupyGEv7ap8O_0G4bVHbFobtKNY8zXgETq8kRMMfsQjwNVKJaNHmR1Y9ggmgJqYpVFZAz_9DYlKZWHpW8JDxqtOQ/s350/OLD%20EK%20lady%20w%20a%20fan%201904%20raphael%20kirchner%20austrian%201876-1917.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="240" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXWLFDGYd9yicjRvxFVVWBKeKV5BDKh40Vj8JmbHAqvFq-1YM2Za_uGusAMdPraLRV8hEM89rRUpse31sbTeFwqe-yXD9C76GupyGEv7ap8O_0G4bVHbFobtKNY8zXgETq8kRMMfsQjwNVKJaNHmR1Y9ggmgJqYpVFZAz_9DYlKZWHpW8JDxqtOQ/w274-h400/OLD%20EK%20lady%20w%20a%20fan%201904%20raphael%20kirchner%20austrian%201876-1917.jpg" width="274" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i>Lady with a Fan<i><br /></i></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>—Painting by Raphael Kirchner</i><i>, 1904</i><i> </i></div><br /><div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Last Week’s Ekphrastic Challenge</b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b> </b></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>* * * </b><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>This week we received <b>Ekphrastic</b> poems on the above painting from <span style="color: red;">Claire Baker, Caschwa, Stephen Kingsnorth</span>, and <span style="color: red;">Nolcha Fox</span>. Claire sent two <b>Cinquains</b>, what are informally known as Crapsey Cinquains because the form was devised by Adelaide Crapsey. More about some variations on the Cinquain later, Meanwhile, here are two from Claire:<br /></i><br /><br />WAR’S SWITCHEROO <br /><i>—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA </i><br /><br />We plead: <br />Alexa, how <br />end <i>blood on horizon? </i><br />Calm as an almond, she praises <br />sunsets. <br /><br />* * *<br /><br />BUSY, BUSY !! <br /><i>—Claire J. Baker</i><br /><br />I plead <br />with dancer friend: <br />why crowd your art projects, <br />inhale? She smiles, no words. Hey, it’s <br />HER life.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />THIS IS ME <br /><i>—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA</i> <br /><br />relaxing in my comfort chair <br />listening to Beethoven <br />symphonies, uninterrupted <br /><br />until a little birdie tells me <br />I left some perishables <br />in the car<br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><i><span style="color: red;">Stephen Kingsnorth</span> has identified the painting for us as <span style="color: red;">Raphael Kirchner</span>’s </i>Lady with a Fan<i>: </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />PARROT PIN<br /><i>—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales</i><br /><br />Though Munch screams louder with his fans, <br />what of this curvature in space, <br />like wicker work yet interwave, <br />if metal legs, well balanced work? <br />The leggy drape, off shoulder fall <br />leads us exotic Geisha trail, <br />but closer focus, think awhile, <br />detective-like, something amiss? <br /><br />Is beadwork where the flesh should be— <br />cannot ignore strange withered wrist— <br />as if right arm were photoshopped, <br />a current issue in the press— <br />unless this lady’s fresh abused <br />by genes, or clients, stroke of brush, <br />or printer’s mishap with the inks, <br />less he, unlikely, serves a cause? <br /><br />It’s listed postcard catalogues <br />as sample of the art nouveau, <br />though parrot claims a central place, <br />before accoutrements in case, <br />that lady, and the fan embraced. <br />Alone, three beads, I would assess—<br />until I’m told she props their fall— <br />a minor lift, should fan be still. <br /><br />But this is pose, poseur indeed, <br />said popular with frontline troops, <br />as pinup for the war deprived, <br />though that a decade after post. <br />Too many tassels, rampant blooms <br />to gild the lily—but no need; <br />for why paint image for a card <br />unless the woman worth the brush? <br /><br />Entrenched with men in mud and slime <br />this nouveau, Meiji, Taishō mix <br />on <i>carte postale,</i> no microscope, <br />or history of art required <br />to fulfill purpose in the field. <br />My distant view on laptop screen <br />is clearer as a handheld scene, <br />where beads of sweat run down the neck. <br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><b>In my mind</b><br /><br />I’m so sublime,<br />a piece of art<br />posed daintily<br />on a wicker throne.<br />Satin dress and <br />feathered fan,<br />exotic bird to eye me.<br /><br />The woman <br />in my mind<br />is young enough <br />to be my daughter.<br />Her outfit is <br />entirely wrong<br />to plant this year’s<br />spring garden.<br /><i><br />—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY</i><br /><br />* * *</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Nolcha sent another response to week-before-last's <b>Ekphrastic</b> challenge: </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0eoAC20QQ3GqlKN5OQivab_fs14WsKkKXQFg8hyXj-5I70hDawUNZdhEr_Fjnq4rcR_VRfCqb4KWO_HPtvzioZ6nGtoLxZ45xqcn880SaSOWcvwwU6Uyjh1LEnW3pCI-vPBnmKiNP2kmbgXpGOOpSXx8k45bgsFoUmHnAXvHaNWZCe8A5ffBn_w/s402/lion%202.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="220" data-original-width="402" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0eoAC20QQ3GqlKN5OQivab_fs14WsKkKXQFg8hyXj-5I70hDawUNZdhEr_Fjnq4rcR_VRfCqb4KWO_HPtvzioZ6nGtoLxZ45xqcn880SaSOWcvwwU6Uyjh1LEnW3pCI-vPBnmKiNP2kmbgXpGOOpSXx8k45bgsFoUmHnAXvHaNWZCe8A5ffBn_w/s320/lion%202.png" width="320" /></a></div></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span id="x_ydp21a0c5cedocs-internal-guid-f8c79e64-7fff-5579-64e2-2126ebae6fa4"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; vertical-align: baseline;">ARE YOU CERTAIN?</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; vertical-align: baseline;"><i>—Nolcha Fox </i></span></p></span></div><span id="x_ydp21a0c5cedocs-internal-guid-f8c79e64-7fff-5579-64e2-2126ebae6fa4"><span style="font-size: small;"><br aria-hidden="true" /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; vertical-align: baseline;">March should be the start of spring.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; vertical-align: baseline;">That must be why it’s snowing.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; vertical-align: baseline;">The flowers should be blooming now.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; vertical-align: baseline;">Instead, they’re wearing sweaters.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; vertical-align: baseline;">Hummingbirds should show their wings.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; vertical-align: baseline;">They must be in Nevada.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; vertical-align: baseline;">By the time the spring rains come,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span face="Arial,sans-serif" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: small; vertical-align: baseline;">it will be September.</span></p></span> <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">* * *<br /><br /><i>Here is a <b>Haibun</b> from Nolcha, who has become enamored with Haibuns these days. Immersing oneself in a form is a great way to learn all the ins and outs of it:<br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiahzEMwUBqMDrafxF96gDQavSQ7W5MbTuUHUpgmasxg9wQSKqP40vTyJReU-98eMIompEDLwjkTdZgkV2mkXGcaRlnTwBgtUx0bpthFgP4Epqvm2974xkU_SAHKylJJm6tWKt8YrUzolSV9QxJSP87eGis_LQ_e9twaTaiob0XfiKIpbnYyd0nEQ/s1920/small%20delights%20nf.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1277" data-original-width="1920" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiahzEMwUBqMDrafxF96gDQavSQ7W5MbTuUHUpgmasxg9wQSKqP40vTyJReU-98eMIompEDLwjkTdZgkV2mkXGcaRlnTwBgtUx0bpthFgP4Epqvm2974xkU_SAHKylJJm6tWKt8YrUzolSV9QxJSP87eGis_LQ_e9twaTaiob0XfiKIpbnYyd0nEQ/s320/small%20delights%20nf.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> <span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Nolcha Fox</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />SMALL DELIGHTS<br /><i>—Nolcha Fox</i><br /><br />Shafts of sun are haloes round the leaves of plants in pots upon the shelf. Wind sings opera as it stirs the few brown leaves to dance up high in trees. Teabag steeps, releasing cinnamon into the day.<br /><br />Bliss rubs her eyes<br />and smiles inside<br />a very ordinary day.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(self-published on </i>Garden of Neuro</span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> as part <br />of a Haibun challenge)</span><br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><span style="color: red;">John Rowe</span>, a newcomer to the Kitchen who is very active in Bay Area poetry, has sent us a lovely <b>Triolet</b>. Welcome, John! Find out more about him at <a href="http://www.rowepoet.com">www.rowepoet.com</a> and/or <a href="https://www.pw.org/directory/writers/john_rowe">https://www.pw.org/directory/writers/john_rowe</a>:</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwynLXis7hC453P2pWw26f-OpoZpRxiIGwkz06lLo63wYsnBkBpvzJX60xZiEz3P7713UYWpaHX7Imh4n202Z4poz7bJDrK2O4d1bi7L3rY2BgrHgrRehb2HsnuG4vEWNsil3r0Tjj8qFZz9nSsWqDZiSIdG1aljv_HFpsxf8RTHI5rCzvYndpzw/s225/hummer.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwynLXis7hC453P2pWw26f-OpoZpRxiIGwkz06lLo63wYsnBkBpvzJX60xZiEz3P7713UYWpaHX7Imh4n202Z4poz7bJDrK2O4d1bi7L3rY2BgrHgrRehb2HsnuG4vEWNsil3r0Tjj8qFZz9nSsWqDZiSIdG1aljv_HFpsxf8RTHI5rCzvYndpzw/s1600/hummer.jpg" width="225" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> <span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Illustration</span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i><br /><br />HUMMINGBIRD REVERIE<br /><i>—John Rowe, El Cerrito, CA</i><br /><br />This hummingbird near the lemon tree<br />Brightens early morning thoughts<br />A moment to receive as a decree<br />This hummingbird near the lemon tree<br />Stirs up such reverie<br />For all my haves and have nots<br />This hummingbird near the lemon tree<br />Brightens early morning thoughts<br /><br />• • •<br /><br /><i><span style="color: red;">Steve Brisendine</span>, from Mission, KS, has sent us some <b>Cheritas</b>. On 6/19/20, SnakePal <span style="color: red;">Michael Brownstein</span> sent us some information about Cheritas: “<span style="color: red;">Ai Li</span> is the editor and founder of the Cherita, from the Malay word for story or tale. A Cherita poem has six lines arranged in three verses, with no title. The main format of a Cherita is 1‑2‑3: a 1‑line verse followed by a 2‑line verse, followed by a 3‑line verse. A Cherita has five possible sequences from 1‑, 2‑, and 3‑line verses to 3, 2, and 1-line.” Here are Steve Brisendine’s Cheritas:</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGK4NCkX6lGoM5aa97-0iJuH-EEeMcqTiTukJostBs2jY0YujSdulTiJR4eg5VMaZcGWVF8k-ifCS2UlpQz0UR5NEE5dewS4X5hyphenhyphenbGYitxf_NdK2TRXPhEqX5ouxgAZZ3xxdwykoTkyA2QW4n67IxnrjAcNYZkHyo_4A7Gx3vC6COlrLiCSKiE_w/s225/chiefs.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGK4NCkX6lGoM5aa97-0iJuH-EEeMcqTiTukJostBs2jY0YujSdulTiJR4eg5VMaZcGWVF8k-ifCS2UlpQz0UR5NEE5dewS4X5hyphenhyphenbGYitxf_NdK2TRXPhEqX5ouxgAZZ3xxdwykoTkyA2QW4n67IxnrjAcNYZkHyo_4A7Gx3vC6COlrLiCSKiE_w/s1600/chiefs.jpg" width="225" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> <span style="font-size: x-small;">—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i><br />Sabbath afternoon </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />seven men walk<br />home from Temple </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />in the midst<br />of their yarmulkes<br />one red Chiefs cap</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> * * * </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />mulberry tree </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />in our back yard<br />heavy with fruit </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />new neighbors<br />introduce themselves<br />with purple smiles</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> * * * </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">guitarist </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">and tenor man </div><div style="text-align: left;">cutting heads </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">two squirrels </div><div style="text-align: left;">fight over </div><div style="text-align: left;">one oak branch</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> * * * </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />persistent</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> mirages </div><div style="text-align: left;">out of season </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />the highway home</div><div style="text-align: left;"> covered in phantom </div><div style="text-align: left;">sheets of ice<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Saturday morning <br />sun lights the<br />ROAD CLOSED sign </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />no work-sounds<br />but the hammering </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />of woodpeckers<br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><i><span style="color: red;">Joshua Frank</span> has sent us a <b>Shakespearean Sonnet</b>:</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhAkRPHj13_em5k5A0_Sx5XIAm_o5W8K_Eas0y2c5GEGFQon8V77c-FYi_rfaDm1NuKQfVenwI3kHvUmrbZppuEHmMalsVVXduE_C7lIGKflakyspi_o_TS68ze5he7Z9VNEGkgCv8eMVglP_efMAXUpMR77rmRCot5hRx5x1BCNduRdJbs72xeg/s225/freckles.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhAkRPHj13_em5k5A0_Sx5XIAm_o5W8K_Eas0y2c5GEGFQon8V77c-FYi_rfaDm1NuKQfVenwI3kHvUmrbZppuEHmMalsVVXduE_C7lIGKflakyspi_o_TS68ze5he7Z9VNEGkgCv8eMVglP_efMAXUpMR77rmRCot5hRx5x1BCNduRdJbs72xeg/s1600/freckles.jpg" width="225" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Illustration</span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />COLORBLIND<br /><i>—Joshua C. Frank</i><br /><br />I know a poet dealing with derision<br />For writing of a woman’s supple skin<br />Whose hue he hopes will fill his field of vision—<br />To say what color’s now a racist sin!<br /><br />For when he praised her cherry-blossom pink,<br />They cried white privilege, said it’s lacking grace,<br />Yet when it’s skin of maple or black ink,<br />They censure him for fetishizing race!<br /><br />Alas, a man can’t wax poetic when<br />Her skin tone is the trait he dare not name.<br />I miss the golden, olden days when men<br />Wrote brazen praise of women, free of shame!<br /><br />At least the man who loves a girl with freckles<br />Can rave about her pretty little speckles.<br /><br />• • •<br /><br /><i>Joshua also sent <b>Rhyming Maxims</b>—in this case, a set of twenty epigrams:</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm2YVBZ_e6OHuE_fByt1EffUAG1ppuhLrFsAvKaUmUR4grIov-R98GSJaLJTKe7uPuqPCBAvg1f74A0VPB-6W1heeeLntCZH8DQaYZIB5ToJaJo84nZWskJd6LR20eW_MmmNq6CldfPoeRKT_pv_6qobMTpqOOAw35DURThpnSZrDxFdiJDIFYqQ/s257/scroll:feather.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="257" data-original-width="196" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm2YVBZ_e6OHuE_fByt1EffUAG1ppuhLrFsAvKaUmUR4grIov-R98GSJaLJTKe7uPuqPCBAvg1f74A0VPB-6W1heeeLntCZH8DQaYZIB5ToJaJo84nZWskJd6LR20eW_MmmNq6CldfPoeRKT_pv_6qobMTpqOOAw35DURThpnSZrDxFdiJDIFYqQ/s1600/scroll:feather.jpg" width="196" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Illustration</span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />RHYMING MAXIMS FOR TODAY <br /><i>—Joshua C. Frank<br /><br />“…it is a shame that the rhyming maxim has ceased to be used much in poetry. The form is excellent for satiric and comic commentary—concise, direct, and biting.” —Joseph S. Salemi</i><br /><br />I.<br />The left will honor everyone’s tradition,<br />But if you’re white, they’ll label yours sedition.<br /><br />II.<br />A problem with schools that no remedy solves:<br />You’re sending your children “as lambs among </div><div style="text-align: left;">wolves.”<br /><br />III.<br />When mothers toss their babies to the grave,<br />There’s nothing left of culture we can save.<br /><br />IV.<br />The framers of our Constitution<br />Could not predict our mind pollution.<br /><br />V.<br />The argument, “Power corrupts,” is so feeble,<br />For what does it say about “power to the people?”<br /><br />VI.<br />Martin Luther broke away<br />From the Catholic Church one day,<br />Yet was surprised when, on a whim,<br />His followers broke away from him!<br /><br />VII.<br />Those liberal slogans can’t be more than chatter<br />Unless black unborn lives can also matter.<br /><br />VIII.<br />We Christians need to write while there’s still time,<br />Before our words are made into a crime.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> IX.<br />Put down that phone! Feel more alive!<br />Pretend it’s 1995!<br /><br />X.<br />Never argue with the woke; </div><div style="text-align: left;">You can’t convince such stubborn folk. </div><div style="text-align: left;">Perhaps we’ll better meet our goals </div><div style="text-align: left;">Deciding not to feed the trolls!<br /><br />XI.<br />Why should God bless America,<br />Who makes her soldiers fight<br />For Sodom’s six-striped swastika<br />That mocks the red and white?<br /><br />XII.<br />If trumpets’ sounds are proof that someone played </div><div style="text-align: left;">them,<br />Then living things are proof that Someone made </div><div style="text-align: left;">them.<br /><br />XIII.<br />I write what people need to hear—<br />I’d starve if this were my career!<br /><br />XIV.<br />God destroyed the city Sodom<br />When their morals hit the bottom;<br />It’s beyond my understanding<br />Why the modern world’s still standing.<br /><br />XV.<br />Because they can’t convince us that they’re right,<br />They try to blind our children to the light.<br /><br />XVI.<br />I ask when hearing of the woke:<br />“Is this real news, or just a joke?”<br /><br />XVII.<br />We’d be more trusting toward the science<br />If you didn’t force compliance.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> XVIII.<br />I’m afraid all our cultural signposts betoken<br />No shred of our natural morals intact<br />If the “silent majority” still hasn’t spoken<br />When children are having their genitals hacked.<br /><br />XIX.<br />A partial list of what the leftist hates:<br />Religion, family, the United States.<br /><br />XX.<br />Do you really want your daughters<br />In locker rooms with gender squatters,<br />Like a senior they call Tiffy,<br />With lipstick, hair clips, and a stiffy?<br /><br /><br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(First published in </span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The Society of Classical Poet</span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">s; originally published in two parts)</span></i><br /><br />* * *<br /><i><br /><span style="color: red;">Caschwa (Carl Schwartz)</span> sent us what he calls “a silly bone chain of <b>Haikus</b>, based on an old SOW”:</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOtBAUPSvM4EIQg4RZJKcukjAvZ8fOiddCpik-yJXgoEBZeyfQARKthZGMD-hxNvgOlXSzIwFgWzGSN8krL0g_FTWXfPFdq8-PejUHkapqRlfSG-xijYFy9RI0TStmXW4l6sFZ6kvu9rM9M6n8ndzQLjhxO-b8wdedOONCKnGEhxZKr0-2IjLlCA/s1568/applause.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="980" data-original-width="1568" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOtBAUPSvM4EIQg4RZJKcukjAvZ8fOiddCpik-yJXgoEBZeyfQARKthZGMD-hxNvgOlXSzIwFgWzGSN8krL0g_FTWXfPFdq8-PejUHkapqRlfSG-xijYFy9RI0TStmXW4l6sFZ6kvu9rM9M6n8ndzQLjhxO-b8wdedOONCKnGEhxZKr0-2IjLlCA/s320/applause.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Illustration</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">TITILLATION <br /><i>—Caschwa</i><br /><br />people new to the <br />opera experience <br />wear training bravos <br /><br />standing ovations <br />are an exercise to rise <br />to the occasion <br /><br />Quiet! you are in <br />a libretto, never quite <br />made the light of day<br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><i>And here is an<b> Ars Poetica</b> by <span style="color: red;">Joe Nolan</span>:</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaJhlXTFE2nELtSMJjcHD4KrBpydnve56P8ARIX1IzeRXCWvvkMUZFChc5b4Q-KkKE-5L5w8U4Euzh3ZalW-25O8QNCZ7z2a_9uhZfO67C-v3x70JXhjQ9aKGitDmFHF7BR5t0_laPTS9fkizlgh61ta8vRq9OJVsPpG1Pg8ty6c9wCmVj5d4M9A/s635/typewriter:ink%20splash.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="635" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaJhlXTFE2nELtSMJjcHD4KrBpydnve56P8ARIX1IzeRXCWvvkMUZFChc5b4Q-KkKE-5L5w8U4Euzh3ZalW-25O8QNCZ7z2a_9uhZfO67C-v3x70JXhjQ9aKGitDmFHF7BR5t0_laPTS9fkizlgh61ta8vRq9OJVsPpG1Pg8ty6c9wCmVj5d4M9A/s320/typewriter:ink%20splash.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> —Public Domain Illustration</span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />NOT CONFESSIONAL POETRY<br /><i>—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA</i><br /><br />These are not tales of <br />Deadly, dreadful angst—<br />Insufferable, personal disease.<br />This is not confessional poetry.<br /><br />No waterlogged dogs<br />At the bottom of the sea.<br /><br />Such is not for me.<br />My poems are based<br />In anonymity.<br /><br />Abstract notions<br />Of universal commotion<br />Sufficient, should be.<br /><br />Rambling on<br />About Brownian motion,<br />Random chances<br />At free association,<br />The ebb and flow<br />Of come and go.<br /><br />I hope you <br />Are not disappointed.<br /><br /><i>___________________<br /><br />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!<br /><br />___________________<br /><br /><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">TRIPLE-F CHALLENGES!</span></b></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyK-fq8gWnG6kemYUTLCrcDK1sD3uy6x7LF8feJZVac3_l_4Vy85LUL8uFCaEpLidFERRAev0r20c67ge4W-C2Ag9CLqiIMJ-SkjZRAYz9j_ahnn4ArxJkxlvjppz8RZgsWRbKF_RJ61E_qTuF6fnE_7KkQgI5TZbRSNes58DbUddKOpVznyQuEQ/s1300/snake%20around%20pen.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyK-fq8gWnG6kemYUTLCrcDK1sD3uy6x7LF8feJZVac3_l_4Vy85LUL8uFCaEpLidFERRAev0r20c67ge4W-C2Ag9CLqiIMJ-SkjZRAYz9j_ahnn4ArxJkxlvjppz8RZgsWRbKF_RJ61E_qTuF6fnE_7KkQgI5TZbRSNes58DbUddKOpVznyQuEQ/s1300/snake%20around%20pen.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="778" data-original-width="1300" height="120" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyK-fq8gWnG6kemYUTLCrcDK1sD3uy6x7LF8feJZVac3_l_4Vy85LUL8uFCaEpLidFERRAev0r20c67ge4W-C2Ag9CLqiIMJ-SkjZRAYz9j_ahnn4ArxJkxlvjppz8RZgsWRbKF_RJ61E_qTuF6fnE_7KkQgI5TZbRSNes58DbUddKOpVznyQuEQ/w200-h120/snake%20around%20pen.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /></span></b></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>See what you can make of these challenges, and send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.) Thy a <b>BushBallad Meter</b>:<br /><br />•••<b>BushBallad Meter:</b> <a href="https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bushballad-meter">https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bushballad-meter</a><br /><br />•••AND/OR: a relative of the <b>Crapsey Cinquain</b>, of which SnakePal <span style="color: red;">Claire Baker</span> is so fond:<br /><br />•••<b>Cinquo:</b> <a href="https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/cinquo">https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/cinquo<br /></a><br />•••AND/OR: another relative, the <b>Cinq (five)-Cinquain</b>:<br /><br />•••<b>Cinq-Cinquain: </b><a href="https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/cinq-cinquain">https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/cinq-cinquain<br /></a><br />•••See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an <b>Ekphrastic</b> photo.<br /><br />•••And don’t forget each Tuesday’s <b>Seed of the Week! </b>This week it’s “Tightrope”.<br /><br />____________________<br /><br /><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:</span></b><br /><br />•••<b>Ars Poetica:</b> <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica">www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica</a><br />•••<b>Bryant: </b><a href="https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bryant">https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bryant</a><br />•••<b>BushBallad Meter:</b> <a href="https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bushballad-meter">https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bushballad-meter</a><br />•••<b>Cherita:</b> <a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/search?q=cherita">medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/search?q=cherita</a><br />•••<b>Cinquain (Crapsey):</b> <a href="http://poets.org/glossary/cinquain">poets.org/glossary/cinquain</a> AND/OR <a href="http://www.poewar.com/poetry-in-forms-series-cinquain">www.poewar.com/poetry-in-forms-series-cinquain</a>/. See <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/adelaide-crapsey">www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/adelaide-crapsey</a> for info about its inventor, Adelaide Crapsey. <br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>•••<b>Cinq-Cinquain:</b> <a href="https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/cinq-cinquain">https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/cinq-cinquain</a><br />•••<b>Cinquo:</b> <a href="https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/cinquo">https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/cinquo</a><br />•••<b>Ekphrastic Poem:</b> <a href="http://notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry">notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry</a> <br />•••<b>Haibun: </b><a href="http://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form">www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form</a> <br />•••<b>Haiku: </b><a href="http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html">www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html</a><br />•••<b>List Poem:</b> <a href="http://clpe.org.uk/poetryline/poeticforms/list-poem">clpe.org.uk/poetryline/poeticforms/list-poem</a><br />•••<b>Quinzaine: </b><a href="http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/quinzaine.html">www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/quinzaine.html</a><br />•••<b>Rhyming Maxims:</b> a series of any number of short maxims, each with end-line rhymes<br />•••<b>Sonnet, Shakespearian:</b> <a href="http://www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-a-shakespearean-sonnet-learn-about-shakespearean-sonnets-with-examples">www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-a-shakespearean-sonnet-learn-about-shakespearean-sonnets-with-examples</a><br />•••<b>Triolet:</b> <a href="http://www.writersdigest.com/personal-updates/triolet-an-easy-way-to-write-8-lines-of-poetry">www.writersdigest.com/personal-updates/triolet-an-easy-way-to-write-8-lines-of-poetry</a><br />•••<b>Word-Can Poem:</b> putting random words on slips of paper into a can, then drawing out a few and making a poem out of them<br /><br />___________________<br /><br />—Medusa</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg06toRZ75xrOEwWXpJO7bCCcFB23EDHlZvfrRFTCQlqU9wt6c4uogeJ3dw5nfXA3Hn-SzSKxCWw2UWGyyD4tsDOYbVRzon2GFvsDCHmpVfB9i-s9GOra-jq0cVBhwgoeAh7JXVMVMOipQludHaN8GLBMbw3XzUawhmQgvEuHx5FENnJdyMzraEng/s481/NEW%20EK%20camping%20kk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="481" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg06toRZ75xrOEwWXpJO7bCCcFB23EDHlZvfrRFTCQlqU9wt6c4uogeJ3dw5nfXA3Hn-SzSKxCWw2UWGyyD4tsDOYbVRzon2GFvsDCHmpVfB9i-s9GOra-jq0cVBhwgoeAh7JXVMVMOipQludHaN8GLBMbw3XzUawhmQgvEuHx5FENnJdyMzraEng/w400-h291/NEW%20EK%20camping%20kk.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b> Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!</b></i><br /><i> </i><br /><i> Make what you can of today's </i><br /><i>picture, and send your poetic results to </i><br /><i>kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)</i><br /><br /><i>* * *</i><br /><br /><i>—Illustration Courtesy</i><br /><i>of Public Domain</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>For future poetry happenings in <br />Northern California and otherwheres, <br />click on<br /><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b><br />(<span style="color: red;"><a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a></span>)<br />in the links at the top of this page—<br />and keep an eye on this link and on<br />the daily Kitchen for happenings <br />that might pop up<br />—or get changed!—<br /> during the week.<br /><br />Photos in this column can be enlarged by <br />clicking on them once, then clicking on the x <br />in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.<br /><br />Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down<br />under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button<br />at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets <br />by typing the name of the poet or poem<br /> into the little beige box at the top <br />left-hand side of today’s post; or go to <br />Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of <br />the blue column at the right<br /> to find the date you want.<br /><br />Would you like to be a SnakePal? <br />Guidelines are at the top of this page<br />at the Placating the Gorgon link;<br />send poetry and/or photos and artwork<br />to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post<br />work from all over the world—including<br />that which was previously published—<br />and collaborations are welcome. <br />Just remember:<br />the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—<br />for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHGx9rgwZvTMAXPWh_lkJvvcltHA2bnuEXSfTFz5OPpcJeP5YNjpcVXOyaebsFRXmYwQMKohUNuu71P-6cF0LRLAJn2apk-m3iJjQ9fuCka3BNvgSyWh5oCJo252jpYNDpOs_Zl17j6O8104qhPj5S1EO34RMfx19jaVBR_4x_LzUpmAtIVnhR6Q/s293/pink%20tent.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="172" data-original-width="293" height="117" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHGx9rgwZvTMAXPWh_lkJvvcltHA2bnuEXSfTFz5OPpcJeP5YNjpcVXOyaebsFRXmYwQMKohUNuu71P-6cF0LRLAJn2apk-m3iJjQ9fuCka3BNvgSyWh5oCJo252jpYNDpOs_Zl17j6O8104qhPj5S1EO34RMfx19jaVBR_4x_LzUpmAtIVnhR6Q/w200-h117/pink%20tent.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>...or is that "glamping?"<br /> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-71267925191635405922024-03-21T08:33:00.000-07:002024-03-21T08:34:10.000-07:00Gotta Go For The Moments<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitFwgrDGN__iRLqWDigdgJXPn5fvV41jZznp-HiEjNOLY3dhJ3zPQ9qUHbsYaKwcFe5ZBsX9ZR6doD_wTt4QJZc_nvpSAV0dXR3pe74boqQZ0xpdnWlc3obu00Qjv02mPRg3Nhy6VtjzDT5tBf4rBwfWnuQku0d9u8qT9zcM81RRN-DSWR__j_LQ/s600/fragile.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="450" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitFwgrDGN__iRLqWDigdgJXPn5fvV41jZznp-HiEjNOLY3dhJ3zPQ9qUHbsYaKwcFe5ZBsX9ZR6doD_wTt4QJZc_nvpSAV0dXR3pe74boqQZ0xpdnWlc3obu00Qjv02mPRg3Nhy6VtjzDT5tBf4rBwfWnuQku0d9u8qT9zcM81RRN-DSWR__j_LQ/w300-h400/fragile.jpg" width="300" /></a></div> <i>Fragile<br />—Poetry and Visuals by Smith, Cleveland, OH</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">Sometimes the nothing<br />is nothing at all<br />and sometimes it's something<br /><br />And sometimes it is all<br />like this black shadow cat<br />purring in my black denim lap<br /><br />Here in Entropyland<br />you gotta go for the moments</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGzS-40qHX1CXW-3mlvVJkLn0RJXJ6w3uftILGpYJ4I6OKAIuVsglEnkorfG2ASMpE4jQ73dWqEJgyr6Ww1AHP_k_NvxZja3mjwWZqZe6lDNKDf-ls5K2zAWy4_p8EHMpJbnBAIp1iHotHKlHGg29IHOfECZBTCrGh64Bbb8eZ_3-7RHoSLmZEcA/s600/darthmundo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="450" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGzS-40qHX1CXW-3mlvVJkLn0RJXJ6w3uftILGpYJ4I6OKAIuVsglEnkorfG2ASMpE4jQ73dWqEJgyr6Ww1AHP_k_NvxZja3mjwWZqZe6lDNKDf-ls5K2zAWy4_p8EHMpJbnBAIp1iHotHKlHGg29IHOfECZBTCrGh64Bbb8eZ_3-7RHoSLmZEcA/w300-h400/darthmundo.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Darthmundo</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />Man I'm zinging<br />too much CAFFEINE stomping my lizard<br />plus wig's tightened considerably<br />considering tokes taken gummies infused<br />zing zanging my Zig Zagging<br />tanking yet more coffee <br />riding the red line<br /><br />remembering back<br />wife and I picked coffee in Mexico<br />on steep side of mountain<br />above the clouds<br />river sounds somewhere below<br />lizards fucking on stump<br />pineapples growing from ground<br />vanilla vines hugging coffee tree trunk<br />like the snake sniffing Eve<br />so tired at end of day <br />I almost fell off mountain climbing back to bed<br /><br />on busride home stop <br />stood on a boulder bulging from the mountain<br />and pissed on the white clouds below<br /><br />they say function sum junction<br />for max consumption<br />or somethin'<br />at least that's my assumption<br /><br />but wife and I've met angels more than once<br />seen some slime<br />have new angles on meat and mind</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv2VuAnFuWtuXqByX8cAuz6TZMPsZjMP4qm8z38lNf-O69ZZrCXTrGiYf9BeTXRGzPn5-t2htNrtoaSfQ9zYZg8JWzpwOXbSzkC9wqrGZ91lP24MSKiiQRJHfR0cnIzKspSTX9v1jT0PvA1iGfW101tB2WQzk6kAAtDZiyxjZja4vkLd9A7iLPOA/s600/praybones.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="450" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv2VuAnFuWtuXqByX8cAuz6TZMPsZjMP4qm8z38lNf-O69ZZrCXTrGiYf9BeTXRGzPn5-t2htNrtoaSfQ9zYZg8JWzpwOXbSzkC9wqrGZ91lP24MSKiiQRJHfR0cnIzKspSTX9v1jT0PvA1iGfW101tB2WQzk6kAAtDZiyxjZja4vkLd9A7iLPOA/w300-h400/praybones.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Praybones</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />NOTES DURING 9 DAYS HOSPITAL <br />AFTER BEING GUTTED <br /><br />Quick couple clicks of Dilaudid<br />Elvis' favorite drug<br />not doing much<br /><br />Death is a cautious creature<br />prefers unlocking doors<br /><br />Circular face appeared on suppy cabinet<br />b&w 3/4's Keith Richards<br />welcoming me to Survivors Club<br />followed by tinny wail of David Bowie's Fame<br />and Leonard Cohen's Fingerprints<br />maybe the Dilaudid's working after all<br /><br />Shadows from unknown angles<br />showing strange numbers without reason<br /><br />Been hearing wife's voice<br />explaining our situation out in the hall<br />but she's home<br />not here<br />maybe I'm hearing her prayers<br /><br />Ride the pain train for the famous<br />fame for the rest<br /><br />Must be considered<br />I'm seeing what's considered differently<br /><br />Six days since solids<br />five days clear liquids<br />first sip black caffeine and chicken broth<br />pure ecstasy<br /><br />If I don't piss<br />they put catheter back in<br />don't poop, don't go home<br /><br />Wife 27 years younger<br />stealing time from stressed work line<br />to be with me in hospital<br />in case I die<br /><br />Writing poem notes<br />sets off alarm from taped oxygen measurer<br />poetry is dangerous<br /><br />4:20 a.m.<br />hit the Dilaudid button<br />Elvis would be proud<br /><br />Keith Richards' blessing appearance<br />wife's phantom prayers in hall<br />keep the current going<br /><br />Some suffering is spent<br />crawling to the future<br />pain price to come<br /><br />It's a downhill slope<br />mind gets wiser, body weaker<br />the cost of continuing<br /><br />5th day after gutting me<br />imbibing caffeine and Dilaudid<br />rare Cleveland sunshine<br /><br />Pain grows<br />blossoms into brilliance<br />backstabs my own<br /><br />In hospital room<br />shivering with cold<br />wife gives me sweater off her back<br /><br />Buy now!<br />Get one free!<br />Guaranteed money back!<br />late night TV<br /><br />Gotta tell you<br />weary, hurt, and worry<br />not best place to be<br /><br />How long body<br />can spirit hold on<br />and still be worth it<br /><br />Have to live long enough<br />to see Trump the Feces<br />finally flushed<br /><br />Crashing into body pain<br />climbing out and writing<br />Smith is disaster artist<br /><br />There's always small print<br />trying to balance my pain meds<br />with pooping<br /><br />Swollen scrotum<br />not enough room between thighs<br />and size<br /><br />Black coffee from top<br />suppository up bottom<br />jumpstart my machine<br /><br />Wife calls<br />asks how I am<br />I weep<br /><br />Nurse comes in<br />asks if she can look at my scrotum<br />tell her she's the first to ever ask that<br />we laugh<br />tell her there's an old country swing song<br />Big Balls In Cow Town<br />she says I know the most interesting things<br /><br />Glad I'm taking notes<br />all this is what the mind wipes<br />so flesh can continue<br /><br />They once called me stoneface<br />today talking luck in wife and life<br />I weep four times<br /><br />Overhear my roommate on phone<br />old thin small black man<br />"This is a big one Luke<br />they got me this time"<br /><br />Hour before dawn<br />and next hospital pain pill<br />trying to find my way<br /><br />Stuck in hospital<br />till I feces flush<br />so I do my doo-doo duty<br /><br />Bio me<br />bio you<br />biome we<br /><br />I shit my pants<br />doc says go home<br />I weep<br /><br />Last day turns on me<br />cable TV quits<br />food turns bad<br />comes late<br /><br />Gotta grim and grit it<br />as I leak my lizard<br /><br />"This somber season has its solicitudes"<br />wife says, sipping hot coffee<br /><br />Pull battered flesh<br />from bind of bed<br />into damn of day<br /><br />It gets basic down at the lifeline<br />no baby Buddha bouncing in a box<br /><br />I'm half human<br />not the good half<br />just the pain<br /><br />Doctor says she put her hand in my chest<br />and my heart beat against it<br /><br />Each pain's passing<br />shows hundreds lurking below<br /><br />Gut cut from pubis to sternum<br />50 staples holding belly together<br />pure will fighting high pain<br />but soon now will be then<br /><br />I have to dance on the leaves<br />sing with the shadows</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgEGDdk4CLEMeXkWXoARoqkeiLpOKeMTwVwMEwqBX-dZyZPk9e4_wzouJgiFXGeXCsV17E-o1Zd1DPeoUIOfVuG2WVARbQPEdTtwvlc7M_NdEa8CC_phkEl9EPCyg6v15oyP0slJmjKd5v-iwe5KtBc4Bg54gczBcN7bMQ9aNfUvXjN-hNFsooxQ/s600/mushroomeye.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="450" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgEGDdk4CLEMeXkWXoARoqkeiLpOKeMTwVwMEwqBX-dZyZPk9e4_wzouJgiFXGeXCsV17E-o1Zd1DPeoUIOfVuG2WVARbQPEdTtwvlc7M_NdEa8CC_phkEl9EPCyg6v15oyP0slJmjKd5v-iwe5KtBc4Bg54gczBcN7bMQ9aNfUvXjN-hNFsooxQ/w300-h400/mushroomeye.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Mushroom Eye</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />I stare long into my black coffee<br />it stares deep into me<br />it goes to sleep<br /><br />—smith<br /><br />___________________<br /><br />—Medusa, welcoming <span style="color: red;">Steven B. Smith</span> to the Survivor’s Club, as he sings with the shadows for his 100th post in Medusa’s Kitchen! Gutted he was (abdominal surgery), and lived to tell us about it…<br /><br />And congrats to <span style="color: red;">Steven and Lady Kathy</span> on their 18th anniversary last Monday!</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjED-SQYSUD2CxpTcnzptRl_b_xTSRk3vXPBfyUmLvyMlFOmi3S-0C23_c0gxXe-k02TEx9BfZf1xIviGEzry4b-bfow2OyQp25lQeQP4TFfbW4KWQQh5JpMTbW6MHg7uIHQ_JbQRN8AI67ZPzO_rhTEiKL7-2utHL3Kf9GA0Ld-Vmommoyhqw0BQ/s667/celebrate.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="667" data-original-width="500" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjED-SQYSUD2CxpTcnzptRl_b_xTSRk3vXPBfyUmLvyMlFOmi3S-0C23_c0gxXe-k02TEx9BfZf1xIviGEzry4b-bfow2OyQp25lQeQP4TFfbW4KWQQh5JpMTbW6MHg7uIHQ_JbQRN8AI67ZPzO_rhTEiKL7-2utHL3Kf9GA0Ld-Vmommoyhqw0BQ/w300-h400/celebrate.jpg" width="300" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Celebrate</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A reminder that </i><br /><i><b>Third Thursdays at the Library</b></i><br /><i>takes place in Sacramento at</i><br /><i>noon today; </i><br /><i><b>Poets and Writers Workshop </b></i><br /><i>meets at 5:30pm in</i><br /><i>Cameron Park; and</i><br /><i><b>Poetry in Davis </b>features</i><br /><i><span style="color: red;">Kim Stanley Robinson </span>and<span style="color: red;"> Laurie Glover</span></i><br /><i>in Davis tonight, 7pm.</i><br /><i>For info about these and other</i><br /><i>future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)</a></i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjscGabUmJ4q1XIaO4_cpLAttKEaRHt34YzQExZyMBIaFx0VIGGEpQESwf4b_3miQGylg9WPqYAFrzIiV2ePULCYtjqLEVzjWue7wZiY85O0gEFeucgHRcLRdz_YxDjGuaqcjiJuQZAk8dBJRzQye4121CC0pO_5WX6eGCPVczW-Brra_hA58iNJg/s241/distress.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="241" data-original-width="209" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjscGabUmJ4q1XIaO4_cpLAttKEaRHt34YzQExZyMBIaFx0VIGGEpQESwf4b_3miQGylg9WPqYAFrzIiV2ePULCYtjqLEVzjWue7wZiY85O0gEFeucgHRcLRdz_YxDjGuaqcjiJuQZAk8dBJRzQye4121CC0pO_5WX6eGCPVczW-Brra_hA58iNJg/w173-h200/distress.jpg" width="173" /></a></div></i><i>50 staples!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div></div> </div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-88330498270800015092024-03-20T08:38:00.000-07:002024-03-20T08:38:39.121-07:00Melting Away<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_OyT7BjtCq3upqSFcZU_tslfhaZhbtosy5AHR8dTo_EDq_6WzXdTdBYQmhU9hLbGDZvLVx0WvyhXc_Q3Rk4-CQxq3cJJjCI17UsCkxtsoGBo3HtXXemCuVOxySjcsuUy1pIjcN3-zY5VBq4Ao8XE9I7AraQZb8O9OjqeAmJ8kiH0peijRPLwoIg/s275/sun%201.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_OyT7BjtCq3upqSFcZU_tslfhaZhbtosy5AHR8dTo_EDq_6WzXdTdBYQmhU9hLbGDZvLVx0WvyhXc_Q3Rk4-CQxq3cJJjCI17UsCkxtsoGBo3HtXXemCuVOxySjcsuUy1pIjcN3-zY5VBq4Ao8XE9I7AraQZb8O9OjqeAmJ8kiH0peijRPLwoIg/w400-h266/sun%201.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><i> —Poetry by Lynn White, <br />Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales<br />—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">PLASTIC PIPELINE </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />“He’s got a plastic heart, plastic teeth and toes,<br />plastic knees and a perfect plastic nose.<br />He’s got plastic lips that hide his plastic teeth and <br />gums”,<br />so sang The Kinks then about their plastic man in <br />1969. <br />Now in the twenty-first century it seems he’s here<br />as plastic gushes everywhere<br />over land,<br />over sea<br />and into our very being<br />as plastics ingested from our food,<br />and inhaled in from the air we breath<br />become part of our bodies,<br />part of ourselves<br />to be inherited <br />by our children.<br /><br />We fill every hole in the ground<br />and soon the sea will be transformed into plastic <br />land.<br />We re-cycle it by the shipload from rich places to <br />poor,<br />places where the people don’t matter,<br />where “plastic man don’t feel no pain”.<br />There we dump it on the newly plasticised people <br />in the plastic land we’ve created for them.<br /><br /><i><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in </span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Ekphrastic Review</span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> challenge for <br />Benjamin Von Wong, January 2024)</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzWkKOCfwS7L59SDQaLlgrbqx-bGeY5pYB-TA59mUQi1f57Uvwt4NJGkgglrhPNtzDm66yztuhioq0AgexFGvdyGNKAr0be6F96DAfYx8PyS_qxO0jwaMpg_EFCpMKcEukLFs14ZM8zysumFvfv114jUn4qjpgnXv5WY1KMwT1Ew3Dfj9M_vopZg/s275/sun%203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzWkKOCfwS7L59SDQaLlgrbqx-bGeY5pYB-TA59mUQi1f57Uvwt4NJGkgglrhPNtzDm66yztuhioq0AgexFGvdyGNKAr0be6F96DAfYx8PyS_qxO0jwaMpg_EFCpMKcEukLFs14ZM8zysumFvfv114jUn4qjpgnXv5WY1KMwT1Ew3Dfj9M_vopZg/w400-h266/sun%203.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">STUFF </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />It’s easy for me.<br />Even though I’ve planned it<br />and psyched myself up,<br />when I walk into the shop <br />and see rail upon rail of stuff<br />it overwhelms me,<br />I can’t be bothered to look,<br />can’t be bothered<br />to sort through it all.<br /><br />It takes only seconds for me to realise<br />that my jacket,<br />or jeans,<br />or coat,<br />or shirt<br />are good for a few more years.<br /><br />It’s harder for those who shop as a hobby,<br />who get a buzz like a shot of tequila<br />from the pleasure of buying new,<br />especially when it’s so cheap,<br />but we’re drowning in it<br />all the stuff.<br />It’s squeezing us out of our homes,<br />filling up our land<br />stifling our oceans,<br />burning up our planet<br />with its non-stop production<br />and speedy conversion to rubbish.<br /><br />It’s those little things<br />and some people just don’t buy it!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> <br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in Silver Birch Press, </span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;">How to Heal <br />the Earth series,</span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> 2022)</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-lG9apErGO9s-FMnqjeOswq081z-RUMtl4RZnh01MDoBOLWcHmtX2DKWdKf4-1IO9j6ONoLavyxpS2PRl4UfZ9NacNDuVWAX1qLaas6Os2MHKNAMdrop7wxf9pUaDKXLhAgSvjDz2ch7Hzq8CI46PZKr-sSkXL5ZGMz8GQwvNS_MpLU7TYvL5yg/s275/sun%205.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-lG9apErGO9s-FMnqjeOswq081z-RUMtl4RZnh01MDoBOLWcHmtX2DKWdKf4-1IO9j6ONoLavyxpS2PRl4UfZ9NacNDuVWAX1qLaas6Os2MHKNAMdrop7wxf9pUaDKXLhAgSvjDz2ch7Hzq8CI46PZKr-sSkXL5ZGMz8GQwvNS_MpLU7TYvL5yg/w400-h266/sun%205.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />ALL THAT GLITTER<br /><br />It glitters<br />like gold.<br />But is it<br />gold<br />or base<br />metal<br />being worked on<br />by an alchemist…<br />undergoing<br />transformation,<br />perhaps<br />with a touch<br />of magic,<br />with an elixir<br />of immortality,<br />an illusion.<br />Or perhaps<br />base oil<br />transformed<br />to<br />sparkly<br />plastic glitter<br />with<br />all too real<br />immortality.<br />Glittering,<br />littering<br />with<br />everlasting life,<br />all that glitter.<br /><br /><i><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in </span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Silver Apples</span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">, 2018)</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjDzAutgLPaNg9I4Asj28JkAO0A_ICnf_t1NOGUmCOTfXmO1xz7ZMKEcGSEljpzabeupAB5a8enwvGgUIhr36H5ngoftavzPkXzhgUO5zkjtPCjJsc938vycfHrYCVi8rO4ANV3R7ojYsASWQVVel2ZH2OslqawI4pUIFu8Msoj4rEnoLjJJGosw/s276/sun%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="276" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjDzAutgLPaNg9I4Asj28JkAO0A_ICnf_t1NOGUmCOTfXmO1xz7ZMKEcGSEljpzabeupAB5a8enwvGgUIhr36H5ngoftavzPkXzhgUO5zkjtPCjJsc938vycfHrYCVi8rO4ANV3R7ojYsASWQVVel2ZH2OslqawI4pUIFu8Msoj4rEnoLjJJGosw/w400-h265/sun%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br />AFRICA IS EVERYWHERE<br /><br />The factories closed for two weeks each summer<br />and it was off to the seaside then!<br />They would head for the beach and hire a deck chair<br />there were no sun-beds back in those days<br />and there they would sit on shell-laden sands,<br />the women in cotton frocks <br />and the men in grey flannels, sandals with socks<br />and a sleeves rolled up, open-necked shirt,<br />there were no tee shirts back then<br />and shorts were too daring for the over-twenties.<br />And most likely it was too cool in any case.<br /><br />The sun could be bright though<br />so the women had a straw hat ready,<br />but this was too exotic <br />and extravagant for the men,<br />newspaper fashioned into a sailing-boat shape<br />was <i>de rigeur</i> for them.<br />And so one way or another <br />eyes were shielded<br />from the occasional brightness.<br /><br />Nowadays the sun has grown angry,<br />too bright for our eyes.<br />It rages fiercely threatening all in its view.<br />Africa is everywhere now<br />and soon sun-beds will be out of fashion.<br />It’s too hot now,<br />too darn hot.<br /> <br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in </span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Alternate Route</span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">, October 2022)</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL-o9aZ9jsOSk7j9vcAZJ-YbOTMVfSqc1D34ljEJuEi6gsBNTHcOZrOJtIYTCoUWqCiB6UiWkzfyqX_pTIOa70gkmm0YBWAK9JfAOjx44LUnyoGwZ5c8eCnH5ADGFAgizTchmJOlhy5NOy7bg-aJQf1gXqA_9i_be5BavP9DvAyOv9iSNM5p58cw/s275/sun%204.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL-o9aZ9jsOSk7j9vcAZJ-YbOTMVfSqc1D34ljEJuEi6gsBNTHcOZrOJtIYTCoUWqCiB6UiWkzfyqX_pTIOa70gkmm0YBWAK9JfAOjx44LUnyoGwZ5c8eCnH5ADGFAgizTchmJOlhy5NOy7bg-aJQf1gXqA_9i_be5BavP9DvAyOv9iSNM5p58cw/w400-h266/sun%204.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">MELTING AWAY </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />She could still remember<br />the warm days of summer,<br />seaside holidays,<br />times without end.<br />Almost.<br />Tick tock.<br />But now the warmth is too much<br />and time is melting away<br />in the sun.<br /><br />Tick tock, tick tock<br />goes her memory<br />curling up<br />in the heat<br />and dying<br />like a beached whale<br />lying there<br />dried out <br />dried up.<br /><br />Time has run out.<br />It became too agile<br />as she stiffened<br />it curved<br />and ran<br />tick tock, tick tock, tick tock<br />her memory is running down,<br />repeating itself<br />out of shape<br />growing ever more distant<br />and now it’s out of time<br />tick tock, tick tock<br />tick tock<br />tick.<br /><br /><br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in </span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Lion and Lilac Arts</span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">, January 2023)<br /></span><br />___________________<br /><b><br />Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />What we are doing to the forests of the world is but a mirror reflection of what we are doing to ourselves and to one another.<br /><br />―Chris Maser, </i>Forest Primeval: The Natural History of an Ancient Forest <i><br /><br />___________________<br /><br />—Medusa, with thanks to <span style="color: red;">Lynn White</span> for her fine poetry today!</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Poets from NorCal and beyond will be saddened to learn that San Francisco Poet <span style="color: red;">Neeli Cherkovski</span> has passed away. He was a wonderful poet and a wonderful man, and he will be missed. </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>The Spring Equinox issue of the environmental poetry magazine, </i><b>Canary</b><i>, is now available at <a href="https://canarylitmag.org">https://canarylitmag.org</a>/.<br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A reminder that </i><br /><b><i>Loud Mouths Spoken Word</i><br /></b><i><b>and Stand-Up Comedy</b> returns</i><br /><i>to Sacramento tonight, 8:30pm.</i><br /><i>For info about this and other</i><br /><i>future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixlK3gZFj85lehrp_ugqpUJdSEryW3fqb9zeaVOy81VYJ1jVkcUOqrkEDp-3Fyq6JxyXa-hzhesjncMSXY0Jx-iFtuxcyBKfeB1JJZUVSwO0lTBYmPQwy96ycx16jPey3ls_2PQdRwsaMWAhqh16LRWdvWnz6XZgyCDF4vO3ZMUb8TRjqJDHrqKg/s259/hot%20sun.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="195" data-original-width="259" height="151" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixlK3gZFj85lehrp_ugqpUJdSEryW3fqb9zeaVOy81VYJ1jVkcUOqrkEDp-3Fyq6JxyXa-hzhesjncMSXY0Jx-iFtuxcyBKfeB1JJZUVSwO0lTBYmPQwy96ycx16jPey3ls_2PQdRwsaMWAhqh16LRWdvWnz6XZgyCDF4vO3ZMUb8TRjqJDHrqKg/w200-h151/hot%20sun.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /> </i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-41098892620673635892024-03-19T08:33:00.000-07:002024-03-20T10:35:37.976-07:00Roses From A Winter Garden<div style="text-align: center;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwOd3GNpKrro1zYzTUH6cNK12X107D3qO7TV-Hsv7OZKWZhY8fWNn-O7u25qRRIZDrHL4To9xoqSdKp7fKbKv1f43GWumRb0KtId4nIkFOMfeMpjMUUUhrzOGH1OtVKie73-ADxHgXCN80bmTHIg8hTtMXIGojz9Q-ml_l9fGfnTBatCPECB7_-w/s1660/AT%20NIGHT%20(053).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1246" data-original-width="1660" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwOd3GNpKrro1zYzTUH6cNK12X107D3qO7TV-Hsv7OZKWZhY8fWNn-O7u25qRRIZDrHL4To9xoqSdKp7fKbKv1f43GWumRb0KtId4nIkFOMfeMpjMUUUhrzOGH1OtVKie73-ADxHgXCN80bmTHIg8hTtMXIGojz9Q-ml_l9fGfnTBatCPECB7_-w/w400-h300/AT%20NIGHT%20(053).jpg" width="400" /></a></div><i>At Night</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Sacramento, CA<br />—Photos and Artwork by Joyce Odam</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">ABOUT POETRY<br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />One humid August night the moon hung <br />on a string held by a single star <br />in a sky gone suddenly black. <br /><br />The night felt as though <br />all the fight had gone out of it—<br />the day so long and quarrelsome. <br /><br />The tired moon hung—<br />half a moon—facing homeward <br />as we drove in our quiet car <br /><br />in the direction it pointed,<br />over the quiet freeway—<br />it was that late. <br /><br />The hot night shone <br />as though swept clean of something. <br />Our talk was slow, <br /><br />as though even this late hour <br />dwindled out of enough meaning <br />to go any further with words. <br /><br />“Is it all <br />about poetry?” <br />one of us asked. And one of us said, <br /><br />“Yes.” And one of us said, “No.” <br />And the mobile moon <br />did not sway—not even a little bit.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgns2wEj7ayV8lo7KfhDun3SEOrdjFmRuLsSgRIOnTwiT72R3dCVuclkR1RRk-7HEx9KsZolNyL3K5tS3sDYKIShp5T_6j8o2jDYlDdnX6qa1cyWR2OKWoqLhprPZTlIcb6COPw3kOSI8BgVooy2rknW1Fns-JNfia-97zRwOwHiViNsXuBYpYmDg/s1042/QUIET%20GARDEN%20(041).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1042" data-original-width="646" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgns2wEj7ayV8lo7KfhDun3SEOrdjFmRuLsSgRIOnTwiT72R3dCVuclkR1RRk-7HEx9KsZolNyL3K5tS3sDYKIShp5T_6j8o2jDYlDdnX6qa1cyWR2OKWoqLhprPZTlIcb6COPw3kOSI8BgVooy2rknW1Fns-JNfia-97zRwOwHiViNsXuBYpYmDg/w248-h400/QUIET%20GARDEN%20(041).JPG" width="248" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Quiet Garden</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />DIAMOND KITE <br /><i>—Robin Gale Odam</i><br /><br />poem <br />high above him <br /><br />cloudless sky <br />string in his fingers <br /><br />north wind a mockery <br />of his weeping </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg82IyJgPFyQu6hWNMtVj0NJS8G7xHVsANvJIzazgSYxxSnyh1hH8nn1-li01z_CWyppl2YYEQZ1S_nJFiqk709iYVcZylXAn3DlNJKaGh4H-HpvVAU7VruSFE0krUKTAOlayyq-etLYtsUgLsgI6Xslo1P1impxmB1WNJErv83g9zk0StHPRg7DA/s1598/AT%20THE%20DOOR%20(088).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1598" data-original-width="1198" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg82IyJgPFyQu6hWNMtVj0NJS8G7xHVsANvJIzazgSYxxSnyh1hH8nn1-li01z_CWyppl2YYEQZ1S_nJFiqk709iYVcZylXAn3DlNJKaGh4H-HpvVAU7VruSFE0krUKTAOlayyq-etLYtsUgLsgI6Xslo1P1impxmB1WNJErv83g9zk0StHPRg7DA/w300-h400/AT%20THE%20DOOR%20(088).jpg" width="300" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>At The Door</i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> <br /><br />THE ADVANCING MIRROR<br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />Now is the hour of tight arms holding on to the <br />falling. Nothing is plumb. There is no direction <br />to consider. The floor is far away. The ceiling <br />even farther. The dream is urging you to step <br />inside. But you are reeling inward. There is no <br />one looking to prove this. Time is about to non-<br />exist though it owns the dark. The clock opens <br />its face to meet your cry. The room tilts accord-<br />ingly and every instinct resists. You are replicated <br />where you meet the advancing mirror. Escape <br />here, says the glass. Your image steps inside—<br />turns—and helps you through. This is not possible, <br />you think, but a long hallway leads you to a door—<br />a slowly opening door—where someone inside is <br />turning toward you with open arms, urging you to <br />remember. <br /><br /><br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen 7/30/13; 9/6/16)</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh87fCoESjZ-Zy7ox3giaQOU4Cq8Wb9vWTceVks4EWHEt6QOVBWJ-0L8RFkpfgUro_0Ks72ItxjEpCfj1-ZHTwhdsOxhu4udEe26rdIqEMDHDOmS2G2LDvN01mfzsB4ReLZKm4wogSuib7m0I9DM8g_Z5x14Fj2kHKyP67JUIWD97HbjeUDGgp1RA/s1790/A%20DIFFERENT%20MOOD%20(032).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1790" data-original-width="1660" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh87fCoESjZ-Zy7ox3giaQOU4Cq8Wb9vWTceVks4EWHEt6QOVBWJ-0L8RFkpfgUro_0Ks72ItxjEpCfj1-ZHTwhdsOxhu4udEe26rdIqEMDHDOmS2G2LDvN01mfzsB4ReLZKm4wogSuib7m0I9DM8g_Z5x14Fj2kHKyP67JUIWD97HbjeUDGgp1RA/w371-h400/A%20DIFFERENT%20MOOD%20(032).JPG" width="371" /></a></div></span></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span>A Different Mood</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />AFFAIR OF THE HEART<br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />It is seduction that they understand,<br />though it be folly, precursive to despair;<br />they yield to its addiction; they declare<br />themselves clairvoyant, yet go hand in hand<br />with Fate and Blindness, those misleaders. And<br />for passion that they always knew was there,<br />they wear whatever mask they need to wear<br />to keep illusion’s face. Their flame is fanned.<br /><br />Wretched with love now, hopelessly confessed,<br />oh, they are tragic—they are tragic, true—nor <br />do they care. They are both cursed and blessed.<br />They grow possessive, and they grow afraid.<br />Too young to suffer less than others do,<br />they settle back into the beds they’ve made.<br /><br /><br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in </span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Poets’ Forum Magazine</span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">, Sept., 1997)</span></i><br /><br />__________________<br /><br />dreaming in the dream <br />distance far away from here <br />closeness on the heels <br /><br />ever since the faraway <br />ever cast the runes of shade <br /><br /><i>—Robin Gale Odam </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvgycjBg3gSxvS_PxhvWgnonsVqOXX470BwDu0OTlM04v6X33yBnMmw62iPvjDD76k9HzH0EMFvrL3ahx0YcKOGoiI6VDlxNOqpKBDKI5R878o5jdS29QeDbSs-awo-1f0r3lPawJvH1-1XKBAifJ44XGwyE-R4ivWzWr1j9tFwOSofYukrz3Usg/s1696/WAYS%20TO%20GO%20(020).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1696" data-original-width="1650" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvgycjBg3gSxvS_PxhvWgnonsVqOXX470BwDu0OTlM04v6X33yBnMmw62iPvjDD76k9HzH0EMFvrL3ahx0YcKOGoiI6VDlxNOqpKBDKI5R878o5jdS29QeDbSs-awo-1f0r3lPawJvH1-1XKBAifJ44XGwyE-R4ivWzWr1j9tFwOSofYukrz3Usg/w389-h400/WAYS%20TO%20GO%20(020).JPG" width="389" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Ways To Go</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />AUGUST FURIES<br /><i>—Joyce Odam<br />After “Runes” by R.S. Thomas (No Truce With <br />The Furies)</i><br /><br />Crippling through the annual stairways, beginning <br />with January with its superstitious Rabbits and <br />Pickles, playing good-luck with the words, and <br />racing February through the Ides of March, <br />blustering into April and caroling, Its Spring! Its <br />Spring! and imploring spring with a, May I? May I, <br />but never expecting an answer to nonsense. Then <br />June, which would ultimately fail and smiling with <br />a certain weariness that July preceded—less than <br />the Many Birthdays, and September—oh the falling <br />of the leaves, the falling leaves of autumn—already—<br />and becoming sentimental about a scarecrow under <br />a red moon—or was it October with its rush of <br />pleasure, tinged with sadness knowing November <br />was already turning its page to let December <br />through.<br /><br />___________________<br /><br />A MOURN FOR MUSIC TOO BEAUTIFUL<br />TO HEAR<br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />It is the music— <br />torn shreds of it,<br />its fragments <br />remembering back into whole pieces;<br /><br />or maybe it is the lack of it, <br />the wish for music<br />as perfect <br />as that . . .<br /><br />indifferent music, joyous for itself,<br />forgetting its composer, <br />its poorest listener,<br />filling other ears with perfection,<br /><br />destruction, its cost for the envy : <br />the torn joy <br />of listening—<br />for the ache of it,<br /><br />emotions <br />too <br />small <br />to hold it,<br /><br />so, free it, <br />tear its pages and <br />mingle them into something larger—<br />a cacophony to fit the tears. <br /><br /> <br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen. 11/25/14; <br />4/17/18; 8/17/21)</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWRMBJRbE-9RFKsdOeZcK15uDhD4pbJkZqqa1r3Dj6RzkoG20Ts3iimK8m8Av8nHzXJP_7PQFXQYkC52YTsHgmD94lLfPykYEY6WE0N_i6xAlKZ4qBgbHg-5OU2_CjBpkW3ievp6lmdtv2CUuGLGdWuqKKjQgtQjyA2VZiY0cZmD-pYqQ9FFJRsw/s1234/AS%20PERFECT%20AS%20THAT%20(026).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="759" data-original-width="1234" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWRMBJRbE-9RFKsdOeZcK15uDhD4pbJkZqqa1r3Dj6RzkoG20Ts3iimK8m8Av8nHzXJP_7PQFXQYkC52YTsHgmD94lLfPykYEY6WE0N_i6xAlKZ4qBgbHg-5OU2_CjBpkW3ievp6lmdtv2CUuGLGdWuqKKjQgtQjyA2VZiY0cZmD-pYqQ9FFJRsw/w400-h246/AS%20PERFECT%20AS%20THAT%20(026).JPG" width="400" /></a></div></span></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>As Perfect As That</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />A PLACE LIKE THAT<br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />Yes, a place like that. <br />A chair in the light.<br />An unwinding place <br />free from thought or claim. <br />Somewhere unreachable. <br />Dreamed-up or real.<br />No matter. <br />Just a place to be unreal in<br />if you are not real. <br />A chair to hold you—heavy or light<br />—like a rocking boat that can drift away <br />into the edge of a passing current.<br />Simply lift and follow—<br />or inward-stay<br />unraveled <br />while a leaf drifts by, <br />or a bird sits watching from a tree, <br />shivering with happiness at a small breeze.<br /><br /><br /><i>After </i>Day Star<i> by Rita Dove <br />(p. 70, “Claiming the Spirit Within”)<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/20/12; 8/11/20)</span></i><br /><br />____________________<br /><br />TORN CLOUDS <br /><i>—Robin Gale Odam</i><br /><br />heart tethered to a string <br />fingers at the other end<br />pulling almost carelessly</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYsQR40xfULhkMWItVkvrQHUb5NQ73RPsZBKGWCp4ER9A85lJMFyiz8LT0nhvkf6Kl7l8CRmDnZTlW6prNeIUzxfIV0m2F3hrMOl3ocEcQDSOrP2OG1Bk-eyL84tuvvEXOQNhBVK5624M1Ha2e1oxFPUlRoRt8cnveVGURsTpOAM1pbh0DE64BZQ/s1784/IN%20LOVE%20(033).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1784" data-original-width="1756" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYsQR40xfULhkMWItVkvrQHUb5NQ73RPsZBKGWCp4ER9A85lJMFyiz8LT0nhvkf6Kl7l8CRmDnZTlW6prNeIUzxfIV0m2F3hrMOl3ocEcQDSOrP2OG1Bk-eyL84tuvvEXOQNhBVK5624M1Ha2e1oxFPUlRoRt8cnveVGURsTpOAM1pbh0DE64BZQ/w394-h400/IN%20LOVE%20(033).JPG" width="394" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>In Love</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />A WINTER REFLECTION<br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />You enter my time and place. I receive you openly—<br />open all my windows to the view. I welcome you.<br /><br />You bring me roses—white breath-roses<br />from the winter garden. They have no scent.<br /><br />I look again and you are floating in my mirror,<br />your hands strewing petals that waft to my feet.<br /><br />Yes, I still love you, I say, and your face goes sad.<br />My hand reaches out to you . . . and yours to mine.<br /><br />I waken in the dream, and you ask what I am doing <br />in the mirror, and why are all those petals on the <br />floor.<br /><br />We lie down together but cannot touch. Light <br />shimmers<br />between us and flows out the window into stars.<br /><br /> <br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/9/18)</span></i><br /><br />___________________<br /><br /><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />ADMISSION<br />—Joyce Odam<br /><br />Talking into a dead phone, I apologize <br />to the silence, confess myself <br />to the listening . . .<br />as if through a <br />curtain . . . imagine a <br />response . . . imagine a sigh of sympathy.<br /><br />___________________<br /><br />Many thanks to <span style="color: red;">the Odams, Joyce and Robin</span>, for today’s fine poetry and pix! Our Seed of the Week was “Kites”, and Robin writes that “Joyce has chosen to revisit some day in her life when someone inadvertently suggested she ‘go fly a kite’ and, as a child, she wasn't certain if it was intended as a chide or a joke, since she never could fly a kite—and she of course opted to decide it was just in jest, for fun, for idle conversation, to which she simply sharpened her pencil and searched for a nice piece of lined paper and a quiet and solitary space where she could think about it . . . she later grew up to probe the abstract and write about love.” Well said, Robin Gale, and thanks to both of you for the elucidation of Joyce’s thinking on this, the Spring Equinox, 2024.<br /><br /><b>Our new Seed of the Week is “Tightrope”. </b>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 <b>Form Fiddlers’ Friday</b> for poetry form challenges, including those of the <b>Ekphrastic</b> type.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />____________________<br /><br />—Medusa</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfyk-VTGjckwLywvihb9yG4q9Ymbqgu8zhU4DZfLIs0yB2nHsqdQPawHIIlTzgrPbID30xeUY9Keg7Z34dNUjPi95ZmUYAv7TBSEUaEJaSV3Z3p_BXUyTJU9cW2iAqi5t8NbimVecxNn47_EE7asXKKW5RFCbAaxoQ9sLzwcd_dfdjTp9YxqepBw/s880/ghost%20plant:ghost%20pipe:indian%20pipe,%20delicate,waxy,%20rare:one%20of:first%20harbingers%20of%20spring%20jn.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="880" data-original-width="627" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfyk-VTGjckwLywvihb9yG4q9Ymbqgu8zhU4DZfLIs0yB2nHsqdQPawHIIlTzgrPbID30xeUY9Keg7Z34dNUjPi95ZmUYAv7TBSEUaEJaSV3Z3p_BXUyTJU9cW2iAqi5t8NbimVecxNn47_EE7asXKKW5RFCbAaxoQ9sLzwcd_dfdjTp9YxqepBw/w285-h400/ghost%20plant:ghost%20pipe:indian%20pipe,%20delicate,waxy,%20rare:one%20of:first%20harbingers%20of%20spring%20jn.jpg" width="285" /></a></div></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Ghost plant, ghost pipe, Indian pipe—</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>delicate, waxy, rare—</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>one of the first harbingers of spring!<br />—Public Domain Photo Courtesy <br />of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA<br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i> <br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>For future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil074BjLSbWHCF-GwmRXPp7IPscmaAn_IHMmr6i9qGq7ZQrfEkV82slyVlI6EzVCuVAImTiCYabQLl8VLkbDtox9kTlsnd4N_WgJ31eVX17Abf_TK5FNhoIcxN2OkLKvBYO8kvjBX3rtdbWaRkrBDYZbFtUc-gQfdh9KPVBttKl2qO1-9kZHAQ3w/s259/gardener%20snake.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="194" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil074BjLSbWHCF-GwmRXPp7IPscmaAn_IHMmr6i9qGq7ZQrfEkV82slyVlI6EzVCuVAImTiCYabQLl8VLkbDtox9kTlsnd4N_WgJ31eVX17Abf_TK5FNhoIcxN2OkLKvBYO8kvjBX3rtdbWaRkrBDYZbFtUc-gQfdh9KPVBttKl2qO1-9kZHAQ3w/w150-h200/gardener%20snake.jpg" width="150" /></a></div></i><i>LittleSnake is hustling </i><br /><i>to get the garden in!</i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-27771379884195578752024-03-18T07:29:00.000-07:002024-03-18T07:29:33.855-07:00The Joie de Vivre of Kites<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh34YAhh6Vr-KbV6QzEyRoHVb-hcjLSY9uYJ98eSdPSRm0T1Viag9mrKeTzaPIyHyRJi-SiiCxUUEApVP8IOfopqB2NBx2yMB4f_DFdBbtvryjXeozBZh7eeE0k0AjYJqSib7NvKFwShn7AMOiGZEF50CaQfNsvgVIw_bQ3OHChpbIyxqJD4f4pqQ/s640/girl%20riding%20bee%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh34YAhh6Vr-KbV6QzEyRoHVb-hcjLSY9uYJ98eSdPSRm0T1Viag9mrKeTzaPIyHyRJi-SiiCxUUEApVP8IOfopqB2NBx2yMB4f_DFdBbtvryjXeozBZh7eeE0k0AjYJqSib7NvKFwShn7AMOiGZEF50CaQfNsvgVIw_bQ3OHChpbIyxqJD4f4pqQ/w400-h400/girl%20riding%20bee%20jn.png" width="400" /></a></div><i> —Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,<br />Dawn Pisturino, Joe Nolan, and Caschwa<br />—Public Domain Photos Courtesy<br />of Joe Nolan, Stephen Kingsnorth <br />and Dawn Pisturino</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">NOT ENOUGH LIFT<br /><i>—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY</i><br /><br />I don’t recall the colors.<br />I don’t recall the shape.<br />I recall a futile flight<br />of kite into the air.<br />I hoped we would <br />get closer, give <br />love a little lift.<br />We needed more<br />than wind to send<br />a failure flying high.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-gAQvnuYxyb1VEZYu7EVgdna1Sm-TBV43cWkfO0IPNLG73iOumCjqDZJRAU1stej9I2YEHmA0l0b_zB-fdGm2YSzxGEwg4ZLMaJwkD5b5HW5aUeLXQ0UCvZnfwrpCln_AFF8c34cMHWc60fwkiBDj6i7IZzGLorL5HwHQ5JNvyYatrroMXzgCcg/s326/red%20Kite%20sk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="245" data-original-width="326" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-gAQvnuYxyb1VEZYu7EVgdna1Sm-TBV43cWkfO0IPNLG73iOumCjqDZJRAU1stej9I2YEHmA0l0b_zB-fdGm2YSzxGEwg4ZLMaJwkD5b5HW5aUeLXQ0UCvZnfwrpCln_AFF8c34cMHWc60fwkiBDj6i7IZzGLorL5HwHQ5JNvyYatrroMXzgCcg/w400-h300/red%20Kite%20sk.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Red Kite</i><br /><i>—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> </div><div style="text-align: left;">RED KITE<br /><i>—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales </i><br /><br />Mosquito dancing, hover hair, <br />jig to ballroom, sudden fall, <br />though scooped before full fly to floor, <br />a shudder, hold, then swoops to whirl, <br />until it drops, bite leaves its mark. <br /><br />Too, here be dragons, gold on black, <br />spitting fire in air attack <br />as pull on strings; or lighting wick, <br />moon rising lanterns, airlift shrines, <br />in clouds of witness, past enact. <br /><br />Fast run and throw, for lift off, strand, <br />far reach of sand for landing strip, <br />with off shore wind, unwind taut line, <br />see soar of shape from clifftop site, <br />until that tug, pang hunger strikes. <br /><br />Euclidian, so clear defined, <br />a quadrilateral designed <br />reflecting symmetry in kind, <br />diagonal, its axis line. <br />Unless a box, core type refined. <br /><br />The kite’s a mark engraved in glass, <br />on labels where a sofa lies, <br />protection against smash in crash, <br />or feeding fire, its noxious smoke—<br />for quality, trade guarantee. <br /><br />It’s BSI, the agency, <br />a British Standards Institute, <br />that flies a kite for safety first; <br />though fly by nights with shoddy goods <br />sure break the law from market stalls. <br /><br />But flying kites in bedtime tales, <br />now column inches, stories leaked— <br />more floated schemes, political, <br />to test the current public mood, <br />as the elect, their safety first. <br /><br />With forked tail, not the tongue above, <br />not dragon, red, flag field of green, <br />but plot, airspace, prey, red kites, <br />the poisoned raptor breeds once more, <br />Welsh nation’s, note, favourite bird. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpqivbEIKAr9UPKfGsAcCasLv8slXCQGqAJGXU995Y5SH4yUJe8uNehslbiLuEMBrSsI1EXSVGLQrVEEQ3cBdtxMH7_Hgm0au1vKh0iG9ovJzai4n2AWfH9-ze3dY1G9a6ru1hSmecIqSi5wgug30VE6QPvSt8VKoa7RS5H_zG87e_gJuBGUAIYA/s2400/bridge-at-sunset_Public%20Domain.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1512" data-original-width="2400" height="253" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpqivbEIKAr9UPKfGsAcCasLv8slXCQGqAJGXU995Y5SH4yUJe8uNehslbiLuEMBrSsI1EXSVGLQrVEEQ3cBdtxMH7_Hgm0au1vKh0iG9ovJzai4n2AWfH9-ze3dY1G9a6ru1hSmecIqSi5wgug30VE6QPvSt8VKoa7RS5H_zG87e_gJuBGUAIYA/w400-h253/bridge-at-sunset_Public%20Domain.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Dawn Pisturino</span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />THREE POEMS ABOUT SAN FRANCISCO<br /><i>—Dawn Pisturino, Golden Valley, AZ</i><br /><br /><b>Flying Kites on the Marina</b><br /><br />Spending the day flying kites on the Marina<br />While noisy seagulls circle overhead,<br />Making spectacles of themselves<br />Among the colorful alien objects<br />With long tails flapping in the wind.<br />Kites shaped like dragons <br />Breathe fire at the sun.<br />Oblong boxes made from scratch<br />And plain paper diamonds in rainbow colors<br />Reach to the heavens,<br />Tethered to the earth by eager children<br />And expert adults, so earnest in their endeavor<br />To fly highest and farthest.<br />Blow, wind, blow, and help the competitors<br />Outdo one another!<br />Crowds gather to watch the race,<br />Making mental bets on the outcome.<br />The excitement grows,<br />The crowd oohs and aahs,<br />And suddenly, the wind dies<br />And all bets are off.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><b>San Francisco</b><br /><br />I watch psychedelic flowers on the wallpaper<br />Turn somersaults, spinning like pinwheels<br />Against a green background.<br />Coit Tower emerges from this garden,<br />Rising high against an ocean sky.<br />The Golden Gate Bridge shines brilliantly<br />Against a yellow sun, its orange towers<br />A familiar landmark among the clouds.<br />19th & Irving hangs heavy with smoke:<br />Restaurants and coffee houses,<br />Reefers and incense from the<br />Head shops along the street.<br />I breathe in ocean spray and seaweed<br />On Ocean Beach, meditating on<br />The full moon and moonlight<br />Flung carelessly across the water<br />At high tide. A soothing scene<br />That captures my heart<br />And peacefully lays<br />My soul to rest.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><b>Foggy City</b><br /><br />Cold, clammy fog<br />Settles over the city<br />With stifling thickness,<br />Turning the living into ghosts<br />Wandering through an ethereal<br />World of white nothingness.<br />Muffled sounds break through the quiet.<br />Red lights flash through the foggy shield.<br />The dead rise unwillingly,<br />Already caught in their own purgatory. <br />The world of the living<br />And the world of the dead<br />Intermingle, recognize this mishap<br />Of Fate, withdraw, and return<br />To their own spheres of being.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi48KUhZnqYvn2iyUtNVZwqDSgHkRW5d_MCd0xHCG0y4M3vYEYMKC5aa1c0S3AabNyAHAYNzv4Nre8V_BCEIiMonDBbTdK5Cvh8K-brveSVdJOw8Jy9ntz-KDZ_OKwC39NbvGC_syGYoElPaOsBqjTsd8OFCkc_QNUBlfQVxbo72YiFwqL1K_Beg/s747/stone%20steps%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="747" data-original-width="500" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi48KUhZnqYvn2iyUtNVZwqDSgHkRW5d_MCd0xHCG0y4M3vYEYMKC5aa1c0S3AabNyAHAYNzv4Nre8V_BCEIiMonDBbTdK5Cvh8K-brveSVdJOw8Jy9ntz-KDZ_OKwC39NbvGC_syGYoElPaOsBqjTsd8OFCkc_QNUBlfQVxbo72YiFwqL1K_Beg/w268-h400/stone%20steps%20jn.png" width="268" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>—Public Domain Photo </i></span></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Courtesy of Joe Nolan</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />ZOOM VERSUS LIVE ATTENDANCE<br /><i>—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA</i><br /> <br />In portal,<br />A predicament,<br />About a carbon footprint<br />We have spent<br />Just to get here,<br />To our <br />Poetry reading.<br /><br />Maybe we<br />Should have stayed <br />On Zoom,<br />Looking at 24 faces<br />Per page?<br /><br />That way, we <br />Could have saved our gas,<br />That we burned on <br />Overburdened highways,<br />Coming and going,<br />Contributing<br />To global warming<br />And all the degradation<br />We deplore.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEily92pDcnLx2Z4_doVDjVwFFXro0nYCRq16oVf1omx682e5o5NHYEJY265qwC9bzhyMbahAUbOlFGbftKjAwMD9Fcb78OS-83XFnCdYhSPbMJl-cv7PmYNXGh2pwDhSPQTyEw8d7rMYZwXGYN4uS8aE32WtzWpo2sckU36wjItMtl6nG1xQZ_h3Q/s200/Komodo%20dragon:dont%20mess:monday%20kk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="112" data-original-width="200" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEily92pDcnLx2Z4_doVDjVwFFXro0nYCRq16oVf1omx682e5o5NHYEJY265qwC9bzhyMbahAUbOlFGbftKjAwMD9Fcb78OS-83XFnCdYhSPbMJl-cv7PmYNXGh2pwDhSPQTyEw8d7rMYZwXGYN4uS8aE32WtzWpo2sckU36wjItMtl6nG1xQZ_h3Q/w400-h224/Komodo%20dragon:dont%20mess:monday%20kk.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Don't mess with me on Mondays...<br /></i></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain</span></i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />THE ONLY GAME IN TOWN<br /><i>—Joe Nolan</i><br /> <br />There’s a game in town.<br />Everybody, gather round.<br />It’s a game <br />Of up and down.<br />The losers take the latter.<br /><br />Evictions and foreclosures,<br />People on the street.<br />That’s the way<br />We do,<br />These days,<br />When their circle is complete.<br /><br />In a game of musical chairs,<br />Some must lose their seat.<br />The D.J. on the music-beat<br />Controls the needle-arm.<br />The timing of the trauma<br />Is meant to do you harm.<br /><br />It’s a game<br />We’ve all<br />Signed onto—<br />To play, to<br />Win or lose.<br /><br />It’s not a game <br />That we’d prefer, but<br />It’s the only game in town.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI8Qq7Aqgfc8ka04FnHRjW47oXTYF1J8DHuydvq1M7OFcoeCtzZSVo5LrQqAzqZYLuWpSrPWnz7apLT_Vvfs6rwiTWS_QMtRSpk_3L4kVReE7vgwyTQ8pLIu3IJCfzE4o7hbkSJV1AWNOn4vHrCkShWwhe6zEQduU_UWtmPSSYtjpNbGwaDGtcsw/s621/dr.%20seuss%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="621" data-original-width="500" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI8Qq7Aqgfc8ka04FnHRjW47oXTYF1J8DHuydvq1M7OFcoeCtzZSVo5LrQqAzqZYLuWpSrPWnz7apLT_Vvfs6rwiTWS_QMtRSpk_3L4kVReE7vgwyTQ8pLIu3IJCfzE4o7hbkSJV1AWNOn4vHrCkShWwhe6zEQduU_UWtmPSSYtjpNbGwaDGtcsw/w323-h400/dr.%20seuss%20jn.png" width="323" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>—Public Domain Illustration </i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Courtesy of Joe Nolan</i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i> </i></span><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />THE COLLAPSE OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION<br /><i>—Joe Nolan</i><br /><br />The collapse of Western Civilization<br />Has happened before.<br />It happened to the Romans<br />And to the Byzantines,<br />One-thousand years, later.<br /><br />It seems that a collapse<br />Is scheduled in the cards,<br />Waiting to descend.<br /><br />Nations and empires<br />Have their beginnings<br />And also, their ends.<br /><br />What are we<br />To make of this?<br />We, who <br />Wish to persist,<br /><br />Within our own existence,<br />Though the gates of <br />Our nations might fall? </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcA2ZtEsSqIrIGIGZFwoQqWp577xlzstr5GO2hAq21PnezzrcGsJIcURGkPAomp65C6qnyZ2eK88dlxPQ_3DqP9NIknPLSxuyDDHyIHxH0uClvz5LfeMidpGLmP5Lf_g1FwnkrZuFXPOGUcW0k5mM28P9WPUVFIJc3i4yriLJOV9Da57ngWaqfBQ/s615/girl:yellow%20tulips%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="615" data-original-width="615" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcA2ZtEsSqIrIGIGZFwoQqWp577xlzstr5GO2hAq21PnezzrcGsJIcURGkPAomp65C6qnyZ2eK88dlxPQ_3DqP9NIknPLSxuyDDHyIHxH0uClvz5LfeMidpGLmP5Lf_g1FwnkrZuFXPOGUcW0k5mM28P9WPUVFIJc3i4yriLJOV9Da57ngWaqfBQ/w400-h400/girl:yellow%20tulips%20jn.png" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan</span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><i>JOIE DE VIVRE</i> FOR LONGEVITY<br /><i>—Joe Nolan</i><br /><br />Try to eat <br />A little bit<br />Of everything<br />Doctors tell you<br />Not to,<br />Each and every day.<br /><br />Drink a drink of <br />Fish-can’t-drink,<br />Since they live<br />In water,<br />Every single day,<br />No matter what <br />Advisors say.<br /><br />Stubbornness<br />Promotes longevity.<br />The more you do things<br />Your own way<br />The longer you<br />Are likely to<br />Exercise your will.<br /><br />Continue to do <br />What you like to do<br />Despite the rules—<br /><i>Joie de vivre</i><br />Is what lubricates<br />Your machine. <br /><br />__________________<br /><br /><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />KITEKU <br />—Caschwa<br /><br />I’ve had several <br />good days flying kites, and they’re <br />still up there, somewhere<br /><br />__________________<br /><br />—Medusa, wishing us all a little more </i><b><span style="color: red;">joie</span> <span style="color: #800180;">de</span></b> <span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>vivre</b></span>…</div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTAAqvhOHdRrdOHfYD4OFQgcZIlO_G9Le2X4wWXLUD5svvx82_iPxAAWP7KFjt1gDmmwcWmyh6P-4QWBhdXN7gZVuLrlj8-nuKuqNBQZCwTeQDyAA_fibmk-HsTtXhyphenhyphenfFSeZS7fI36EfML1YCwZyOKl1ycm4wLRdiKlFykFstfyDxVsZkWWOV3Sg/s350/cat's%20pjs%20kk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="350" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTAAqvhOHdRrdOHfYD4OFQgcZIlO_G9Le2X4wWXLUD5svvx82_iPxAAWP7KFjt1gDmmwcWmyh6P-4QWBhdXN7gZVuLrlj8-nuKuqNBQZCwTeQDyAA_fibmk-HsTtXhyphenhyphenfFSeZS7fI36EfML1YCwZyOKl1ycm4wLRdiKlFykFstfyDxVsZkWWOV3Sg/w400-h400/cat's%20pjs%20kk.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> The REAL cat’s pyjamas…</i><br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i><br /></div><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A reminder that</i><br /><i><b>Poetry in Motion</b> read-around</i><br /><i>takes place in Placerville </i><br /><i>this morning, 10:30am; and </i><br /><i><b>Sacramento Poetry Cente</b>r presents</i><br /><i> <span style="color: red;">Julia Levine</span> and <span style="color: red;">Susan Kelly-DeWitt</span></i><br /><i>tonight in Sacramento, 7:30pm.</i><br /><i>For info about these and other</i><br /><i>future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2kWg9uWu1dx0eZkurGDp6lCUJD3m-mOqWQ5HXWeqqew92G_nlfrcgKIaB7VwcQzkNh32hIjYDO8pFXU6mSkFFgD7DUX0DZdkDkUEFYlI7f-4qSnEZqAIVh4eiFlNvk1noGDDWX1zbHrykNI1AHg7zwfoTEHCK9wlm8n_Nd0iSgiCpE1LgcdkOxw/s225/kite%20w:dragon.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2kWg9uWu1dx0eZkurGDp6lCUJD3m-mOqWQ5HXWeqqew92G_nlfrcgKIaB7VwcQzkNh32hIjYDO8pFXU6mSkFFgD7DUX0DZdkDkUEFYlI7f-4qSnEZqAIVh4eiFlNvk1noGDDWX1zbHrykNI1AHg7zwfoTEHCK9wlm8n_Nd0iSgiCpE1LgcdkOxw/w200-h200/kite%20w:dragon.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /> </i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-31659197868362523642024-03-17T08:33:00.000-07:002024-03-17T08:33:38.748-07:00Then You Have Loved<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxJjHIAAyHZII-YQDSFZ8glzSxSDXvCXarcyD79_05sJyseKY__zjKV33bm1MzJk-br-t3UulpDOtsMcq6CZTwR4GoFwH5djjlgxCqFodeZNrWAvwHLwt_79R7esXvUToFpndokDBTzNuTmIGsOyHmcM1oHa-2kYkFS9uOTGggmpRg-3MiFQtdRw/s600/girls%20circle%20night%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="481" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxJjHIAAyHZII-YQDSFZ8glzSxSDXvCXarcyD79_05sJyseKY__zjKV33bm1MzJk-br-t3UulpDOtsMcq6CZTwR4GoFwH5djjlgxCqFodeZNrWAvwHLwt_79R7esXvUToFpndokDBTzNuTmIGsOyHmcM1oHa-2kYkFS9uOTGggmpRg-3MiFQtdRw/w321-h400/girls%20circle%20night%20jn.png" width="321" /></a></div> <i>—Poetry by Vandana Kumar, New Delhi, India<br />—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">REAR-VIEW MIRROR<br /><br />Drops on windshield<br />the rains<br />still slow<br />been at it<br />since a few hours now<br /><br />I like the haze<br />that keeps me<br />from seeing the ghettos<br />repeated head counts<br />after calamity<br /><br />a decade ago<br />we still could use fuddy-duddy clichés<br />call our cities<br />‘melting pots’<br /><br />I resist the wiper<br />as long as I can<br />larger drops<br />stain the car<br />the radio is on<br />nebulous days<br />when smokescreens<br />take us away<br />from city ghosts<br />and<br />the clarity of by-lanes.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj70D_7dU2I6jGPATBhKNjFF5eFL8AnD3rGjPV6WxxN1ZgB3jG3qu43wzH0V4nvAKbIC2srQH2J5hrABTtX6b0d9Wlbg3-OxR6lMcMZX6IaPh9Nc_jWwpdn95gKfifr6llDEOX0DWKU0_z4kNsUU27Nt9jDygFWP5C4scxu-5xwaHTVqee2qRRHeg/s498/girl%20archer%20snow%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="498" data-original-width="479" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj70D_7dU2I6jGPATBhKNjFF5eFL8AnD3rGjPV6WxxN1ZgB3jG3qu43wzH0V4nvAKbIC2srQH2J5hrABTtX6b0d9Wlbg3-OxR6lMcMZX6IaPh9Nc_jWwpdn95gKfifr6llDEOX0DWKU0_z4kNsUU27Nt9jDygFWP5C4scxu-5xwaHTVqee2qRRHeg/w385-h400/girl%20archer%20snow%20jn.png" width="385" /></a></div> <br /><br />A STILL WINTER<br /><br />It isn’t the sort of cold that moves <br />static all around <br />I look for a pizza cutter<br />and ice cream scoop<br />I imagine making triangles<br />out of the dense fog <br />and consuming it<br />to make visible spaces in the atmosphere <br /><br />I imagine the ice cream scoop lifting the fog<br />splashing it<br />into dessert glass<br /><br />it is a decadent country <br />of stale debate <br />on fresh television screen<br /><br />the Winter from another eon <br />seems to have seeped into the bones <br />so quietly<br />there are no surface breezes<br />I am wary<br />a Winter without its wind-chill<br />is no Winter at all</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4zReyj-e8giD-wQ2QFHUfaW4kixQQ8OyiFK7HtlTgP2Wu6cCKdQGmURLasTBgT3BXkigpUL0iHsjHgMdBjowU9D2UtWURsMShDc0R6S9iZMKXwP4UNZZFUu1qhkQFF-CUvw07b4M2pHuuMr44AWsjwJtwJhveYAee2TCBkFuOXeWTcmb3tFEwiA/s350/red.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="280" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4zReyj-e8giD-wQ2QFHUfaW4kixQQ8OyiFK7HtlTgP2Wu6cCKdQGmURLasTBgT3BXkigpUL0iHsjHgMdBjowU9D2UtWURsMShDc0R6S9iZMKXwP4UNZZFUu1qhkQFF-CUvw07b4M2pHuuMr44AWsjwJtwJhveYAee2TCBkFuOXeWTcmb3tFEwiA/w320-h400/red.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br />LADY IN RED<br /><br />You, in vermillion attire<br />with a slit that starts from the waist<br />and runs as long as the river Nile<br /><br />how I wish you smiled<br />just for me<br />and not<br />for all the pirates of the Pacific<br /><br />you!<br />With rings on fingers<br />on the hand, right<br />on the hand, left<br />are you a prisoner?<br />Of one of the men<br />whose harem you head?<br />Do you play out your politics in bed?<br />For an entire tribe?<br /><br />You in your dress, oozing red<br />I wonder just how many doctors<br />run to your rescue<br />press the nerves<br />kiss every pore<br />suck out the blood stains<br /><br />it is a day parched<br />such thirst<br />single malt<br />quality unquestionable<br /><br />come to me<br />Oh woman, in scarlet or cerise dress<br />become every dirty thing<br />I want you to be.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgllhakC37YVG_OTpahpNEiln7nIE-HRxz3ze3MoUzsA4FKr9cBGdNFiaotsVXXzoslX2edgAJr-C-SOtd07eMgW8NPkoxprNi9mvBOWWDhtUYFeB9kTcy7FUOM1JYVMnVM7CpbNsHzgQurmv41xtmXBYUGGuYlPrEFIo_QQMFl1C-kV_pbO4aGFQ/s726/girl:dark:sunflr%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="726" data-original-width="580" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgllhakC37YVG_OTpahpNEiln7nIE-HRxz3ze3MoUzsA4FKr9cBGdNFiaotsVXXzoslX2edgAJr-C-SOtd07eMgW8NPkoxprNi9mvBOWWDhtUYFeB9kTcy7FUOM1JYVMnVM7CpbNsHzgQurmv41xtmXBYUGGuYlPrEFIo_QQMFl1C-kV_pbO4aGFQ/w320-h400/girl:dark:sunflr%20jn.png" width="320" /></a></div> <br /><br />WAIT UNTIL SUMMER!<br /><br />When you hate the Winter <br />Oh! Those teeth that chatter <br />and several inches of snow <br />several days of it in a row <br /><br />the season harsh so <br />isn’t the best thing for the libido <br />the layers of clothes you must negotiate <br />the mere thought of undressing can wait <br /><br />if the parts of you down there —right under <br />refuse to cooperate, don’t wonder <br />such a bummer! <br />To leave the steamy sex <br />for Summer! </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg01Ze1MofnYS83K6Z0Q0AWyySSrl-kA7ypw6xjwrznsGrdxL1mJTH9AXFLWw7OGILZd7I_rsYMFgtgKPr3Is1_GU6RBCoSMT5t3wcwz-AaqHg7A-bM4-qWpOtCVtt3lF7GFh01M4pv1UiheiSxWg0Ko15pItEgEGSUhYHA_8HegIiRECV5kTG-PA/s564/girl:eagle%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="564" data-original-width="564" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg01Ze1MofnYS83K6Z0Q0AWyySSrl-kA7ypw6xjwrznsGrdxL1mJTH9AXFLWw7OGILZd7I_rsYMFgtgKPr3Is1_GU6RBCoSMT5t3wcwz-AaqHg7A-bM4-qWpOtCVtt3lF7GFh01M4pv1UiheiSxWg0Ko15pItEgEGSUhYHA_8HegIiRECV5kTG-PA/w400-h400/girl:eagle%20jn.png" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> <br />AND NOTHING SHORT OF THAT!<br /><br />There will be a mesh <br />after the hernia you got removed <br />it won’t reoccur <br />you are reassured<br /><br />gall bladders <br />one kidney <br />one ovary or two <br />without it <br />sooner or later<br />we half-learn to survive <br /><br />but with all the dangers fraught <br />O have your heart <br />right out <br />in your throbbing hands <br /><br />and walk along the sidewalk <br />the one with leaves strewn <br />some freshly fallen <br />some dried <br />roads with egos waylaid <br />all that matters <br />to the heart that walks outside of you <br />is giving <br />even as it puts itself at risk<br /><br />like leaving your home <br />front door unlocked<br />or entering wars unarmed <br />for battles meant to be lost <br /><br />no collateral allowed<br />the rest is mere convenience <br />or serendipity <br />when put to test <br />your favorite clothes<br />also tear at the seams <br /><br />walk into the night <br />starless <br />no candle-lit home around<br />to help navigate <br />for hounds might bark and pounce <br />conditions and consequences <br />only for the meek <br /> <br />sit and watch your heart wrecked<br />unable to distinguish <br />night from day <br />or the dance of one season <br />into the next <br /><br />know that then <br />you have loved <br />and loved <br />and loved. <br /><br />______________________<br /><br /><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />your hand<br />touching mine.<br />this is how<br />galaxies<br />collide.<br /><br />—Sanober Khan<br /><br />______________________<br /><br /><span style="color: red;">Vandana Kumar</span> first appeared in Medusa’s Kitchen on Feb. 19 of this year. She is a French teacher, translator, recruitment consultant, Indie Film Producer, cinephile and poet in New Delhi, India. Her poems have been published in national and international websites like </i>Mad Swirl, Grey Sparrow Journal, The Piker Press, Dissident Voice, Borderless Journal, Madras Courier, Outlook, Ink Pantry, Backwards Trajectory, The Daily Pointers, Synchronized Chaos<i>, and </i>everywritersresource.com<i>, to name only a few. She has been featured in literary journals like </i>Fine Lines, and anthologies like Harbinger Asylum, But You Don't Look Sick<i>, and </i>Kali Project,<i> which was a Finalist for the 15th Annual National Indie Excellence® Awards. </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />Vandana was a jury member for the All India Poetry Competition organized by Cocoa-Butter, and she also co-edited their debut print anthology that resulted from this competition in 2020-2021. She was the only Indian of 40 participating poets in the INĐIJA PRO POET 2023, a festival held in June, 2023 in Serbia. Her poem was translated into Serbian in the Pro Poet anthology published there. Her debut collection of poems, </i>Mannequin Of Our Times<i>, was published in February 2023; it was awarded The Panorama International Book Award 2023 and The Mighty Pens Awards 2023. She is also a Pushcart Prize-nominated author-poet for the year 2023. Thanks for today's poetry, Vandana!</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />_____________________<br /><br />—Medusa, wishing us all top o’ the morning and a happy St. Patrick’s Day—</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPWjreK-1JFNaYfQFXzmBeW5Y4_zQxNyhy9xjlTcEyEDol37teV7V-Y3HfoMnbi6aShMdjTPkUX50NQI2BQCkzcGf8Uzhi_tmEcyz29uB0Tg_YBBXlgCbFZN6JK2fUIrsvIzFQOjOcWObiFX2b_MVsZESJK2njnCLkAgiAUc6IgJE_40VFaONRHQ/s1714/vandana%20kumar%20mic.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1439" data-original-width="1714" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPWjreK-1JFNaYfQFXzmBeW5Y4_zQxNyhy9xjlTcEyEDol37teV7V-Y3HfoMnbi6aShMdjTPkUX50NQI2BQCkzcGf8Uzhi_tmEcyz29uB0Tg_YBBXlgCbFZN6JK2fUIrsvIzFQOjOcWObiFX2b_MVsZESJK2njnCLkAgiAUc6IgJE_40VFaONRHQ/w400-h336/vandana%20kumar%20mic.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Vandana Kumar</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A reminder that </i><br /><i><b>Poetry of the Sierra Foothills</b> </i><br /><i>features <span style="color: red;">Frank Gioia</span> and <span style="color: red;">Paul Godwin</span></i><br /><i>this afternoon in Camino, 2pm.</i><br /><i>For info about this and other</i><br /><i> future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVo6ZLKIGqlPnWJZA9Sfw8qagusINW96Ixpj0e2W_yP2iKXW1J8HEUypZKJOnaMRwDF2VCAYjS1PcdwxYN3phJBQuEVgbdN4bYwRCaN-jxdjc_KGcDNG-ehCKMuH_aDQWbyFCjqwPvz2EYaP2DSGm9RHEB1ANsk-5eF8AKNBmS6yaHiM4-uRypKg/s248/charmer%20standing.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="248" data-original-width="203" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVo6ZLKIGqlPnWJZA9Sfw8qagusINW96Ixpj0e2W_yP2iKXW1J8HEUypZKJOnaMRwDF2VCAYjS1PcdwxYN3phJBQuEVgbdN4bYwRCaN-jxdjc_KGcDNG-ehCKMuH_aDQWbyFCjqwPvz2EYaP2DSGm9RHEB1ANsk-5eF8AKNBmS6yaHiM4-uRypKg/w164-h200/charmer%20standing.jpg" width="164" /></a></div>LittleSnake is charmed <br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>by Vandana's poetry!<br /> </i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div><i></i></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-14719814426122369872024-03-16T08:33:00.000-07:002024-03-16T08:34:28.951-07:00Waiting for the Peace Dove<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKpNMc5jWowVq6m-KEKK61JT31ggkx3RV6CFDkhM5kY5pE-4L9RKGUMk7pE29mTU0v8BMEPBizDuaB7CaZ9Lqnqx1af6kw-DrzPg8c4j1Y2WxZGA26CU_M_7zXue6b7lvQqooVb0pKcTNAIMhqwaUM7iTxoftW5hfPrj0m1oNpKaG0NMoSBvYnbQ/s225/rainbow.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKpNMc5jWowVq6m-KEKK61JT31ggkx3RV6CFDkhM5kY5pE-4L9RKGUMk7pE29mTU0v8BMEPBizDuaB7CaZ9Lqnqx1af6kw-DrzPg8c4j1Y2WxZGA26CU_M_7zXue6b7lvQqooVb0pKcTNAIMhqwaUM7iTxoftW5hfPrj0m1oNpKaG0NMoSBvYnbQ/w400-h400/rainbow.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><i> —Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA<br />—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">HOW TO FLY A KITE<br /><i> in one’s nineties</i><br /><br />After sipping tea or coffee,<br />grip your kite string nonchalantly.<br /><br />Loosen fingers, stretch your hand,<br />make small shadows on the sand.<br /><br />Envision eagles flying high, <br />just missing trees, they climb the sky. <br /><br />Your kite wins Nobel Prize for skies,<br />symbolically slicing truth from lies. <br /><br />You say you had this dream before<br />‘mid driftwood by a windy shore?<br /><br />This kite that flies to far and bold<br />is childhood for all who held and hold.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq0p_JvpL22QIfcaPyQGfxsigwifgd3TYoVdMT-IEUJyiPDjvUVf3mTh0WyA6LWtZcEV0UqtTndn4M_a6YU8X7A8NH9RsH2KverA8oA4qoEURc2uScOuT7pYjLJGt3LldMkG8_GXwj866mNU-tS36FXKmFarjccXPUhIun0fhmb6BxFDBeN-YpIA/s1200/white%20on%20dark.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1200" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq0p_JvpL22QIfcaPyQGfxsigwifgd3TYoVdMT-IEUJyiPDjvUVf3mTh0WyA6LWtZcEV0UqtTndn4M_a6YU8X7A8NH9RsH2KverA8oA4qoEURc2uScOuT7pYjLJGt3LldMkG8_GXwj866mNU-tS36FXKmFarjccXPUhIun0fhmb6BxFDBeN-YpIA/w400-h300/white%20on%20dark.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br />LESSONS IN REFUGIO<i> PARK<br /> Hercules, Ca.</i><br /><br />In this crowded local park,<br />I share a long picnic table<br />with a sign-language instructor,<br />her pages of paper hand positions<br />diagram words, the alphabet <br />spread across our dark green surface.<br /><br />She is teaching two deaf children,<br />now playing nearby, <br />to read her hands and to reply;<br /><br />A blind child, who joins her friends,<br />sits at table’s end. She reads <i>Grimm’s <br />Fairy Tales </i>in Braille, one by one <br />fingering tiny paper-scrambled-eggs,<br />smiling as if she’s unearthing pure gold<br />coins. Sensing my admiration, <br />Maria smiles, moves to sit beside me.<br /><br />Here’s hoping the teacher’s charges <br />learn to read today’s signed message:<br /><i>You are loved, study well, be proud.</i><br /><br />Blind Maria has progressed at close range—<br />all hands and their gestures <br />meaningful, marvelously moving.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMSMO3kwMFj6FdDJuZElGxN4uFbNxHeG0lNClT6awSAMZJg-Bo9MCpDdpy9sPtlxFILaeRqGGevIOF2UFGFreIKo222Ar3qAF6ehQdabbPFASt6y9ghY4kli-Zj2HoZAgnx_7yEl-Ht7kthrfJcLrZTkfAIodfBhTBRBq9B4fjP5AnjQTX2OZeAA/s297/outline.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="170" data-original-width="297" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMSMO3kwMFj6FdDJuZElGxN4uFbNxHeG0lNClT6awSAMZJg-Bo9MCpDdpy9sPtlxFILaeRqGGevIOF2UFGFreIKo222Ar3qAF6ehQdabbPFASt6y9ghY4kli-Zj2HoZAgnx_7yEl-Ht7kthrfJcLrZTkfAIodfBhTBRBq9B4fjP5AnjQTX2OZeAA/w400-h229/outline.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />ROBBIE<br /><br />You, Robbie, warm <br />& real as you were,<br />became a scrap <br />of address, come upon<br />one cold day while looking <br />in a catch-all drawer<br />for matches.<br /><br />Did you slip or soar away?<br />What is your story,<br />your name for or claim<br />to glory--<br />you, Robbie,<br /> warm & real <br /> as you were.<br /><br /><br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/7/22; 8/12/23)</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjWtIXcr4l1q4hapjG-pd523VQtlIImd2d35efdYA9H-wCLk2SpHrtckBDqL7l3jdYYOMTny_M_h9uwXqP_nAY3GrzzuFNzbLgH4VHCubzrEEPIYJPAENoRFwPMvoDz5LWIcatmi7Geo-nEJpfvb7yrzXa4IQoiijkTDSYG3aDMtfkbyeHz1Q5TA/s295/three%20w:sun.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="171" data-original-width="295" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjWtIXcr4l1q4hapjG-pd523VQtlIImd2d35efdYA9H-wCLk2SpHrtckBDqL7l3jdYYOMTny_M_h9uwXqP_nAY3GrzzuFNzbLgH4VHCubzrEEPIYJPAENoRFwPMvoDz5LWIcatmi7Geo-nEJpfvb7yrzXa4IQoiijkTDSYG3aDMtfkbyeHz1Q5TA/w400-h232/three%20w:sun.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> </span></i><br />OUT OF THE BLUE<br /><br />We remember when<br />songbirds kept <br />circling our doubts.<br /><br />We might have caged <br />them for clarity. <br />Instead, we let <br /><br />the flock circle,<br />as we listened<br />intently to their song.<br /><br /> <br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in </span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Brevitie</span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">s, revised) </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjJALLU2QizzsOOUs7X46xO0V3HTJv9JfmY60Q2sEoX-tDcAfAwTDlqV53Unipx190fOB9rw4zD5VE9mL24f1xN6b4PnZZlvL8bHwKxtI5RJmToFwvBCI8GxFuIjBnLwMhsz-o5Uo447SkV4h_ZxHMPBfV7XjpJbrdbFoL82eddrwfMu6mucT90w/s302/brown%20lvs.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="167" data-original-width="302" height="221" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjJALLU2QizzsOOUs7X46xO0V3HTJv9JfmY60Q2sEoX-tDcAfAwTDlqV53Unipx190fOB9rw4zD5VE9mL24f1xN6b4PnZZlvL8bHwKxtI5RJmToFwvBCI8GxFuIjBnLwMhsz-o5Uo447SkV4h_ZxHMPBfV7XjpJbrdbFoL82eddrwfMu6mucT90w/w400-h221/brown%20lvs.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </span></i><br /><br />POET WITH DOVES <br /><br />If the dove <br />you released a week ago<br />has not yet circled back <br />to your shoulder,<br />hold out<br />your writing hand<br />palm pitched up and watch<br /><br />a peace dove land<br />on your lifeline<br />which long ago <br />a fortune teller’s story<br />enlivened when<br />unveiled she read <br />your lifeline into glory.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDSxYdHxOKmAIeReAlydaEsOqrv3fwHuxFyElJcfFL1jSy7H6DKez-7Viosxn8yIJamX5A9x02TFdat_pho62NE2VcoaEAApu9dr36Lk-idXjiGI4uh8r0v6pq7cUSM0Wpwherc8wUby5Cer5IDb5h12uNBDd_8kbJHIOIZKKYh26pIeX2by2cAg/s275/wings%20inward.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDSxYdHxOKmAIeReAlydaEsOqrv3fwHuxFyElJcfFL1jSy7H6DKez-7Viosxn8yIJamX5A9x02TFdat_pho62NE2VcoaEAApu9dr36Lk-idXjiGI4uh8r0v6pq7cUSM0Wpwherc8wUby5Cer5IDb5h12uNBDd_8kbJHIOIZKKYh26pIeX2by2cAg/w400-h266/wings%20inward.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /> </div><div style="text-align: left;">AGAIN THE CLOUDS ASK.<br /><br />Again the clouds ask<br />while draping the hills<br />of home: <i>must war keep <br />speaking, sickening<br />this water planet?</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">While framing the hills,<br />again the clouds ask:<br /><i>where is healing rain,<br />clean air for forests <br />and river willows?</i><br /><br />Regal in white robes<br />celestially clean,<br />again the clouds ask,<br /><i>will industry go <br />solar/wind full-bore,<br /><br />resist resistance?<br />May clean inner skies<br />bring cosmic colors?</i><br />Again sky-clouds ask,<br />though mostly are mute:<br /><br /><i>when will more windmill <br />birds top hills, reap wind,<br />solar fields humming<br />power for people?</i><br />Again the clouds ask.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzLn76_AKwd9J4yzE-Bzp0fhUO2RWZbkAhEh-p3tUbFtGeAusEzQ8FeX7SeM73V-RnQI9bRPKFmIblQ3aQQJxcNWoRd89b5o0RcQBUMBXA_SxvPRm28MomDv_0huFuxYJXRkRvNtEStYTi3mnw_wme6QtcCKyNqHcFMA3U1OSsZuXlGyABfxUfbw/s2000/white%20on%20grn.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="2000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzLn76_AKwd9J4yzE-Bzp0fhUO2RWZbkAhEh-p3tUbFtGeAusEzQ8FeX7SeM73V-RnQI9bRPKFmIblQ3aQQJxcNWoRd89b5o0RcQBUMBXA_SxvPRm28MomDv_0huFuxYJXRkRvNtEStYTi3mnw_wme6QtcCKyNqHcFMA3U1OSsZuXlGyABfxUfbw/w400-h240/white%20on%20grn.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />HOMEWARD NOW<br /><br /> A house of cobwebs<br /> is not<br />for me and you<br />since we need golden rooms<br />of flowers and sun.<br />In finding ourselves,<br />we’ve sipped to the dregs<br />a bittersweet brew:<br />have neither lost nor won.<br />Still and evermore <br />no house of cobwebs will do,<br />though sometimes our steps <br />run shadowy and blue<br />and we grow misty<br />from walls pulsating gloom. <br />No house of cobwebs <br /> ever dare loom,<br /> only golden rooms<br /> of flowers and sun.<br /><br />_________________________<br /><br /><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />WHAT IF…<br /><br />through every<br />mild and harsh<br />life experience<br />trees<br />of our spirit<br /><br />add another<br />growth ring <br />until we stand tall<br />like Sequoias<br />leaned on by ferns?<br /><br /><br />—Claire J. Baker<br /><br />______________________<br /><br />—Medusa, with thanks to <span style="color: red;">Claire J. Baker</span> for her fine poetry today!</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZJa25PUAGW7k9z1eJjgu2BwEeuPYT3_YktjT82Dv9QVC5AaWIxTNykieasoMWfxPe2c-xoWzT1NAt09ax_HHX0zMzMjkva4cbw-bS99MYqsgLsx2lu-S0sl2MQDzrf85RHxSN-NtO22O6wlxR1BRqhOUWOV9anacdyn4g6MAVqNPu9MUAi3wFLQ/s2048/claire.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1598" data-original-width="2048" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZJa25PUAGW7k9z1eJjgu2BwEeuPYT3_YktjT82Dv9QVC5AaWIxTNykieasoMWfxPe2c-xoWzT1NAt09ax_HHX0zMzMjkva4cbw-bS99MYqsgLsx2lu-S0sl2MQDzrf85RHxSN-NtO22O6wlxR1BRqhOUWOV9anacdyn4g6MAVqNPu9MUAi3wFLQ/w400-h313/claire.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Claire Baker at work while she waits </i><br /><i>for the peace dove</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /></i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i><i>A reminder that <b><br />Sacramento Poetry Alliance</b> features <br /><span style="color: red;">Danny Romero</span> and <span style="color: red;">Nancy Gonzalez St. Clair</span> <br />today in Sacramento, 4pm;<br />Beers Books presents <b>Authors in Conversation</b><br />with <span style="color: red;">Josh Fernandez</span> and <span style="color: red;">Jamil Jan Kochai</span>, <br />also in Sacramento, 6pm; and<br /><b>Out the Way on J </b>features </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>poets and music tonight, <br />also in Sacramento, 7pm.<br />For info about these and other<br />future poetry happenings in <br />Northern California and otherwheres, <br />click on<br /><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b><br />(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)<br />in the links at the top of this page—<br />and keep an eye on this link and on<br />the daily Kitchen for happenings <br />that might pop up<br />—or get changed!—<br /> during the week.<br /><br />Photos in this column can be enlarged by <br />clicking on them once, then clicking on the x <br />in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.<br /><br />Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down<br />under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button<br />at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets <br />by typing the name of the poet or poem<br /> into the little beige box at the top <br />left-hand side of today’s post; or go to <br />Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of <br />the blue column at the right<br /> to find the date you want.<br /><br />Would you like to be a SnakePal? <br />Guidelines are at the top of this page<br />at the Placating the Gorgon link;<br />send poetry and/or photos and artwork<br />to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post<br />work from all over the world—including<br />that which was previously published—<br />and collaborations are welcome. <br />Just remember:<br />the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—<br />for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmFaDetaylGK2OJVimf6uoupYCIk2JzIVZV5I0OdWhInXR2utsdH65f70aGFuKrDfpqQefzIgMYIn-yOJ5uokruthYnOV9pDkWti2qQxUEcMCQK5r7qHM3XGyrOAx4bt-sbyfa-mhyphenhyphenxugkVoRzABpbb7Fxn8wYj8gZGqRhyphenhyphen7FvRXPvt4rhQj0vSw/s1400/tread%20mindfully.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1050" data-original-width="1400" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmFaDetaylGK2OJVimf6uoupYCIk2JzIVZV5I0OdWhInXR2utsdH65f70aGFuKrDfpqQefzIgMYIn-yOJ5uokruthYnOV9pDkWti2qQxUEcMCQK5r7qHM3XGyrOAx4bt-sbyfa-mhyphenhyphenxugkVoRzABpbb7Fxn8wYj8gZGqRhyphenhyphen7FvRXPvt4rhQj0vSw/w200-h150/tread%20mindfully.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div><br /> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /><br /></i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-46889653376178666572024-03-15T08:36:00.000-07:002024-03-15T08:37:24.732-07:00The Ides of March<div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSJ7oLOuLTuRYUNMfs2fJJIiOo3kv9Rji6IHFH5ky0eSHZceJjCbdd8igDaST723klQ9O3mUWCz3wimPqoy9Ica2bzbnoXGzeOXJXFCDi27pBLGf0A6gO6S8_6GvNdqkuGdgH-BZS0Uumxh1_gkhD-ZHJOAfpHUy_8xD3O4Lv6DDdpzt2foYHKwA/s640/pond%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="640" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSJ7oLOuLTuRYUNMfs2fJJIiOo3kv9Rji6IHFH5ky0eSHZceJjCbdd8igDaST723klQ9O3mUWCz3wimPqoy9Ica2bzbnoXGzeOXJXFCDi27pBLGf0A6gO6S8_6GvNdqkuGdgH-BZS0Uumxh1_gkhD-ZHJOAfpHUy_8xD3O4Lv6DDdpzt2foYHKwA/w400-h301/pond%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,<br />Placerville, CA<br />—And then scroll down for<br /><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Form Fiddlers’ Friday</span></b>, with poetry by<br />Caschwa, Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,<br />and Joyce Odam</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">INSUFFICIENCIES<br /><br />It’s an early Monday mood, families having <br />breakfast, getting ready for the work-and-school<br />week, worrying about practicalities like money. <br />I’m looking out my kitchen pane sprinkled <br />with more than the forecast “intermittent light <br />rain,” meteorologists uncertain as stockbrokers <br />about what’s really going to happen. Beyond <br />the window, my garden where nothing grows but <br />ground squirrels, and a solitary crow heckling <br />from the wellhouse roof, protesting that I don’t <br />provide a field of golden corn. Be glad <br />for what you’ve got, I tell him—and myself.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIfV3sRp7TaZmf0DUCwa5cak3nL7BR6GExmF_iFRPy2iuxoe8vgGFEmOeJ0Xh5YgPJOShDAuVB6m1Ep8Nff5n4tnILjbe4Qj8U1wafA8zCgAF5MuFjuCjv6VkMWELpVLfvWAxZzkl9Br1Z8KKi8gncKbBt_UfY5cK8E_5FWpFxgABBXabT4WbgFg/s640/fence%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="640" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIfV3sRp7TaZmf0DUCwa5cak3nL7BR6GExmF_iFRPy2iuxoe8vgGFEmOeJ0Xh5YgPJOShDAuVB6m1Ep8Nff5n4tnILjbe4Qj8U1wafA8zCgAF5MuFjuCjv6VkMWELpVLfvWAxZzkl9Br1Z8KKi8gncKbBt_UfY5cK8E_5FWpFxgABBXabT4WbgFg/w400-h301/fence%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />SANDBAGS DOWN THE CREEK<br /><br />Winter of sailing<br />sandbags down the creek becoming<br />a river, sandbags <br />off the levee that was <br /><br />road, water remaking<br />landscape that was <br />pasture, was neighborhood and home.<br />We woke to new year<br /><br />back to zero which was <br />mud from which <br />the water creatures crawled ashore <br />to live under<br /><br />waves of uncertain weather, sandbags<br />sailing like clouds.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDbCWZ4Jm6Dxfsww1bdcjbJmdtPcjd-nka_t0zWEvFIDmQIuqhZwNjJBqVVBFfHIpkL4F8XmtVtDJKGamQsY7OcT8ZxW_EbmyBWfzxCDZJf3cpjImWe0m8MLrJl9nZOidjJkNAUC9sqBFPRGYlerdVJmBesUgYFm8UPXf72Uk5E3vLzCYwmaV8QA/s1920/wht%20flwrs%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDbCWZ4Jm6Dxfsww1bdcjbJmdtPcjd-nka_t0zWEvFIDmQIuqhZwNjJBqVVBFfHIpkL4F8XmtVtDJKGamQsY7OcT8ZxW_EbmyBWfzxCDZJf3cpjImWe0m8MLrJl9nZOidjJkNAUC9sqBFPRGYlerdVJmBesUgYFm8UPXf72Uk5E3vLzCYwmaV8QA/w400-h300/wht%20flwrs%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />BRIGHT SPOT<br /><br />This small wordsworth of<br />golden daffodils in full<br />bloom with lush green grass<br />outside RV storage, by<br />a campaign sign fallen flat.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxhp35kbjrhKMKdCjco57JYhyJGyAnqiQ9rwg5U5xb2j5qGwQnzGFNBRTvGAeeIWH01qm06WjXlfTwcmbRx52VnraHYurNRnDKnyH5toU9oAmfeCGw_9TAAtm5__7NhlKz54vwF6Z10zKHcaB43Tz-GH9_pV4CzwycqMVC-QZQgvFntZJsNooPKw/s1920/river:trees%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxhp35kbjrhKMKdCjco57JYhyJGyAnqiQ9rwg5U5xb2j5qGwQnzGFNBRTvGAeeIWH01qm06WjXlfTwcmbRx52VnraHYurNRnDKnyH5toU9oAmfeCGw_9TAAtm5__7NhlKz54vwF6Z10zKHcaB43Tz-GH9_pV4CzwycqMVC-QZQgvFntZJsNooPKw/w400-h300/river:trees%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br />BEFORE SPRING<br /><br />What does white moth seek?<br />A spirit dances spirals<br />of woods light above the trail.<br /><br />How does the earth tilt?<br />Four dogs come bounding unbound<br />from human leashes to joy.<br /><br />What does river say?<br />Man gazes across water<br />rushing his footprints away.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj43bOgAGXQz3yQZz616_g1nX0gi-bSk-aSVraLvEFPavWNlAylEYY0ux6INh0XxFjj6Q99sWl8706Kpg483Mh-liHt6alDYYheGdv5sM-hZRqZV1MGjERAabwE7qn6AeecQqCL-3QafekbureLlUPC7OuONZXrx8r2uNF7YpYeW16UAGxjdnma2w/s1920/blue%20flwr%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj43bOgAGXQz3yQZz616_g1nX0gi-bSk-aSVraLvEFPavWNlAylEYY0ux6INh0XxFjj6Q99sWl8706Kpg483Mh-liHt6alDYYheGdv5sM-hZRqZV1MGjERAabwE7qn6AeecQqCL-3QafekbureLlUPC7OuONZXrx8r2uNF7YpYeW16UAGxjdnma2w/w400-h300/blue%20flwr%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />SEASONAL<br /><br />Behind the concrete dumpster wall,<br />not far from financial planner<br />and dentist, sits a car-seat which<br />served as resting place for someone <br />last summer. Now I find only<br />assorted storm-sodden items <br />of clothing, fallen leaves turning <br />to compost, and a plastic soft-<br />drink cup, mold’s permanent abode.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsYMVLe9kghVp-BNDfzZPwNRRp_UfvOeMSGiZi6K0yvv8-BoBkkg8w5XiMS3fmQv83LJU1zrX2682U9OWzpXqtuZeYo6IANzQNwe9ICQJHNxrUTNP4IlYzm5msz7p2feCPGuZPZHqG4qt7Cpknzrl7zPrV-r8BiP0N6hNFjbQqGe9X3PY3WIhfcg/s640/poo%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="640" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsYMVLe9kghVp-BNDfzZPwNRRp_UfvOeMSGiZi6K0yvv8-BoBkkg8w5XiMS3fmQv83LJU1zrX2682U9OWzpXqtuZeYo6IANzQNwe9ICQJHNxrUTNP4IlYzm5msz7p2feCPGuZPZHqG4qt7Cpknzrl7zPrV-r8BiP0N6hNFjbQqGe9X3PY3WIhfcg/w400-h301/poo%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />IN PASSING<br /><br />Among a herd of Angus and Charolais, one heifer <br />lies flat on pasture ground. Too far away<br />to tell if she’s breathing. If I’d seen my horse <br />like that, I’d have called the vet. No farmhouse <br />in sight. My dog and I keep walking the trail. <br />The day is overcast and so is my mood. <br />At the bridge we turn back. There’s the field. <br />There’s the heifer awake, alive— <br />not trounced by anything but maybe a touch<br />of pre-spring fever. Grazing now <br />with the rest of the herd. Clouds persist, but sky <br />and earth look brighter.<br /><br /><i>___________________<br /><b><br />Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />BEFORE THE READING<br />—Taylor Graham<br /><br />We wait under tilting circles <br />of one turkey vulture—scanning<br />for dead poets among living?<br />Are our poems alive?<br /><br />___________________<br /><br />The Ides of March bring (or is it brings?) us more fine poetry and photos from <span style="color: red;">Taylor Graham</span>, including a <b>Tanka</b> (“Bright Spot”); some <b>8-syllable lines</b> (“Seasonal”); a <b>Bema's Best</b> (“Sandbags Down the Creek”); a <b>Ryūka</b> that is also a <b>Question Poem</b> (“Before the Reading”); a <b>Word-Can Poem</b> (“Insufficiencies”); and a <b>Katauta</b> (“Before Spring”). The Question Poem and the Katauta were two of last week’s Triple-F Challenges.<br /><br />In El Dorado County poetry this week, <b>Poets and Writers of the Sierra Foothills</b> features <span style="color: red;">Frank Gioia </span>and <span style="color: red;">Paul Godwin</span> in Camino this Sunday, and <b>Poetry in Motion</b> read-around meets in Placerville on Monday morning. Then on Thursday, <b>Cameron Park Library Poets and Writers Workshop </b>meets at 5:30pm. For news about El Dorado County poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s <b>Western Slope El Dorado</b> on Facebook at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry">www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry</a> or see <span style="color: red;">Lara Gularte</span>’s Facebook page at <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077">https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077</a>/. (Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!) And of course you can always click on Medusa's <b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b> (<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>) for details about future poetry events in the NorCal area. <br /><br />Another workshop that is coming up in ED Country, this one in Georgetown on Saturday, March 23, 1-4pm, is <b>Explore Riparian Landscape Through Art, Poetry and Native Plants</b> with <span style="color: red;">Alicia Funk,</span> <span style="color: red;">Corina del Carmel</span>, and <span style="color: red;">Lara Gularte</span>. You need to pre-register for this one at <a href="http://www.eldoradolibrary.org">www.eldoradolibrary.org</a>. April, National Poetry Month, will be crackling with readings and other events, not the least of which is another <b>Wakamatsu workshop</b> in Placerville with <span style="color: red;">Taylor Graham</span> and <span style="color: red;">Katy Brown </span>on April 14. Register for that at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry">www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry</a>/.<br /><br />And now it’s time for… <br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY! </span></b></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;"> </span></b></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRoMGWzFguHjZqXqdbo39JjXm0v3KEoYVGvTtw3wbXWLDOAibFi5DGJCst2bl7ZVUY4BoSnuT00UhyKpTMRAGQOYGh4w7Y4_aI9LHi93CS6tMnGOaimx6BW1efhU79cRmAycUPpxfgF2NwHuSbda65rOtx5wPynKHMyGMCwAWULgJazRfo0XRt0A/s800/irish%20mouse.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="800" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRoMGWzFguHjZqXqdbo39JjXm0v3KEoYVGvTtw3wbXWLDOAibFi5DGJCst2bl7ZVUY4BoSnuT00UhyKpTMRAGQOYGh4w7Y4_aI9LHi93CS6tMnGOaimx6BW1efhU79cRmAycUPpxfgF2NwHuSbda65rOtx5wPynKHMyGMCwAWULgJazRfo0XRt0A/w200-h200/irish%20mouse.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div></span></b></span>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.)</i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /> There’s also a 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. Got any more resources to add to our list? Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com for the benefit of all man/woman/poetkind!</i><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">* * *</div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJrNhiBDodYhOcaUGeBUiKuBl6U8vFeaZuACVSrciK-YN0d35TVXU7E2uWAFIj99VGuHxMyPMJrqeWAIIcLWoNvLX087ojmJKZs3CHnPG-h8zqhU68e6o2XRHnLjk8naWXjkBOay2af4PUZ18VzdLowXe4bGMZcfabmP5kRm9BAUaUhNv_Wwolkg/s400/OLD%20EK%20lion%20cranky%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="400" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJrNhiBDodYhOcaUGeBUiKuBl6U8vFeaZuACVSrciK-YN0d35TVXU7E2uWAFIj99VGuHxMyPMJrqeWAIIcLWoNvLX087ojmJKZs3CHnPG-h8zqhU68e6o2XRHnLjk8naWXjkBOay2af4PUZ18VzdLowXe4bGMZcfabmP5kRm9BAUaUhNv_Wwolkg/w400-h225/OLD%20EK%20lion%20cranky%20jn.png" width="400" /></a></div> <i><b>Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo</b><br /><br /><br /></i><div style="text-align: left;"><i>This week we received responses to last week’s <b>Ekphrastic</b> photo from </i><span style="color: red;">Caschwa, Nolcha Fox,</span><i> and <span style="color: red;">Stephen Kingsnorth</span>. Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) took the surprising slant of the lion’s teeth; Nolcha used the “out like a lion” angle; and Stephen wrote about some of the many roles of the lion figure in England; he included photos:</i><br /><br /><br />MAKES ME WONDER <br /><i>—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA </i><br /><br />should I pay a little more <br />and get one of those <br />electric toothbrushes <br />that swirls in circles? <br /><br />it has really been tough <br />going using the straight <br />handle ones they give <br />away at the dental office <br /><br />maybe next time I’m in <br />town I’ll stop by the store <br />and grab me some of <br />those newfangled (pun <br />intended) devices<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />MARCH<br /><i>—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY</i><br /><br />The lion and the lamb,<br />a march to a hill,<br />a ribbon of roses<br />I followed to you,<br />the blood and the spear.<br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">* * *</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhblXckfsNVul_BUPXaot-sSEbMAdK1v2Xa5qPmoonMHUfHymL19Y8-m7O94ac19l2fDTD9Xxiezwssyxw7OWa2wt5Nyl5xzPzl-k99sabA9bDd1mlDNdIAww5g66ly_A5zI_13UmC-N8kXJsDnk1iBdY6WQltR16P2mpB09ddr1a6YfbDtD112Vg/s474/Lion%20roar%20Trafalgar.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="315" data-original-width="474" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhblXckfsNVul_BUPXaot-sSEbMAdK1v2Xa5qPmoonMHUfHymL19Y8-m7O94ac19l2fDTD9Xxiezwssyxw7OWa2wt5Nyl5xzPzl-k99sabA9bDd1mlDNdIAww5g66ly_A5zI_13UmC-N8kXJsDnk1iBdY6WQltR16P2mpB09ddr1a6YfbDtD112Vg/s320/Lion%20roar%20Trafalgar.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Lion Statue, Trafalgar Square, London</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of </span></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Stephen Kingsnorth</span></i></div><i> </i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">UPROAR<br /><i>—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales</i><br /><br />If British Empire is its stand,<br />does lion roar with bleat of lamb?<br />It takes me to the prophet’s text:<br />both will lie down, in peace, as one.<br />But human trait, genetic trail,<br />is snarl, growl, teeth, claim monarch’s name,<br />a domination, king with pride,<br />the mane cat prowling on the veld.<br /><br />Now this is mode. one of attack,<br />like those which guard Trafalgar Square —<br />a battle won, past days, acclaim.<br />‘Land of hope and glory’ remains<br />anthem, nation’s prime concert, ‘Prom’—<br />flag wave music, lyrical shame?<br />So there were two kings, left their stamp,<br />just as King Richard, <i>Lionheart,</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuqPRxdUtahzU9xCEr4QpN_a2o4LjcUjwoft6WUd3tQ251URF0W1pwWv4ZYvPwDqKnQOX_j7ZL00agw9qPGggqxrGInRFA_nW8KWacSL7cacfLG8gEZH1gReQ0mYpKafccwyo4Rjnm8vFCGkUgXChAsLEE5qstgm0F7lLl6cjkYM7oqYaU245ArQ/s289/Lion%20stamp.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="248" data-original-width="289" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuqPRxdUtahzU9xCEr4QpN_a2o4LjcUjwoft6WUd3tQ251URF0W1pwWv4ZYvPwDqKnQOX_j7ZL00agw9qPGggqxrGInRFA_nW8KWacSL7cacfLG8gEZH1gReQ0mYpKafccwyo4Rjnm8vFCGkUgXChAsLEE5qstgm0F7lLl6cjkYM7oqYaU245ArQ/s1600/Lion%20stamp.jpg" width="289" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of </span></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Stephen Kingsnorth</span></i></div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />With <i>katzenjammer, </i>caterwaul,<br />its rumble with a five mile spread,<br />the highest count of decibels,<br />for any beast in prairie lair;<br />is this the carcass, Samson’s tale,<br />bee swarm’s retreat for honey sweet,<br />brand syrup tin for Tate and Lyle? <br />It’s changing now, for world’s moved on,<br />Bible, empire, but not uproar.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2zglzcWw802GfdIA0X9ynL9L6wcJOWBgiY-STqucxBLwyqDoZjjcvihWu3EDrFV3UcN9uaph5Kcj0KGU04sGWbNB_HmNSdwcS2f4NjWjq_-ZV-52jYvzwaw2fxeWWXaYwLtVN_VODij1oVp84xj1OTR6OeO1Qx0Wi3Iwowfbg78IWpnJuBCrBig/s314/Tate%20and%20Lyle.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="235" data-original-width="314" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2zglzcWw802GfdIA0X9ynL9L6wcJOWBgiY-STqucxBLwyqDoZjjcvihWu3EDrFV3UcN9uaph5Kcj0KGU04sGWbNB_HmNSdwcS2f4NjWjq_-ZV-52jYvzwaw2fxeWWXaYwLtVN_VODij1oVp84xj1OTR6OeO1Qx0Wi3Iwowfbg78IWpnJuBCrBig/s1600/Tate%20and%20Lyle.jpg" width="314" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of </span></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Stephen Kingsnorth</span></i></div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">* * *<br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><i><span style="color: red;">Taylor Graham</span> sent us a poem made up of 8-syllable lines this week (“Seasonal”, see above). Here is a moody tour-de-force by <span style="color: red;">Joyce Odam</span> that is made up of <b>seven-syllable lines:</b></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><i> </i></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmre5HydiO553PKoW_9WvDBrca5coYE7tgyTH-ETPxtMAfFjeuzckDVDn8V9rG22_UG6P-ElTI-suTdVjgzKvUiWTehQyRhG6Ph_Y414aiUHX6lfbDDV-SBkLxeiGBSXhdJ3qMRHhFiQhIF_U2AIKHBkcMhvO3wcQCz8WVjbqt3PGYPWbcmtC2wA/s500/stairs%20kk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="375" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmre5HydiO553PKoW_9WvDBrca5coYE7tgyTH-ETPxtMAfFjeuzckDVDn8V9rG22_UG6P-ElTI-suTdVjgzKvUiWTehQyRhG6Ph_Y414aiUHX6lfbDDV-SBkLxeiGBSXhdJ3qMRHhFiQhIF_U2AIKHBkcMhvO3wcQCz8WVjbqt3PGYPWbcmtC2wA/s320/stairs%20kk.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> —Photo Courtesy of Public Domain</span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />THE MOODY HISTORY <br /><i>—Joyce Odam<br />After “Natural History Museum, London” </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>(a photo by Tony Ginger) </i><br /><br />Everywhere there are stairways <br />and halls, curved walls and windows, <br />ornate shadows and random <br />echoes that burrow through the <br />old places that seem to be <br />inhabited, though they are <br />empty now—all the olden <br />palaces and castles and <br />cathedrals—some in forests, <br />some on moors. Even the seas <br />remember them—nearby or <br />distant—all the old tourists <br />with their fables and tales. I’ve <br />read of them and lived a few. <br />I know how they feel, and smell, <br />and moan, ever-so-slightly <br />at every departure. Their <br />musty draperies still hold <br />together and their cellars <br />still guard the wine. Their stories <br />are buried in forgetting—<br />their stairways still climb, and their <br />walls still curve together in <br />searchings and followings. Damp <br />halls disappear into rooms <br />that watch the widows fill with <br />captured views that never change. <br /><br /><i><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/27/19) </span><br /><br />* * *<br /><br />And here is an <b>Ars Poetica</b> from <span style="color: red;">Stephen Kingsnorth</span>, wherein he writes about the importance of poetry to him despite his ongoing battle with Parkinson’s Disease:</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW9JWeUUeMjVunG5_fMzSTMPuExS9f4IleWf_khM02Ouc1WIfqQOlX1fiALPH2oU-CicPbMHKB-QMCW3f8alR51PWaS3R6_prnEzpcx-ui-GaT0YXVbW1eEfHdvs5Kg7kYN_t9uiFPyIPUhie9sY3qrNn7FPSfVRk4nZrTTPwmbhhy-DFl-QTe9g/s169/charlatan%20sk.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="169" data-original-width="159" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW9JWeUUeMjVunG5_fMzSTMPuExS9f4IleWf_khM02Ouc1WIfqQOlX1fiALPH2oU-CicPbMHKB-QMCW3f8alR51PWaS3R6_prnEzpcx-ui-GaT0YXVbW1eEfHdvs5Kg7kYN_t9uiFPyIPUhie9sY3qrNn7FPSfVRk4nZrTTPwmbhhy-DFl-QTe9g/w301-h320/charlatan%20sk.png" width="301" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Stephen Kingsnorth <br /></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">CHARLATAN VS. CROWN OR CLOWN<br /><i>—Stephen Kingsnorth</i><br /><br />I am a poet, foremost, first.<br />I’ll not let symptoms interfere—<br />though balance wayward, sway or turn, <br />twitch, stumble, gout, or catch a fall,<br />handshake infirm or aching joint,<br />kick boxing though the woken night,<br />afflictions’ visit of the old,<br />arthritis—yes, the list is long.<br />But they’ll not dominate my lines,<br />or freeze me out from what I do,<br />as shuffle through the tipping point<br />to reach beyond imposed ill health.<br />Such imposition will not steal—<br />some claimed pathetic fallacy.<br /><br />I am a poet, foremost, first.<br />I’ve words to write, as muse dictates,<br />a smith to bend wrought curlicues,<br />as wonder, wander through my world<br />of grief and joy, community;<br />apprentice journeyman unfolds<br />both secrets and the obvious,<br />with craft of glyphs laid side by side, <br />by rhythm berthed at pulse’s core.<br />I’ll not provide my illness space<br />to bully, assert, cower me.<br />This charlatan can’t have his way,<br />that sham, fake, but a shameless quack; <br />my days are mine and so will be.<br /><br />I’ll prove I’m poet first, foremost,<br />and not an advert, symptom’s reign.<br />It has no voice, less give it so,<br />can claim no power, unless allowed,<br />for it’s my verse from first to last,<br />that moves, if so, beyond that chance<br />encounter with drained dopamine—<br />whatever is afflicting you,<br />some metaphor that draws the line,<br />that illness claiming it is prime.<br />If you read me, my sick complaint,<br />then I have failed to dominate,<br />instead of being, complement,<br />the stanza as my one concern.<br /><br />Treat as imposter vain disease;<br />why rant, accord significance?<br />Exhibit crown, though maybe clown<br />that versifies because I must.<br />I’ll not use fighting talk again,<br />as if the bout what’s all about,<br />this cheat who thinks the knockout his,<br />but won’t deflect me from what’s mine.<br />So while my will, ignore the lout,<br />his spouting in my ear I’m ill—<br />it’s an ill wind that blows no good—<br />creative stirred in paint and word,<br />and peerless gold when friends involved,<br />as I count peers in my surround.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyjOYGaBnjPV8vA5pGKhbpKPJGq5cH4wXbu50GoyTKkTg0o5m39GdV24NP_ok2s5uEl7fX-yWzIAXWMVirT4Ni-oPc5OrpFyp-eOnOYOKVEhMoAp4PC1EZXh3YCmPO36lvYTPkWvFD1oiB5EG_nn1qJ44ljUKq1tJ9h4ZluY4D9PCULL56unYGcw/s2527/Cream%20Tea%20sk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2527" data-original-width="1920" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyjOYGaBnjPV8vA5pGKhbpKPJGq5cH4wXbu50GoyTKkTg0o5m39GdV24NP_ok2s5uEl7fX-yWzIAXWMVirT4Ni-oPc5OrpFyp-eOnOYOKVEhMoAp4PC1EZXh3YCmPO36lvYTPkWvFD1oiB5EG_nn1qJ44ljUKq1tJ9h4ZluY4D9PCULL56unYGcw/s320/Cream%20Tea%20sk.jpg" width="243" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Stephen and Denise Kingsnorth</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><i><br />Our recent Ekphrastic photo challenge featured a tea set, and Stephen sent this photo of him at tea with his lovely wife, Denise.</i><br /><br /><i>___________________<br /><br />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!<br /><br />___________________<br /><br /><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">TRIPLE-F CHALLENGES! </span></b></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJC_Lplj9R09dJ70-jYPvKOB_7EGZpCXoxxykJyI-OnK6jqlfed2tW3e1tkzXOFrKloWjpTKinSEs9B96QKXct31CaYZpzEFh-nkyTffonq_86j5sKIAdG2tmidH7Jrpiu7z1gNF5ZUwqvN8w2CjjNsEEviRqSir_ySWArwt-N2wBYg2dWd8emWw/s1300/snake%20around%20pen.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="778" data-original-width="1300" height="120" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJC_Lplj9R09dJ70-jYPvKOB_7EGZpCXoxxykJyI-OnK6jqlfed2tW3e1tkzXOFrKloWjpTKinSEs9B96QKXct31CaYZpzEFh-nkyTffonq_86j5sKIAdG2tmidH7Jrpiu7z1gNF5ZUwqvN8w2CjjNsEEviRqSir_ySWArwt-N2wBYg2dWd8emWw/w200-h120/snake%20around%20pen.jpg" width="200" /></a></div></span></b>See what you can make of these challenges, and send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.) Here’s a crazy-maker, the <b>Barbee</b>. (One of our SnakePals is<span style="color: red;"> Sam Barbee</span>, but I’m sure this has no relation to him...)<br /><br />•••<b>Barbee:</b> <a href="https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/barbee">https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/barbee<br /></a><br />•••AND/OR the equally exacting form with an interesting name, the <b>Blood Quill</b>:<br /><br />•••<b>Blood Quill:</b> <a href="https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/blood-quill">https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/blood-quill</a><br /><br />•••AND/OR a form that is appropriate to the season and the times we live in, the <b>Bryant</b>:<br /><br />•••<b>Bryant: </b><a href="https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bryant">https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bryant<br /></a><br />•••See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an<b> Ekphrastic</b> photo.<br /><br />•••And don’t forget each <b>Tuesday’s Seed of the Week!</b> This week it’s “Kites”.<br /><br />____________________<br /><br /><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:</span></b><br /><br />•••<b>Ars Poetica:</b> <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica">www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica</a><br />•••<b>Barbee:</b> <a href="https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/barbee">https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/barbee</a><br />•••<b>Bema’s Best:</b> <a href="https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bemas-best">https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bemas-best</a><br />•••<b>Blood Quill:</b> <a href="https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/blood-quill">https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/blood-quill</a><br />•••<b>Bryant:</b> <a href="https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bryant">https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bryant</a><br />•••<b>Ekphrastic Poem:</b> <a href="http://notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry">notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry</a> <br />•••<b>Katauta:</b> <a href="http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/katauta-poetic-form">www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/katauta-poetic-form</a><br />•••<b>Question Poem:</b> <a href="http://penandthepad.com/write-question-poem-6933078.html">penandthepad.com/write-question-poem-6933078.html</a><br />•••<b>Ryūka:</b> <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryūka">en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryūka</a><br />•••<b>Tanka: </b><a href="http://poets.org/glossary/tanka">poets.org/glossary/tanka</a><br />•••<b>Word-Can Poem:</b> putting random words on slips of paper into a can, then drawing out a few and making a poem out of them<br /><br />___________________<br /><br />—Medusa</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggzMNB9WKvrvsBYaJQ5NpY5xhHX2RvMoT5nNEwrZ4znWmZ_njH-P6vlBgszx-mBYQ1_K6tU2hEbDYg_zE1vhbd8GS6CwbBi9WOIkoodU_xJjAR1tSi2h4gEijrs4cH7FDJcBlQO2c3Pca8uw9HM43UOQ7XOcQ4QxBvLU9m2SPTa2fhNCHKSGDMmA/s350/NEW%20EK%20lady%20w:a%20fan%201904%20raphael%20kirchner%20austrian%201876-1917.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="240" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggzMNB9WKvrvsBYaJQ5NpY5xhHX2RvMoT5nNEwrZ4znWmZ_njH-P6vlBgszx-mBYQ1_K6tU2hEbDYg_zE1vhbd8GS6CwbBi9WOIkoodU_xJjAR1tSi2h4gEijrs4cH7FDJcBlQO2c3Pca8uw9HM43UOQ7XOcQ4QxBvLU9m2SPTa2fhNCHKSGDMmA/w274-h400/NEW%20EK%20lady%20w:a%20fan%201904%20raphael%20kirchner%20austrian%201876-1917.jpg" width="274" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b> Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!</b></i><br /><i> </i><br /><i> Make what you can of today's </i><br /><i>picture, and send your poetic results to </i><br /><i>kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)</i><br /><br /><i>* * *</i><br /><br /><i>—Illustration Courtesy</i><br /><i>of Public Domain</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A reminder that</i><br /><i>Luna’s Cafe retired barista/owner</i><br /><i><span style="color: red;">Art Luna</span> <b>will speak today </b></i><br /><i>about his experiences at Luna’s— </i><br /><i>CSUS, 3pm.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Uo_04Lk5_neOWkLIzoWqIJqHRVhpJhjgLr3CQ7tg-TV9ZDO15qfI7vZ1Ij7DA6b0ALuW5SCu0nqwxD5tphHyeZDtvXwiqh7K6wAeWXxUp9kMhWKSCwTdcfYCEMk26x1Xj2xjqhnEiFqdP34qYwahk09vDt5L7CZTm0h9IAEzJXL4LI9sCPjWjQ/s693/crocus.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="693" data-original-width="658" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Uo_04Lk5_neOWkLIzoWqIJqHRVhpJhjgLr3CQ7tg-TV9ZDO15qfI7vZ1Ij7DA6b0ALuW5SCu0nqwxD5tphHyeZDtvXwiqh7K6wAeWXxUp9kMhWKSCwTdcfYCEMk26x1Xj2xjqhnEiFqdP34qYwahk09vDt5L7CZTm0h9IAEzJXL4LI9sCPjWjQ/w190-h200/crocus.png" width="190" /></a></div> LittleSnake celebrates Spring</i><br /><i>with crocuses</i><br /><br /></div><br /></div><i><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-60594764343488028022024-03-14T08:36:00.000-07:002024-03-14T08:36:09.377-07:00I Am A River<div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0sdgYmXvUXUqmVv52ZIQQc81f4WJmHSL-9ldoyN4ysiT9GFQaFVWhmOvCLriFlwkceBRDQFUllB_WgXU-_lKQ5tfu2Nuas8VbT1FSFR7ts6XowpvN1ZydHViJAY9Ds4Km2VlU2XqnV88ro_lExetlI73sPpi6HiB_SnlYypYzDOsQYmZSeL861A/s1920/stuck:restaurant.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1282" data-original-width="1920" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0sdgYmXvUXUqmVv52ZIQQc81f4WJmHSL-9ldoyN4ysiT9GFQaFVWhmOvCLriFlwkceBRDQFUllB_WgXU-_lKQ5tfu2Nuas8VbT1FSFR7ts6XowpvN1ZydHViJAY9Ds4Km2VlU2XqnV88ro_lExetlI73sPpi6HiB_SnlYypYzDOsQYmZSeL861A/w400-h268/stuck:restaurant.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><i> —Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY<br />—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of<br />Nolcha Fox </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">STUCK IN THE RESTAURANT OF HELL<br /><br />Any time I want to do <br />what’s easy, not what’s right,<br />I know I’ll find myself <br />locked in the Restaurant of Hell.<br />Servers could take centuries<br />to notice I am there.<br />They pour my coffee down my neck<br />instead of in my cup.<br />The roast beef is still mooing,<br />and bleeding on the plate,<br />and leaves a cake of poop<br />before it wanders out the door.<br />The salad sags and vibrates.<br />It grew from nuclear waste.<br />The bill is triple even though<br />I sit here all alone.<br />I’m paying for the privilege<br />of gagging up my food.<br />Best to choose some better moves<br />before it is too late,<br />and make my reservations<br />for a seat at heaven’s gate.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHCfpceHfbpnmJG9ZPkxz8DQlseuh-YkFzYSLZcJB6QkwyJ50W-xmz3TOIQQFqUOUnf_swDfShlfEvNPtWFHJIdcHX2e5jI8X11PQZdgjLEC9c8N_rOYBumZTU7lmEYQKyplifiszzyvX2FZDo3op-pqxbqtbvLjwPL6aIfFUoybXZHnKw8EM78Q/s1920/taking%20sides.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1920" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHCfpceHfbpnmJG9ZPkxz8DQlseuh-YkFzYSLZcJB6QkwyJ50W-xmz3TOIQQFqUOUnf_swDfShlfEvNPtWFHJIdcHX2e5jI8X11PQZdgjLEC9c8N_rOYBumZTU7lmEYQKyplifiszzyvX2FZDo3op-pqxbqtbvLjwPL6aIfFUoybXZHnKw8EM78Q/w400-h266/taking%20sides.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />TAKING SIDES<br /><br />It’s true that we must take a side,<br />left or right, up in the sky <br />or down below.<br />But I can choose another place,<br />perhaps the center of the room.<br />Or I can choose to hold my ground, <br />to claim what’s mine,<br />refuse to yield.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSyDQj_qcnaqEnCBoWV1VGRLRiz8QRvlhCOKUaAkmIhYeo8VMfOIYxA_7YGkG92YrNKIbNVLVRpEcxpAqczMdw1wPLNmwQXzQnqh_16mkwD0v01_ZcdH0DPqk-A1osmcVNY2xkKHuqTR0eEQyjNaKN6vz3hgwciCyFYCLYhlPfhVfrLSRJ2wi44Q/s1920/solitary.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSyDQj_qcnaqEnCBoWV1VGRLRiz8QRvlhCOKUaAkmIhYeo8VMfOIYxA_7YGkG92YrNKIbNVLVRpEcxpAqczMdw1wPLNmwQXzQnqh_16mkwD0v01_ZcdH0DPqk-A1osmcVNY2xkKHuqTR0eEQyjNaKN6vz3hgwciCyFYCLYhlPfhVfrLSRJ2wi44Q/w400-h300/solitary.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />SOLITARY <br /><br />A sickly sun behind a cell tower considers being swallowed into the mouth of a sullen steel bridge. A rusted shopping cart, the only vehicle parked in an empty lot, steels itself to roll into the concrete river under the bridge. Gone are the sticky fingers, the heavy loads, the metal-on-metal collisions. In this desolate world, it dreams of basking in warm, green water, of sparkling in the sun. It dreams of beauty.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSjsHc1Jn5FfhwLjt6HvxfplCaYWy-7zw7QBXbGfLiwhJr5CcCvfHE-b81WEC3ViE-cZG1ajUblK45oJ6WJuDy_IiDGeL35RaAXo4Wvg_gz3f19czEVgkZ4fL4mO49BfKeO8BBpkhSvPJ6Ngs81W4ew7c4hUo4v3U4v0bX4SxQWiabY9VcrI4xwQ/s1920/you%20adore:feet.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1920" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSjsHc1Jn5FfhwLjt6HvxfplCaYWy-7zw7QBXbGfLiwhJr5CcCvfHE-b81WEC3ViE-cZG1ajUblK45oJ6WJuDy_IiDGeL35RaAXo4Wvg_gz3f19czEVgkZ4fL4mO49BfKeO8BBpkhSvPJ6Ngs81W4ew7c4hUo4v3U4v0bX4SxQWiabY9VcrI4xwQ/w400-h266/you%20adore:feet.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />YOU ADORE MY FEET<br /><br />You swaddle me in fuzzy crush,<br />you keep me from the snow and ice.<br />You don’t mind acrylic stench<br />when my wool socks are in the wash.<br />I love you more than you are worth.<br />I swoon for you when days turn cold.<br />You are my only darling<br />til your laces break or soles wear out,<br />dear winter boots.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOPSGIbj4RMNS55Y0C6GlsgVNJi-MLNjNoKYLLz3DeAoHTLZav418iuHJ-xtB7QkWgEQN8vg31vowPMWwDWl1ciGyj-k69G0bQ8QYmyEV8oCQ8RxtotYbeYbkbfOfXwSnfhMkmEhwHGI3W5hOQXClXfGpi6AkQXZjxx7CEzgTU8WKFxozDtyQvLA/s1920/carried%20inside.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1920" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOPSGIbj4RMNS55Y0C6GlsgVNJi-MLNjNoKYLLz3DeAoHTLZav418iuHJ-xtB7QkWgEQN8vg31vowPMWwDWl1ciGyj-k69G0bQ8QYmyEV8oCQ8RxtotYbeYbkbfOfXwSnfhMkmEhwHGI3W5hOQXClXfGpi6AkQXZjxx7CEzgTU8WKFxozDtyQvLA/w400-h266/carried%20inside.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />CARRIED INSIDE<br /><br />I thought I left everything behind when I walked out with two suitcases and a typewriter. <br /><br />I thought I left behind the blinds that rippled from too many days with a humidifier, and too many summer evenings I pushed them aside to watch my friends play when I was supposed to be in bed. I thought I left behind the confusion I was for the woman I wanted to be. I thought I left behind a shattered marriage, anger, and neglect for something better I’d never seen. <br /><br />I opened my suitcases. It was all there, everything I thought I left.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwdLccnfap9zXbNy1LcunYuoy0wJigzb3pPczJnplEcsKSB33Ws9aelGZuPiocLzFfqiALokHv_f7Xn0IA0ZWoGZn5UGm169fRgBJEFZyRkTz5Svw281Ceyth9ZVvJs39hF-B1MnAPQpDl-7jQ-mHCP-G9Y57UN_gUTwInx12H20E47FamgCxzUQ/s1920/shut%20up.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1271" data-original-width="1920" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwdLccnfap9zXbNy1LcunYuoy0wJigzb3pPczJnplEcsKSB33Ws9aelGZuPiocLzFfqiALokHv_f7Xn0IA0ZWoGZn5UGm169fRgBJEFZyRkTz5Svw281Ceyth9ZVvJs39hF-B1MnAPQpDl-7jQ-mHCP-G9Y57UN_gUTwInx12H20E47FamgCxzUQ/w400-h265/shut%20up.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />SHUT UP<br /><br />I heard a voice inside my head<br />that was dissatisfied.<br />You’ll never learn to cook a steak.<br />You’ll never be house-trained.<br />You’d fail as a mother.<br />You barely rate as wife.<br />Your hair’s too gray to wear so short.<br />Your butt is way too wide.<br /><br />I tried a bribe of Reese’s<br />to make that voice go quiet.<br />The voice was unimpressed<br />and snarled she’d only eat Godiva.<br />I gave the voice a ticket<br />to a tropic paradise.<br />She said she went there yesterday<br />and prices were too high.<br /><br />I joined the local marching band.<br />I played the music loud.<br />The voice gave up and went away,<br />but now I’ve lost my hearing. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLhDHIC047pi70bCOPcZUIjt_H99HG2aPHO__3LlHVWRxNkKV5zzCa9h23fD-5OSaUSB_mQI3c0ARPdfzJo5pA9elVT1Gnvu7X8LevODvRChevmbHRSnwmgPQjonOWhpb30r-n2cu_XQOS7KbnD6YhrIWehNdJ03j3Sg5GnEWmFsuJXIWPKB7iyw/s1920/it's%20all%20water.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1277" data-original-width="1920" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLhDHIC047pi70bCOPcZUIjt_H99HG2aPHO__3LlHVWRxNkKV5zzCa9h23fD-5OSaUSB_mQI3c0ARPdfzJo5pA9elVT1Gnvu7X8LevODvRChevmbHRSnwmgPQjonOWhpb30r-n2cu_XQOS7KbnD6YhrIWehNdJ03j3Sg5GnEWmFsuJXIWPKB7iyw/w400-h266/it's%20all%20water.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />IT’S ALL WATER<br /><br />1.<br />Rivers empty into the mouths <br />of other rivers that kiss the sea.<br />The sea spits up water into the mouths of clouds.<br />Clouds open their mouths to drench the land with <br />rain.<br />I am a river, drinking the rain, thirsting for the sea.<br /><br />2.<br />You stare for hours at the waves,<br />your feet tangled in kelp, <br />sea and sand in soggy shoes.<br />Sun or rain or heavy seas,<br />you let the cold into your bones.<br />Perhaps you see your younger self<br />splashing in the surf.<br />Perhaps you see the ship<br />you never took sail out to sea.<br />Perhaps you’re waiting for the time<br />you turn to salt,<br />to melt into water.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9cyv57n1qdQpCbqRXJp3DfqFlhuzpjVUltaHvbKJJ9vR5ioMzeynMt9lVUnRg-3daproYn7r1IhNNgALoZcOyNkHi8T5UcuZxMUDUsEkI-pm2hs1Grn4e2BLiZTqjHypP64u_8LmbXLEpYWHcHiAAMLed2EqMY5U-eyEdBocNVJDIhY4QJesE-w/s500/memory%20keeper.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="333" data-original-width="500" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9cyv57n1qdQpCbqRXJp3DfqFlhuzpjVUltaHvbKJJ9vR5ioMzeynMt9lVUnRg-3daproYn7r1IhNNgALoZcOyNkHi8T5UcuZxMUDUsEkI-pm2hs1Grn4e2BLiZTqjHypP64u_8LmbXLEpYWHcHiAAMLed2EqMY5U-eyEdBocNVJDIhY4QJesE-w/w400-h266/memory%20keeper.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />MEMORY KEEPER<br /><br />You were the one I went to<br />when I could not recall<br />silly things. What do I take<br />to make congestion go away?<br />What remedies can ease<br />the aches of living every day?<br />Family stories, recipes,<br />you kept them in your mind.<br />My soggy brain was free<br />of all the weight of memories.<br />You left with all your treasures,<br />and now I have to find<br />a box to keep what I retained<br />before it slips away.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj942WUDwaiors3WxGoDIgWzaGtiCh-E-S9En-clngyToY-HDmcmZny_YmZ2fJbP66-loZsgeD8Tw1Heo8C94vxaw2NKzSK-hgVvboSyqGLNm5ncgNeaBqhXDEPvFLB4GdJirMFf-v10LvEJ8Rgc2e751QQ-pR5TH4pekFhyJm75a6LK5_iNy_juA/s1920/signs%20from:beyond.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1920" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj942WUDwaiors3WxGoDIgWzaGtiCh-E-S9En-clngyToY-HDmcmZny_YmZ2fJbP66-loZsgeD8Tw1Heo8C94vxaw2NKzSK-hgVvboSyqGLNm5ncgNeaBqhXDEPvFLB4GdJirMFf-v10LvEJ8Rgc2e751QQ-pR5TH4pekFhyJm75a6LK5_iNy_juA/w400-h266/signs%20from:beyond.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />SIGNS FROM THE BEYOND</div><p></p><p>My family was never a model of clear communica-<br />tion. I had to ferret out the meanings on my own. <br />Closed doors, silence, facial rictus, walking out the <br />door. Most often, I was left alone, puzzled by the <br />absence. <br /><br />They’ve refused to tell me what it’s like when<br />bodies turn to ash and bones, to tell me of their <br />wanderings now that they’re only souls. <br /><br />Or maybe I just miss the little things they send to <br />tell me they’re ok, to let me know they’re helping <br />me when I don’t know what to do. <br /><br />Or maybe they do now in death what they did when <br />alive. Just leave without a wave goodbye, to never<br />speak of where they are, to travel on their own.</p><div style="text-align: left;">___________________<br /><br /><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I JUST WROTE, <br />BUT DON’T I SOUND SMART?</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>—Nolcha Fox<br /><br />Decay of plausible resignation,<br />vanquished regret,<br />exit from a circus of addiction.<br /><br />___________________<br /><br />—Medusa, with thanks to <span style="color: red;">Nolcha Fox</span> for today’s fine poetry!</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2V781ID-VuXsJNFNm2s2V1w4zW9AnzMFmS2gZ8aHIHGnIxPRkeRkxNeJh6w26GP8QjsX0NG9DohPim8HTEMaC-cfX25hYtWOaCXouKJkgkptKkFkwAOPxsGUILgNvodqXQo8jbdFNDuG1OhZ0AZqF8vfkdfuyzDSRO5OjLvRXF8BIvpxkmTx7jQ/s675/fox%20face%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="618" data-original-width="675" height="366" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2V781ID-VuXsJNFNm2s2V1w4zW9AnzMFmS2gZ8aHIHGnIxPRkeRkxNeJh6w26GP8QjsX0NG9DohPim8HTEMaC-cfX25hYtWOaCXouKJkgkptKkFkwAOPxsGUILgNvodqXQo8jbdFNDuG1OhZ0AZqF8vfkdfuyzDSRO5OjLvRXF8BIvpxkmTx7jQ/w400-h366/fox%20face%20jn.png" width="400" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> —Public Domain Photo Courtesy </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>For future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6uSy-vTTVoaY-EwHt6hc5luBxTn9kx5NsbAJ8qEi1PJOQQ6E-GRAHsZRjjZXx1aXpHzm9iDX7KXCzWEr1kSOw9ADH0S0y1AR6nW6oNh9XzAZiPC72MYnHwcGnSKNcAn_Yz69HGZWlouR2S21x1Q4unpuR_fB8UNlGTwHg3-v6xNAWrSzxBR4QSg/s300/snake%20yo.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="112" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6uSy-vTTVoaY-EwHt6hc5luBxTn9kx5NsbAJ8qEi1PJOQQ6E-GRAHsZRjjZXx1aXpHzm9iDX7KXCzWEr1kSOw9ADH0S0y1AR6nW6oNh9XzAZiPC72MYnHwcGnSKNcAn_Yz69HGZWlouR2S21x1Q4unpuR_fB8UNlGTwHg3-v6xNAWrSzxBR4QSg/w200-h112/snake%20yo.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /> </i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div> </div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-58776997512776397962024-03-13T08:35:00.000-07:002024-03-13T08:35:39.597-07:00Stranger in the House<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVAn16iCKVCOUNfLgdhse35WhKFb3eaB-fNSsQyARauDlNSre6PKswnN5BcW6mRgq4BU-jFhUTd-Zm4wCnDiiANW6DMPFQj0MlABdqr94YTE_TGeXr6swe9_ZPcexPw6eFIU_wobSf6EJ9-9J65GHj6y3KznYe28wYVwsRl9x4jSPfhheM9kXlfQ/s450/top.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="450" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVAn16iCKVCOUNfLgdhse35WhKFb3eaB-fNSsQyARauDlNSre6PKswnN5BcW6mRgq4BU-jFhUTd-Zm4wCnDiiANW6DMPFQj0MlABdqr94YTE_TGeXr6swe9_ZPcexPw6eFIU_wobSf6EJ9-9J65GHj6y3KznYe28wYVwsRl9x4jSPfhheM9kXlfQ/w400-h320/top.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><i> —Poetry by Joshua C. Frank<br />—Cartoons Courtesy of Public Domain</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">IF YOU CAN’T BELIEVE IT’S NOT BUTTER<br /><br />If solidified oil with chemical clutter<br />That helps it look yellow and tasty to eat<br />Makes you think there’s no need to believe it’s <br />not butter,<br />You believe in modernity’s biggest deceit.<br /><br />If you think things can just be replaced with a <br />model<br />And the ghost of what’s good is on par with <br />the best,<br />If chemical mixtures that go in a bottle<br />Can replace Mother’s milk and the warmth of <br />her breast,<br /><br />If changing appearance is all that is needed<br />To match the real thing if you only pretend,<br />If killing a game villain means you’ve succeeded<br />And a shadow of color onscreen is a friend,<br /><br />If pretend’s just as good and you’re happy to settle<br />For text in a chat thread instead of a life,<br />If androids are people with hearts made of metal<br />And pixels of flesh are as good as a wife,<br /><br />If any religion’s the same as another<br />And feelings and fiction are equal to fact,<br />If a pet parent’s just like a father or mother<br />And a fatherless family’s as good as intact,<br /><br />If you still think this fake bubble life doesn’t <br />make you<br />As homeless as beggars who sleep in the street,<br />If this insect-hive world of today doesn’t <br />shake you,<br />You believe in modernity’s biggest deceit.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(First published in </i>The Society of Classical Poets<i>)</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCaWdMFuoR8wzoPxjwqsD46rT02zRmzn9EKNnqjd9gO1CU_FaPkrV64CME1igzLzHTkKLsRhiUDwtxvLVGppr6tdX4mJ0xUZ6oA-5-7hoq7yRYOd6fRfqwGr8VYCa3dWmuwfb092P8i2atHk_Aokir7CcnEg7kEC4MaffXetpa6MAN-EDufFqvhQ/s225/mid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCaWdMFuoR8wzoPxjwqsD46rT02zRmzn9EKNnqjd9gO1CU_FaPkrV64CME1igzLzHTkKLsRhiUDwtxvLVGppr6tdX4mJ0xUZ6oA-5-7hoq7yRYOd6fRfqwGr8VYCa3dWmuwfb092P8i2atHk_Aokir7CcnEg7kEC4MaffXetpa6MAN-EDufFqvhQ/w400-h400/mid.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </span><br /><br />NO EXTRA LIVES<br /><br />While all his friends were learning skills<br />To gain them wives or pay their bills,<br />John fought with monsters on a screen,<br />Got knighted by a game world’s queen,<br />Amassing troves of digi-treasure<br />That bought eight bits of gaming pleasure.<br /><br />But as the habit lasted longer,<br />John’s dungeon shackles grew much stronger.<br />His friends moved on and all gained wives<br />While he sat gaining extra lives—<br />One-upped by men just half his age<br />Who’d put in time and earned life’s wage.<br /><br />One day, much older, John awoke<br />And felt his electronic yoke:<br />No friends, no wife, and children none,<br />His life still stalled at World 1-1.<br />No princess wishes to be saved<br />By a gaming hero thus enslaved.<br /><br />John’s game-themed room now seemed a waste,<br />An emblem of his time misplaced.<br />No dragon’s hoard of jewels and gold<br />Could buy back time and youth he’d sold<br />For shiny bits of program code—<br />He wept beside perdition’s road.<br /><br />But, leaving home and breaking free,<br />He had no guide for strategy.<br />The social world seemed too complex<br />To a man who lived in pixel specks,<br />And so he ran back home to game,<br />Never quitting, to his shame.<br /> The moral of this tale in rhyme?<br />Work while you’re young, don’t waste your time.<br />Don’t put your life goals off till later;<br />Shoot down your schedule’s space-invaders,<br />Or, like our captured gamer guy,<br />You’ll find your life has passed you by.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(First published in</i> The Society of Classical Poets<i>)</i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYUKechZf6A-CLQT2qTMKt5JjAewmgyvm3n_1fbXsWWrAmOb0SHS_eo6AvrHbebJDFh1ViF0dbTNLtEnmLWo8E-gUoTTx7Iky6kNEXpGcNEFMrjUh8RlKxL7iIbuR9LNLJC9DUBwwOW6JXrKOcOPe1QTZnqG6xCfDT0NG29eHhWQscGM7HavW3FA/s225/bottom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYUKechZf6A-CLQT2qTMKt5JjAewmgyvm3n_1fbXsWWrAmOb0SHS_eo6AvrHbebJDFh1ViF0dbTNLtEnmLWo8E-gUoTTx7Iky6kNEXpGcNEFMrjUh8RlKxL7iIbuR9LNLJC9DUBwwOW6JXrKOcOPe1QTZnqG6xCfDT0NG29eHhWQscGM7HavW3FA/w400-h400/bottom.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />THE STRANGER<br /><br /><i>Based on a story circulating online at least <br />since 1999</i><br /><br />My dad once met a stranger in the mall,<br />New to our town, just months before my birth.<br />The stranger moved in quickly with us all<br />And soon became the source of endless mirth.<br /><br />My mother taught us how to love God’s Word;<br />My father taught obedience is key,<br />But from the stranger, our whole family heard<br />All kinds of captivating tales for free.<br /><br />Adventures, mysteries, and jokes he told,<br />And tales of kinder, gentler times of ours.<br />He drew realistic pictures and could hold<br />Our family spellbound every night for hours.<br /><br />He took my parents with me and my brother<br />To sports events and movies every week,<br />To meals with actors, movie stars, and other<br />Celebrities who made us feel so chic.<br /><br />The stranger spoke nonstop; Dad didn’t mind.<br />But sometimes Mom would quietly walk away.<br />While we were all enthralled, she’d go behind<br />Her bedroom door to read her Bible and pray.<br /><br />I think she prayed the stranger soon would leave,<br />For though Dad ruled the house by moral code,<br />The stranger didn’t care what we believe<br />Or honor this, our straight and narrow road.<br /><br />Though Dad would never let a person curse<br />Within his walls, the stranger freely spoke<br />Four-letter words like “damn” and “hell” and <br />worse,<br />But Dad would not condemn the words he’d croak.<br /> Though Dad called alcohol “the devil’s brew,”<br />The stranger offered us his wine and beer.<br />He said we all should be exposed to new<br />And different ways of life to see and hear.<br /><br />He made tobacco smoking look refined,<br />Though Mom and Dad have prayed we never <br />smoke.<br />He scoffed at sacred marriage and maligned<br />Its holy bed routinely as a joke.<br /><br />At first, the smut he spouted scorched my ears;<br />He told a twisted tale of what love is.<br />But as my brother and I advanced in years,<br />Our views on marriage slowly changed to his.<br /><br />Again, again, opposing Mom and Dad,<br />He never was rebuked or asked to leave.<br />He always preached in favor of what’s bad,<br />Yet somehow we weren’t able to perceive.<br /><br />Though thirty years have passed, the stranger’s <br />there,<br />Still drawing, telling tales of fantasy<br />To Mom and Dad, who’ve now no other care.<br />We always called him by his name... “TV.”<br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(First published in </span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The Society of Classical Poets</span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">)</span><br /><br />____________________<br /><br /><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />I find television very educating. Every time somebody turns on the set, I go into the other room and read a book.<br /><br />—Groucho Marx<br /><br />____________________<br /><br />—Medusa, with thanks to <span style="color: red;">Joshua Frank</span> for today’s fine, cautionary poetry!</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9bVfYxISbBVGpqJwrihEoe1ozVMs3xRvKZHyeS356YgsCfPf7jcmk6vm3eIRBfF7wo9RdTC6O5-2Dxr89LSo4Jal11G9VY1O8uPPCFE_sezExqIw-CVIKaDwlf0UveRiFqvKGctSedtMVCd9v4OC7JGhhDU9P-BlV5-MXd5fPSGUF_YwTtyDY1w/s275/cat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9bVfYxISbBVGpqJwrihEoe1ozVMs3xRvKZHyeS356YgsCfPf7jcmk6vm3eIRBfF7wo9RdTC6O5-2Dxr89LSo4Jal11G9VY1O8uPPCFE_sezExqIw-CVIKaDwlf0UveRiFqvKGctSedtMVCd9v4OC7JGhhDU9P-BlV5-MXd5fPSGUF_YwTtyDY1w/w400-h266/cat.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>For future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipZQxurMIU0QR9JREidtoVY53gXOsICf2Fo1NZ_gw2H-iPBTKEdOk7qRpRVJzzhsx5ZGOSWbtbYdUwbhtaNrlpzhe8-SbtrfTd-_RU9hu9bywM9Y7lr_2Nj2hhzrhlkomZfM3-P5GJL6-08tQDw7D36hRQwxCi0Cd01MZ_cKNiumCARM_ll6CIEw/s246/bar:drink.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="205" data-original-width="246" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipZQxurMIU0QR9JREidtoVY53gXOsICf2Fo1NZ_gw2H-iPBTKEdOk7qRpRVJzzhsx5ZGOSWbtbYdUwbhtaNrlpzhe8-SbtrfTd-_RU9hu9bywM9Y7lr_2Nj2hhzrhlkomZfM3-P5GJL6-08tQDw7D36hRQwxCi0Cd01MZ_cKNiumCARM_ll6CIEw/w200-h167/bar:drink.png" width="200" /></a></div><br /> </i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i><br /></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-87661240499821021832024-03-12T08:35:00.000-07:002024-03-12T08:35:10.305-07:00Shadows on the Morning<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeyKXqVBC4Tz8mau7Y_7fnGZSjVlYaAkMbKkq2h6wzsXgpbWDiw_EgUByNMOLmcYnBQCoHy2-oVe_MOmG9rYncReAbW4YwMyGqoFf40qgQ-PzkN2XOawvDn05gMGDddiutcBYvpcw-irBbAe1VrFSdIndYShHj-bSvf-s5HdiSCena8PadYZjUpw/s2750/TIMELY%20(000).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2369" data-original-width="2750" height="345" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeyKXqVBC4Tz8mau7Y_7fnGZSjVlYaAkMbKkq2h6wzsXgpbWDiw_EgUByNMOLmcYnBQCoHy2-oVe_MOmG9rYncReAbW4YwMyGqoFf40qgQ-PzkN2XOawvDn05gMGDddiutcBYvpcw-irBbAe1VrFSdIndYShHj-bSvf-s5HdiSCena8PadYZjUpw/w400-h345/TIMELY%20(000).jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <i>—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,<br />Sacramento, CA<br />—Photos and Artwork by Joyce Odam</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">PENDING <br /><i>—Robin Gale Odam</i> <br /><br />one generic poem, <br />whatever comes our way <br /><br />it’s today again—that keeps <br />happening </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgreC0WCf92pX8HXM408Hp2caTxxtoK6GsS_MHF3YuhvObFpqMlnpNJmOYUj0PTHiahbZjCOU3gGjmiDyd8RrqUG7_6qcLeiBBsVfosCpFuDRvrKsnglLe-YrmUCoV2THf287fYc0voOwi-kdFZWK6ZuGHlWmGQRq7id_9e6O7lVzCE19lf-LTJ6A/s2025/HAPPENSTANCE%20(091).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1595" data-original-width="2025" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgreC0WCf92pX8HXM408Hp2caTxxtoK6GsS_MHF3YuhvObFpqMlnpNJmOYUj0PTHiahbZjCOU3gGjmiDyd8RrqUG7_6qcLeiBBsVfosCpFuDRvrKsnglLe-YrmUCoV2THf287fYc0voOwi-kdFZWK6ZuGHlWmGQRq7id_9e6O7lVzCE19lf-LTJ6A/w400-h315/HAPPENSTANCE%20(091).JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Happenstance</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />MEMORABILIA <br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />Things my mother saved: sunflower doilies <br />with bright red centers, sooty-white pillowcases <br />embroidered with blue thread.<br /><br />Clay dolls with broken fingers. <br />Her old lullaby—words in a gibber.<br />Her standard recipes for love, fragile with use.<br /><br />Books in a foreign language.<br />The moody window she stared out of— <br />taken down and wrapped in old newspaper. <br /><br />Letters she never opened. An envelope full of <br />hair. A plastic box of unpainted fingernails. <br />A tiny black emery board, worn down.<br /><br />Maps of where we’d been,<br />the little towns circled in pencil—then erased. <br />I don’t remember any of them.<br /><br />The year she left me when I died three times <br />before she came to get me—the toys I left<br />all gathered back, like explanations. <br /><br />The years between <br />this one and the year when I was born—<br />the first and last coincidence. <br /><br /> <br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/1/11; 11/12/19)</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0uv13aI7MoJALrQvPVByYlxzIpxFkpRVL3FSj0_ZQTMXxfX1VTy7cB86wxJTKGs7sORhkqHmz3TxXr-ZVCBtENnkWin8X3cG0Uqkt2Ng4YGfFodDlCVO_qhyTewz9kGMmHL88J2AvpncqjKmLgHjFdpPz0RxqrrsDhyphenhyphen8e2WXHjaeEfG6KafJg3A/s3648/FARAWAY%20(012).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0uv13aI7MoJALrQvPVByYlxzIpxFkpRVL3FSj0_ZQTMXxfX1VTy7cB86wxJTKGs7sORhkqHmz3TxXr-ZVCBtENnkWin8X3cG0Uqkt2Ng4YGfFodDlCVO_qhyTewz9kGMmHL88J2AvpncqjKmLgHjFdpPz0RxqrrsDhyphenhyphen8e2WXHjaeEfG6KafJg3A/w400-h300/FARAWAY%20(012).JPG" width="400" /></a></div></span></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span>Faraway</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />SHADOW ON THE MORNING <br /><i>—Robin Gale Odam</i><br /><br />gravity is the shadow on the <br />morning, the lid covering the eye, <br />the moan of a small plane climbing . . . <br /><br />the dog wags her tail so i rise . . . <br /><br />one tiny diamond has fallen from the <br />ring, the carpet is an endless forest . . . </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTdPHb7ULqJMWyrvnDgzjlRzIuNcR0EoZAy1qgbtX58r2mShzls-7T7as_6OJVwTwWqCmGxLcQHUtvJrztmPQs7yd8IPxBD922m1NV33p4o7QBXUIbHAbnK02rE-TX54cpKXCNWN0aMSg7wIZvgxWNtUg5E-oFPzYQpbWDoRt9Wg6Tx-eFFFU3ug/s2097/PENSIVE%20(053).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1618" data-original-width="2097" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTdPHb7ULqJMWyrvnDgzjlRzIuNcR0EoZAy1qgbtX58r2mShzls-7T7as_6OJVwTwWqCmGxLcQHUtvJrztmPQs7yd8IPxBD922m1NV33p4o7QBXUIbHAbnK02rE-TX54cpKXCNWN0aMSg7wIZvgxWNtUg5E-oFPzYQpbWDoRt9Wg6Tx-eFFFU3ug/w400-h309/PENSIVE%20(053).jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Pensive</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />A SEPIA DAY<br /><i>—Joyce Odam </i><br /><br />It was a sepia day. We strolled downtown, to-<br />ward a late café that waited for us where we <br />would claim the small round window-table <br />and be seen by our own reflections. Moody<br />again, not quite in love, we would waste an-<br />other hour touching hands by accident and <br />offering a wounded smile. Nothing else was <br />real. We saw to that. The waitress would <br />come and go as frequent shadow. <br /><br />The soft light did not change until we noticed <br />dark around the edges, and the distraction <br />of the bell on the door as someone came or <br />left, and the way the day grew sudden once <br />again : and it was late : and we were outside, <br />walking down a boulevard of closing stores. <br />And still we did not speak, and were amused <br />to see ourselves break up in all those windows. <br /><br /><br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/27/17) </span></i><br /><br />____________________<br /><br />MEAN LOVE<br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />I would say<i> Sorrow</i> waits in every love—<br />in every vow—in every lie, well-meant,<br />intensified by doubt and mean despair.<br />Love hurts, it cannot help itself—<br /><br />Falling-short-of-expectation lets it love <br />the moody rain and light—the way it <br />loves its tears, wept often and alone.<br />Forget all that—love needs itself—<br /><br />Despite the woe—the absence that it<br />leaves in retrospect—why else give up <br />the power of the risk—how else define<br />the indefinable for what it means?<br /><br /><br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/12/13;<br />2/14/17; 9/14/21) </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizyj7zHA19idtsHdvPab6xOnhpj9nIeCwjp36if9BTHhlIHBwFTtKWJp5BKbe9hGefkszcI3jB5bOLlVnBhmImXBMxEuVF1AqmEY2aHQkX1tI76uVCtzg02thtkzyWcRLiNBBGa-XMXaG-HyIRMEnVEPoG_fsRK8iJelm1zAcec_dit_yGUw6LPQ/s1482/SOLEMN%20(026).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1469" data-original-width="1482" height="396" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizyj7zHA19idtsHdvPab6xOnhpj9nIeCwjp36if9BTHhlIHBwFTtKWJp5BKbe9hGefkszcI3jB5bOLlVnBhmImXBMxEuVF1AqmEY2aHQkX1tI76uVCtzg02thtkzyWcRLiNBBGa-XMXaG-HyIRMEnVEPoG_fsRK8iJelm1zAcec_dit_yGUw6LPQ/w400-h396/SOLEMN%20(026).JPG" width="400" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Solemn</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />GAZEBO<br /><i> —Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />In the wet and shining world where summer rain<br />falls through the light and spatters to the ground,<br />droplets splashing on the thirsty day,<br /><br />and they’re in love—in love—in love,<br />as they go slowly walking, side by each,<br />their faces happy and their sorrows told—<br /><br />those first confessions lovers have to tell<br />when sharing secrets—bonding—bonding, and<br />the light rain falls between them, and they know<br /><br />that they can trust each other all their lives.<br />And then the rain falls harder and the clouds<br />grow thick above them, and they start to run—<br /><br />they laugh and start to run toward a shelter.<br />The shelter takes them in. They watch the rain,<br />and one goes moody, and the other grows uneasy.<br /><br />The rain falls harder. A bolt of lightning<br />flashes all around them like a warning. They<br />laugh and count the seconds toward the thunder<br /><br />that breaks the air—and breaks the tension—<br />the rain a downpour now. They hold each other.<br />Rain puddles form. It is the last of summer.<br /><br />___________________<br /><br />AND <br /><i>—Robin Gale Odam<br />After “Postscript” by Seamus Heaney </i><br /><br />and there is something more, something <br />that comes after something that passes <br /><br />through a hurry—and wonder trails, <br />and wonder trails after something like <br /><br />the flock of birds was heard, and far away <br />and passing through a memory, only high <br /><br />and far away, the cries of flocks of birds, <br />and trailing off, and far away the flocks <br /><br />and the trailing clouds and the memory, <br />and the ebbing cries of birds</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij-oqHVQQHG2IhZtUngrkg8HXGbtMCtOuTpkUwkaEM9FSxhhaFx27uZz_vUj4LOsUsnKHrl6Vd0EVTWMu20p9ByxNcyxNTfJ4fxViDKLh_aB2wb5Axs8LphXPI7AFbJabugrRqHBOePfge0gTrBt0Y3P6Yj-lkNK0LMcyolcchXBcXEpmXflksRA/s3282/CHANCE%20(034).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2488" data-original-width="3282" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij-oqHVQQHG2IhZtUngrkg8HXGbtMCtOuTpkUwkaEM9FSxhhaFx27uZz_vUj4LOsUsnKHrl6Vd0EVTWMu20p9ByxNcyxNTfJ4fxViDKLh_aB2wb5Axs8LphXPI7AFbJabugrRqHBOePfge0gTrBt0Y3P6Yj-lkNK0LMcyolcchXBcXEpmXflksRA/w400-h304/CHANCE%20(034).JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Chance</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />SATURATION <br /><i> —Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />How often do you need this to be true? You are <br />such a tragedy—sitting alone—in the rain—at the <br />little sidewalk table since you love moody <br />atmosphere. <br /><br />You sip your drink of rainwater and ask for the <br />bill, and the waiter comes indifferently toward you, <br />but you keep receding into the old pathetic story. <br /><br />You love the ancient way you feel. You love the <br />misery of your own eyes in the distortion of the <br />window. Inside, patrons are looking out at you, but <br />they don’t hold <br /><br />together any more. You have been here too long, <br />wearing yourself thin with repetition—boring <br />everybody—even the long-dead artist you conjure <br />for effect. <br /><br />And now we leave you there in your private <br />reverie, the waiter never arriving, the rain falling <br />into your glass—you, shining so deeply, like a <br />wet tree.<br /><br /> <br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in </span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Parting Gifts</span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">, Winter 2004, and<br />Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/12/16; 9/1/20)</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil6vf6g2PUuAFiPxgId4EG3GoibN_vtVO8OKV0yxHRx-5TEcfPMhkrv5Kansuav7ECRWX4fvD-1FEZo1gpTmW5KpIlfXr_C0FG_GrI2UPzoNsaLCQGCGLrzHiPCAE-9gcX7-tRZTgOT1xb3tz6fanHYtFwxcNHCOJsb-CC104QM3KdgWd9TdvaiA/s3648/QUIETED%20(027).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil6vf6g2PUuAFiPxgId4EG3GoibN_vtVO8OKV0yxHRx-5TEcfPMhkrv5Kansuav7ECRWX4fvD-1FEZo1gpTmW5KpIlfXr_C0FG_GrI2UPzoNsaLCQGCGLrzHiPCAE-9gcX7-tRZTgOT1xb3tz6fanHYtFwxcNHCOJsb-CC104QM3KdgWd9TdvaiA/w400-h300/QUIETED%20(027).JPG" width="400" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Quieted</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />WHEN LIFE IS GOOD<br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />Lest I regress to some old meaning<br />less desired <br />old scriptures lost <br /><br />burdens of cost <br />old blunders<br />redefined <br /><br />poor rhyme not wanted here <br />slant or pure <br />all layers intertwined<br /><br />but my heart and soul can overflow<br />at the sight of pink blossoms <br />in the moody month of spring<br /><br />how the quickened feeling <br />of hope<br />can change the air—<br /><br />but more like the close call <br />of some gentle creature<br />that got away from death<br /><br />or the final unwinding of<br />the endless ball of tangled string<br />that life depends upon…<br /><br />____________________<br /><br /><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />I WANT <br />—Joyce Odam <br /><br />I’m October. <br />I’m moody. <br />I don’t know what I want. <br />I want it all. <br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. by One Dog Press, October 1996)</span><br /><br />____________________<br /><br />Our recent Seed of the Week was “Moody”, and <span style="color: red;">Joyce and Robin Gale Odam</span> have sent us fine poetry and photos full of moodiness—many thanks to them for that.<br /><br /><b>Our new Seed of the Week is “Kites”. </b>Come fly with me—moody, windy March is the season of kites! 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 <b>Form Fiddlers’ Friday</b> for poetry form challenges, including those of the <b>Ekphrastic</b> type.<br /><br />_____________________<br /><br />—Medusa</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAN6ZR1isptrUnw0p3-HgS-ZkHTvTe7sOZbl6SY5GWF6P5ik-_hwj8FJUR4nw8wNG3WSR3XAYzfhDDoGUT_aLdNBJKk0eDiV8EqORw6QeWe7veLvXq9XGMh_XEH9PtXYkV9mK2S8gCAgy90R1EEcKa_mJgJev68R4tDqcPvhGpFqesBfji240qJg/s225/kites.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAN6ZR1isptrUnw0p3-HgS-ZkHTvTe7sOZbl6SY5GWF6P5ik-_hwj8FJUR4nw8wNG3WSR3XAYzfhDDoGUT_aLdNBJKk0eDiV8EqORw6QeWe7veLvXq9XGMh_XEH9PtXYkV9mK2S8gCAgy90R1EEcKa_mJgJev68R4tDqcPvhGpFqesBfji240qJg/w400-h400/kites.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> —Photo Courtesy of Public Domain</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A reminder that <span style="color: red;">Bob Stanley</span></i><br /><i>will interview <span style="color: red;">Kathleen Lynch</span></i><br /><i>this afternoon at <b>Coffee and Poets</b></i><br /><i>(Twin Lotus Thai, 2pm); and</i><br /><i>tonight at 7pm, </i><br /><i><b>Second Tuesday Poetry </b></i><br /><i>at MoSt in Modesto features </i><br /><i><span style="color: red;">Rhony Bhopla</span> and <span style="color: red;">Lynn Hansen</span>.</i><br /><i>For info about these and other</i><br /><i>future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRITrnKaqQo8KaPgcDAh2Cy3cRP4_mLhBFO824y_Nh4dhPzcXLHoMe4pWcp9voqh85pZ0FTYuPraQ2HEKMF8CjbxIURIm2_PuZzezC9a3P18_kNEhdn6R1pZsqI6YAneTiFwdpTUvDgikpQuPx4S50ppTFFe8MLHzoeNIW9FKtsG2toweJnzSbXA/s233/winking.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="233" data-original-width="216" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRITrnKaqQo8KaPgcDAh2Cy3cRP4_mLhBFO824y_Nh4dhPzcXLHoMe4pWcp9voqh85pZ0FTYuPraQ2HEKMF8CjbxIURIm2_PuZzezC9a3P18_kNEhdn6R1pZsqI6YAneTiFwdpTUvDgikpQuPx4S50ppTFFe8MLHzoeNIW9FKtsG2toweJnzSbXA/w185-h200/winking.jpg" width="185" /></a></div><br /> </i><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><i><br /><br /><br /><br /></i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <br /></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-37337673014812248232024-03-11T08:34:00.000-07:002024-03-11T08:34:13.711-07:00Moody, Moody March<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_sTjQe09WEsOTV-Z8xaMwxZt5pW2kKT-ovnx91LkryfanKKtW57eMga7TTsOhOA_n5-8q7-XMNeaTaNQtuI4vwBzjwPOfkRdJ9MpV9FEjQGgfsaxk5gtTYHD4KbSn_5ffHwdnUDwcLL6ybTAUkIH4RD7B3vTnOUInkBoH70ZIKEL6TMBdqSwDAg/s945/pink%20vw%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="945" data-original-width="756" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_sTjQe09WEsOTV-Z8xaMwxZt5pW2kKT-ovnx91LkryfanKKtW57eMga7TTsOhOA_n5-8q7-XMNeaTaNQtuI4vwBzjwPOfkRdJ9MpV9FEjQGgfsaxk5gtTYHD4KbSn_5ffHwdnUDwcLL6ybTAUkIH4RD7B3vTnOUInkBoH70ZIKEL6TMBdqSwDAg/w320-h400/pink%20vw%20jn.png" width="320" /></a></div> <i>Spring is Springing!<br />—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,<br />Annette Towler, Caschwa, Sayani Mukherjee, <br />Taylor Dibbert, Shiva Neupane, Joe Nolan, <br />and Ann Privateer<br />—Public Domain Visuals Courtesy <br />of Joe Nolan <br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">STOP CHANGING<i><br />—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY</i><br /><br />March winds blow a snowstorm in.<br />She wraps herself in wool.<br /><br />Sun melts snow.<br />She digs herself a garden.<br /><br />Clouds pour rain.<br />She runs inside.<br /><br />This March day won’t stay one way,<br />She shuts the curtains, burrows into bed.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPeTg5YjJeBj1vRj_kRwMN_7ZIbIX86sVCM0LbqEw2CB8oo7dFevM4jxQ0mYqZ3jYrT4chfvpbR09bAuwPdkwJGoc50rJMVi8NfRKG7s2kdkVcRaxoT_3AktTn80iH2zeeLiU_seFgQCqgeIfRSk5Aru2Yz2Ex1I7Vh9t6Ys9rxbNZGMtM98jmOg/s1101/girl%20w:dragons%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1101" data-original-width="735" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPeTg5YjJeBj1vRj_kRwMN_7ZIbIX86sVCM0LbqEw2CB8oo7dFevM4jxQ0mYqZ3jYrT4chfvpbR09bAuwPdkwJGoc50rJMVi8NfRKG7s2kdkVcRaxoT_3AktTn80iH2zeeLiU_seFgQCqgeIfRSk5Aru2Yz2Ex1I7Vh9t6Ys9rxbNZGMtM98jmOg/w268-h400/girl%20w:dragons%20jn.png" width="268" /></a></div> <br /><br />MOODY<br /><i>—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales </i><br /><br />For those with hymnbook, yesteryear, <br />with Sankey came the Moody steer, <br />for Ira sang while Dwight, he preached, <br />revival, thirty years’ campaign. <br />But could a faith, religious creed, <br />ensure a future, hope’s fresh seed, <br />to battle greed that feeds just self <br />and find contentment, settled ease? <br /><br />Yet if the Nazarene your man, <br />he turned the tables on corban, <br />for whip lash sometimes mood required <br />and Jesus, ‘mild and gentle’ died. <br />To share the moody blues as news <br />that we too wear our fears, abuse, <br />why tell the sky to sympathise <br />with rays of light or billow clouds? <br /><br />Though moody must mean changeable, <br />an outlook, unreliable, <br />a darker feel, behavioural, <br />our choice, or body chemicals? <br />Robotic not the folk, globe seeks, <br />but world including freaks judged geeks, <br />for those outside conforming norms, <br />they set the mood, excite surprise. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5F7yeTKJKIQr7_UVzmY_puaC-ModUUNpqb5WuephdvM60cGlQGGmu5reSh6LIapraUKwRZsNtUyiVJGUFHbw8giyZ2ewvUhvQy8zu_z7NGwAEuNN4VC8KFaxnkM9fYBn4rIJQG3vARHjfppFNK-erxr3t5-cSMl2zBkXQvfpeWimAvfjmoiajQA/s824/pasta%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="824" data-original-width="685" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5F7yeTKJKIQr7_UVzmY_puaC-ModUUNpqb5WuephdvM60cGlQGGmu5reSh6LIapraUKwRZsNtUyiVJGUFHbw8giyZ2ewvUhvQy8zu_z7NGwAEuNN4VC8KFaxnkM9fYBn4rIJQG3vARHjfppFNK-erxr3t5-cSMl2zBkXQvfpeWimAvfjmoiajQA/w333-h400/pasta%20jn.png" width="333" /></a></div> <br /><br />PASTA NIGHT<br /><i>—Annette Towler, Milwaukee, WI</i><br /> <br />Ripping the spaghetti in half with my hands</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />No need for utensils, I place the whole-wheat <br />pasta into the boiling</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Water and think back across the years of <br />freedom</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Many throw a party to celebrate the day in <br />court</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Yet I choose to throw the pasta into the pot <br />rather than into the air</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />To remind myself that I am a reasonable cook <br />with a flair for adventure</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Sometimes, choosing Linguine, or Farfalle <br />bows, or the wide sheets for Lasagna</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />To remind myself that within me is a cook, <br />waiting to be discovered, not a chef</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Cordon Bleu, just a woman who can take the <br />basic ingredients of pasta, some tomato sauce, <br />and a smidgeon of garlic and whip it into a <br />meal that is good for one or two</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Not a large dinner party where everyone is <br />invited but a simple meal to celebrate what it <br />feels like to awake in the morning feeling that <br />you have the capacity to boil water in the pot, <br />strain the pasta in the sieve and sprinkle <br />parmesan cheese on top of the pile of spaghetti <br />in a solid bowl that is not overflowing or <br />abundant with meat and vegetables, just a <br />simple meal of freedom.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgFz09PtLoqWcLTSaN5GIxpVOtB4nAqMjr8QtPMLJE3ELCW9WdI0nCLFc54Uu0lT6cWLOU-YEiE6UcpejfegDLERAAW010pmbcX4N-FBtBR8FX6H1T03GGrF-HGs6Sk7-P04mUIOJXqyaW6gvRu5RqM3y6s-UiPOYG2ukc1cUfLE3B3x51z8YHtQ/s400/plumed%20hat.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="300" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgFz09PtLoqWcLTSaN5GIxpVOtB4nAqMjr8QtPMLJE3ELCW9WdI0nCLFc54Uu0lT6cWLOU-YEiE6UcpejfegDLERAAW010pmbcX4N-FBtBR8FX6H1T03GGrF-HGs6Sk7-P04mUIOJXqyaW6gvRu5RqM3y6s-UiPOYG2ukc1cUfLE3B3x51z8YHtQ/w300-h400/plumed%20hat.jpg" width="300" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;">The Plumed Hat<br /><i>—Painting by Henri Matisse</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">PROMISES, PROMISES <br /><i>—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA<br /><br />(after </i>The Plumed Hat <i><br />by Henri Matisse)<br />(after </i>Wearing the Hat <i><br />by Joyce Odam, MK, 3/5/24) <br />(after I finish my breakfast) </i><br /><br />her mother convinced her <br />let’s get you dressed up <br />and we’ll go to Church <br />and pray to the preacher’s <br />God, he/him all day long <br /><br />she so wanted to be in her <br />comfy jeans, at the creek, <br />playing with baby frogs and <br />counting clouds as they sailed <br />quietly overhead <br /><br />on the way home from Church <br />she drove too fast and got <br />pulled over by a serious officer <br />who didn’t know it was Sunday <br />and didn’t recognize her plumed <br />hat as a marker of royalty, of <br />stop what you’re doing and just <br />let this youngster get home <br /><br />now she has paperwork to <br />complete and fines to pay and <br />Mother! I will never let you <br />talk me into going to Church <br />ever again, and that awful <br />outfit can serve to warm us up <br />on a cold, winter night with its <br />flames in the fireplace <br /><br />have no worry, little frogs, I <br />haven’t forgotten you.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixyexp1_C7WwXIZWO42Or1WiXTl4l1O5ubzc0_YXzCstO-MQS0dEDXn9C9DsYCmMFliopMQlD5N0X_-sAtKhkVfxRVRwh7uEfnxvSM0AqdcYs3pKxPY2fHjZnYFXPcxdsoU9o68TvO_gIUtrKyP_Gw1gO3pHgwjEg_NDEW9_xMX8ir6eMYMK8-uA/s350/frog:bed.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="329" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixyexp1_C7WwXIZWO42Or1WiXTl4l1O5ubzc0_YXzCstO-MQS0dEDXn9C9DsYCmMFliopMQlD5N0X_-sAtKhkVfxRVRwh7uEfnxvSM0AqdcYs3pKxPY2fHjZnYFXPcxdsoU9o68TvO_gIUtrKyP_Gw1gO3pHgwjEg_NDEW9_xMX8ir6eMYMK8-uA/w376-h400/frog:bed.jpg" width="376" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">THE BARREL <br /><i>—Caschwa</i><br /><br />went into the general store <br />to buy a big barrel, had to <br />have one, I explained because <br />I am always being asked to <br />hold my applause <br /><br />so what would be better than <br />to just have a big barrel handy <br />and ready when I need to get <br />up and add some applause to <br />the supply I haven’t used yet? <br /><br />so far, it is working out quite <br />fine, though there was this one <br />time I almost put applause into <br />my barrel of laughter, no joke, <br />I must act when it’s time to renew</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_6r-MqE5y1G0LJS_IZQEYYKR-ycEvYRxdCAcnuYyYaPZ3bOX-Z3uaq_83IQ0pZY2SyPcNXP03PCHhgmC2DM4Cf0fDWMU07td3Kx-awLVyqsIow5jSIwek214UrNt8MGV_vfeT5miZyFgXwdhD2g-zQ4WtO4gFtA5nvRob-WH-svzL1lQ5Uoa58w/s400/body:woods%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="362" data-original-width="400" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_6r-MqE5y1G0LJS_IZQEYYKR-ycEvYRxdCAcnuYyYaPZ3bOX-Z3uaq_83IQ0pZY2SyPcNXP03PCHhgmC2DM4Cf0fDWMU07td3Kx-awLVyqsIow5jSIwek214UrNt8MGV_vfeT5miZyFgXwdhD2g-zQ4WtO4gFtA5nvRob-WH-svzL1lQ5Uoa58w/s320/body:woods%20jn.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br />INTRODUCED. STOP. <br /><i>—Caschwa </i><br /><br />what do you call someone <br />whom you haven’t really met? <br />a band buddy introduced <br />me to his celebrity wife <br />who was across the room <br /><br />we both held up a hand <br />and waved it to say hello <br />and that was all of it, so <br />we did kind’a, sort’a, meet <br />but no dialogue, no exchange <br /><br />my friend’s wife directed a <br />beauty pageant and I played <br />in the ensemble in the orchestra <br />pit not seeing much, so again <br />we were in the same auditorium <br />at the same time, participating <br />in the same event, but didn’t <br />meet and talk <br /><br />at my friend’s memorial service, <br />his widow thanked me and a host <br />of other band buddies for helping <br />to celebrate his life, but the gesture, <br />through solemn, was not personal, <br />more like when they swear in a jury <br />all at once</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWewTTogfNdCDU8eYeV7NE8jPVEIRb2uU4CQT2cwu9bb_UQvZEyWREEEn8zQz2wL5n6iyboUU0qhFI2F2M3fNDi7wy9W8Adkj75baDXRlaDbCQUKzKdePpaDNDvKIxyYYxdPnVQFh23UTczgTI6HE2H_8LYrHaQaTheTEDKkkkiZySfqFVsnF5iw/s375/frog%20prince%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="300" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWewTTogfNdCDU8eYeV7NE8jPVEIRb2uU4CQT2cwu9bb_UQvZEyWREEEn8zQz2wL5n6iyboUU0qhFI2F2M3fNDi7wy9W8Adkj75baDXRlaDbCQUKzKdePpaDNDvKIxyYYxdPnVQFh23UTczgTI6HE2H_8LYrHaQaTheTEDKkkkiZySfqFVsnF5iw/w320-h400/frog%20prince%20jn.png" width="320" /></a></div> <br /><br />BEHAVE MYSELF <br /><i>—Caschwa </i><br /><br />was stopped in traffic <br />waiting for the light to <br />change, and a truck <br />pulled alongside bearing <br />a small sign reading: <br /><br />“Certified Clean Idle” <br /><br />it took every ounce of <br />restraint I could muster <br />to not whip out my bold <br />permanent marker and <br />complete the message <br />to read: <br /><br />certified clean idle hands <br />are the work of the devil <br /><br />then the light changed, <br />traffic resumed flowing, <br />opportunity gone <br /><br />maybe next time </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjStL7otezAzpR-Mw8K9cxtpUJUQ3DaNDXAECuRRYX06uEpvQxGch_mthLvhHRLDK2NRzXWzrGfXJLaKyPtghyphenhyphen0M2K0oHlV5QIwuAKa2MMzejnnARuxbAtkViR-Cb4wF_Gh-5kexT-EjLdIXmSoMvWU9naK-V3JpupcUO2ZyYmIsSk8BiFildoStw/s1280/sky%20dancer%20jn.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="797" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjStL7otezAzpR-Mw8K9cxtpUJUQ3DaNDXAECuRRYX06uEpvQxGch_mthLvhHRLDK2NRzXWzrGfXJLaKyPtghyphenhyphen0M2K0oHlV5QIwuAKa2MMzejnnARuxbAtkViR-Cb4wF_Gh-5kexT-EjLdIXmSoMvWU9naK-V3JpupcUO2ZyYmIsSk8BiFildoStw/w249-h400/sky%20dancer%20jn.jpg" width="249" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Sky Dancer</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />KITES<br /><i>—Sayani Mukherjee, <br />Chandannagar, W. Bengal, India</i> <br /><br />The dreaded past before me <br />I pine before an obliged smile <br />The hooded troops of trumpet <br />Fell over <br />Behind the lake of frostbites nothing <br />It's scourging to heal <br />When the kites have flown <br />Before the red parchment sky <br />A long daisy before my unwritten script <br />To skim a milken pond <br />Lost reveries, beaded smile <br />The scoopnecked tapestry of humdrum beats <br />I once knew before it fell from a torpid sky <br />As all happens in a skydrawn dance. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqs9Uz0SxolpZlHzVwEH8XHBUs2MhCJfzkwcGTgstSzxCt-ZLhyphenhypheneaNLGLt6N_uDJr4iBDLgDi4VCs7WEEjtS9URHbPu2EF8bei25dIAZZx2ExXXzOaEj0v6tWv3whGh79bFfFoajIOwxGNlFEz69YvEMRtlSHhsWRZP-VALbs3yOv8AzndySxong/s726/tulip%20tree%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="581" data-original-width="726" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqs9Uz0SxolpZlHzVwEH8XHBUs2MhCJfzkwcGTgstSzxCt-ZLhyphenhypheneaNLGLt6N_uDJr4iBDLgDi4VCs7WEEjtS9URHbPu2EF8bei25dIAZZx2ExXXzOaEj0v6tWv3whGh79bFfFoajIOwxGNlFEz69YvEMRtlSHhsWRZP-VALbs3yOv8AzndySxong/w400-h320/tulip%20tree%20jn.png" width="400" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">DAMSEL<br /><i>—Sayani Mukherjee</i><br /><br />A playground of damsels <br />The orchard bowed green fever <br />Strikes me as hard as a penknife <br />A red tissue over my scarred brow <br />The pencil-stricken leather boots <br />The church bells passed away <br />I reckon in the purple wondrous sky <br />The coffins are too loud today <br />To pluck a white rose from the people <br />Sky roads are always high <br />They said in hibernation <br />As if my brown skirmish high swam too often. <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjErO4KJCTJxMYJtMHdtnzAWzBhiI4HUAWQ3ohinb0YFrGBeQRj2bgJf4jNrHR7BDbL3DWtGBncOq06aBStJYRN8CTMU5ni8xK6y7Dx3PZhFcTgrBzRmrD80fj3ZG2AcNL8eeoGg4sHOv-nvC0SShvG0Twbn0LMDVjhl1XVw3a4Xi9DDEIvf7wxyw/s537/want:hear%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="537" data-original-width="463" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjErO4KJCTJxMYJtMHdtnzAWzBhiI4HUAWQ3ohinb0YFrGBeQRj2bgJf4jNrHR7BDbL3DWtGBncOq06aBStJYRN8CTMU5ni8xK6y7Dx3PZhFcTgrBzRmrD80fj3ZG2AcNL8eeoGg4sHOv-nvC0SShvG0Twbn0LMDVjhl1XVw3a4Xi9DDEIvf7wxyw/w345-h400/want:hear%20jn.png" width="345" /></a></div><br /><br />EXCEPT THE FEAR<br /><i>—Taylor Dibbert, Washington, DC</i><br /><br />Love and<br />A blended family,<br />Disagreement and<br />Child custody litigation,<br />All kinds of love and <br />All kinds of disagreement<br />All over,<br />They took <br />Too many hits<br />Too early,<br />They had<br />Enough drama<br />To fill <br />A lifetime<br />Of marriage<br />And so they <br />Crashed and burned<br />And by the time<br />The divorce was finalized<br />There was nothing there<br />Except the fear<br />Of trying again.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZOxbmG9RQpNPdR2-R_fOkTyZbh0fc21Ug_JyA6k4DlkVfr9a_tK7a44dI2j-5K67VqYOSbXWNBhClH69QkCupsOrWyY4zxGQOHJUhOXwbR9ED-SnH8C-XeDjhT5L2rEuJY8079HZEv4nuRpV0BsKa-vxttNjcZM5zyAO2S05NHI2AXqfEQA7u4A/s960/shiva%20&%20grands.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZOxbmG9RQpNPdR2-R_fOkTyZbh0fc21Ug_JyA6k4DlkVfr9a_tK7a44dI2j-5K67VqYOSbXWNBhClH69QkCupsOrWyY4zxGQOHJUhOXwbR9ED-SnH8C-XeDjhT5L2rEuJY8079HZEv4nuRpV0BsKa-vxttNjcZM5zyAO2S05NHI2AXqfEQA7u4A/w300-h400/shiva%20&%20grands.jpg" width="300" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Shiva Neupane and his grandparents</i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />MY GRANDPARENTS:<br /><i>—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia </i><br /><br />When I was a toddler<br />I used to play with grandparents<br />On their laps.<br />I tried to make fumbling steps <br />But fleetingly fell back on their laps.<br />My journey was confined to their laps<br />But that very journey shifted me<br />On the lap of earth here in down under <br />Where I had shared my moment with them.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-8HkDq9Dfc56L-035PkL5KNXWpi2msw3G0xPuZJzCbQ-YOOY2FzaHrnhxHV5J7QiLfP_p6SRb56axE4KQQYitNfz0aaUWliCCB3VSpUzIHDoZBezrRoqXNNDA0uzOUKHGp1H0sB74gvn64s0UmOHkftOPmfzJ6mtPB5yjaqxoWRM9mZGKl0O0kw/s1013/pink%20tulips%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1013" data-original-width="675" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-8HkDq9Dfc56L-035PkL5KNXWpi2msw3G0xPuZJzCbQ-YOOY2FzaHrnhxHV5J7QiLfP_p6SRb56axE4KQQYitNfz0aaUWliCCB3VSpUzIHDoZBezrRoqXNNDA0uzOUKHGp1H0sB74gvn64s0UmOHkftOPmfzJ6mtPB5yjaqxoWRM9mZGKl0O0kw/w266-h400/pink%20tulips%20jn.png" width="266" /></a></div><br /><br />BUREAUCRAT’S CONFESSION<br /><i>—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA</i><br /><br />I got a clinical degree<br />To become a bureaucrat,<br />Managing my minions,<br />As if I were “all that.”<br /><br />At first <br />I thought<br />I could try<br />To change the <br />World<br />And make it better,<br /><br />But I finally came<br />To understand<br />Idealism is a fetter<br />Against progress<br />Up the social scale.<br /><br />So I have <br />My desk, <br />My chair,<br />My place<br />Within an <br />Office building.<br /><br />I show up to work <br />On time,<br />Every day,<br />Always sober.<br /><br />I never drink<br />Except at home<br />At night,<br />When I’m alone.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC6cnevaEW5tP-RsEMYCitoVcSZ0ZwFBZteQB30OXcshtpAoQNjzGbMuXpCuXP_hcxM8sihmmtchKR-DgM0KhrJS10JjDmtXsKpQto7-zUKJU6JcvoNXUNgM6EHiQsJ5zWvsMHLTyYeMYPuCULSUELTKlVfudH_8EiL19jgshdypwGLLV_CIQzRQ/s939/sheep%20trail:mtn%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="939" data-original-width="626" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC6cnevaEW5tP-RsEMYCitoVcSZ0ZwFBZteQB30OXcshtpAoQNjzGbMuXpCuXP_hcxM8sihmmtchKR-DgM0KhrJS10JjDmtXsKpQto7-zUKJU6JcvoNXUNgM6EHiQsJ5zWvsMHLTyYeMYPuCULSUELTKlVfudH_8EiL19jgshdypwGLLV_CIQzRQ/w266-h400/sheep%20trail:mtn%20jn.png" width="266" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />ENTERING A GAUNTLET<br /><i>—Joseph Nolan</i><br /><br />When you choose<br />To venture through<br />A gauntlet,<br />To suffer all the <br />Battery, within,<br />To endure<br />All the suffering<br />That comes naturally <br />From this world of sin,<br />Remember Me,<br />Since I am <br />With you.<br /><br />I went there<br />Before you,<br />To save the world<br />From sin.<br /> <br />If you carry cross<br />Across the mayhem,<br />Walk on fire<br />Across the coals of Hell,<br />Remember Me,<br />Since I am <br />With you,<br />I have walked that <br />Path before.<br /><br />I am with all<br />Who bear suffering,<br />When they offer<br />It all up to Me.<br /><br />I can carry every weight<br />Every horror, <br />Every fate,<br />Bearing it all<br />Into Me.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk__obwWhl0tGznEn09Mqz5k7x8cWVZ9MWXzeTmFc1NrNtwMbz04PTx8EJuJoSq1dyKDC4GyNnDAcVPC4Mlh5oE1KemUKuPzj7w2dEJ7feYGpC53_ohMjZLfY7oF9D6qE_rxdRVn3dyKvTnAiGzTwIeul-zTRkXjYZlvE8tBkZX6ryLuKolUpLUQ/s540/tired:shit%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="540" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk__obwWhl0tGznEn09Mqz5k7x8cWVZ9MWXzeTmFc1NrNtwMbz04PTx8EJuJoSq1dyKDC4GyNnDAcVPC4Mlh5oE1KemUKuPzj7w2dEJ7feYGpC53_ohMjZLfY7oF9D6qE_rxdRVn3dyKvTnAiGzTwIeul-zTRkXjYZlvE8tBkZX6ryLuKolUpLUQ/w400-h400/tired:shit%20jn.png" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />OUR CRUMBLING EMPIRE<br /><i>—Joe Nolan</i><br /><br />Who will save<br />Our crumbling empire<br />When the Visigoths <br />Are in town,<br />Colliding with the Vandals<br />And every Goth around?<br /><br />When they’re burning <br />Down the temples<br />Of Zeus and Apollo<br />And no lightning-bolts <br />Shock them down?<br /><br />Don’t they know<br />God’ll get them <br />For that?<br /><br />We’ve always had our motto<br />Printed on every coin<br />Ever since Remus and Romulus,<br />That says, “In God We Trust.”<br /><br />Now, though,<br />You’d better check your coins,<br />Boy,<br />‘Cause your gold has turned to rust, <br />Zeus is on vacation<br />And Apollo’s sating his lust.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0e8DoiT5fTcmg-ne0YzziqhyphenhyphenZa0uuAjP95EKTLXZm7_3Kd40FfQBpv4lVZqTBBu6t8YiUirz18EXHttvKUkbWV23LA391XGLEjKnvdv-VfE98m-8BWVz33crOEzcbDdp5sx7QNdWS2RjgjYEFStpsXzReg47U32vNwfcJD-fhHHnR4U8bjSgMFQ/s900/fantasy%20girl:star.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="900" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0e8DoiT5fTcmg-ne0YzziqhyphenhyphenZa0uuAjP95EKTLXZm7_3Kd40FfQBpv4lVZqTBBu6t8YiUirz18EXHttvKUkbWV23LA391XGLEjKnvdv-VfE98m-8BWVz33crOEzcbDdp5sx7QNdWS2RjgjYEFStpsXzReg47U32vNwfcJD-fhHHnR4U8bjSgMFQ/w400-h300/fantasy%20girl:star.png" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />BREATHLESS BEFORE BEAUTY<br /><i>—Joe Nolan</i><br /><br />Are you ready to die for beauty?<br />Devote all your days?<br />Worship with your dying breath<br />When life is slipping away,<br /><br />Live each moment in <br />Breathlessness,<br />When your wind<br />Is sucked out of your chest?<br /><br />Live each moment <br />In breathlessness<br />In awe and total wonder? <br />Struck dumb,<br />With nothing left to say, <br />Except, <br />“Please don’t go away!”<br /><br />If so, then, <br />Dear children,<br />Go and run and play<br />In the Garden <br />I’ve made for you—<br />To be in love, each day.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxlU0P702ms2VDFYi706XT8y-S3s9RGi8YZZ1e3KiOkMhPZ7y63tOOnvHyAeWwvgZ0gGpSWjmDB7TUodYcttYlstTjx8bGiASkWrdpJovKoKqDjVgnOlIo4KHDYhUaVB1CoDZgAHxmCoxhpbO-BGILfrcWTqxdi1b7MvsnPMBjXs3MO3hjhyfY3w/s852/girl%20outlined:sun%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="852" data-original-width="481" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxlU0P702ms2VDFYi706XT8y-S3s9RGi8YZZ1e3KiOkMhPZ7y63tOOnvHyAeWwvgZ0gGpSWjmDB7TUodYcttYlstTjx8bGiASkWrdpJovKoKqDjVgnOlIo4KHDYhUaVB1CoDZgAHxmCoxhpbO-BGILfrcWTqxdi1b7MvsnPMBjXs3MO3hjhyfY3w/w226-h400/girl%20outlined:sun%20jn.png" width="226" /></a></div> <br /><br />WONDER WITH REGRET<br /><i>—Joe Nolan</i><br /><br />She seemed <br />Like a good model<br />Of someday, maybe,<br />Mine,<br /><br />So I <br />Asked her <br />For her <br />Number<br />And called her<br />Half the time,<br />When I <br />Wasn’t <br />Out with <br />Others.<br />I was <br />Doing fine.<br /><br />Then one day,<br />She went away<br />And I <br />Was left <br />Behind.<br /><br />I wonder<br />Where she<br />Went to...<br /><br />If she’s <br />Had her<br />Babies, yet?<br /><br />I’ve had mine<br />With another lover.<br />I wonder<br />With regret.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUE_YJJsDwLhtJJxaA-YMHjL9Un8CDjP21ZouoAWBAzZnQ0d8_wrLTVFME2DxIRCsxK0yQoETUmJGUb6TqVbhDx1v4xsu_Jsgn6Iu-sNVaPIrjau4LehmBidzb0tPVDk3XobfJFmTM5_mHrK_4P9NazUQcqIoyjtWvfH0KmiaUhNA-a0znauEquQ/s1025/castle%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1025" data-original-width="840" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUE_YJJsDwLhtJJxaA-YMHjL9Un8CDjP21ZouoAWBAzZnQ0d8_wrLTVFME2DxIRCsxK0yQoETUmJGUb6TqVbhDx1v4xsu_Jsgn6Iu-sNVaPIrjau4LehmBidzb0tPVDk3XobfJFmTM5_mHrK_4P9NazUQcqIoyjtWvfH0KmiaUhNA-a0znauEquQ/w328-h400/castle%20jn.png" width="328" /></a></div> <br /><br />READ THE NEIGHBOURHOOD<br /><i>—Ann Privateer, Davis, CA</i><br /><br />My bookshelf contains a rainbow<br />Of places I’ve never been to<br />Gunga Din, Nosferatu…nostalgia lands<br /><br />And mysterious creatures that don’t<br />Live here, unlike my neighbours<br />The folks with campers that travel<br /><br />And view other places<br />The unseen miles along<br />The road while living in<br /><br />Their house cars<br />And, after weeks<br />Out there they say<br /><br />How lovely<br />It is to be home.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_peAVFOCrc_BaK8lOgMHHGPvM2xoNsd0t1QKUQu7GO1zRfwrLzKER1Oq1NIxxw1Iffk2ztbNkv4kHOpNGTAvPgg1n5gc_KUUx8VejwQ_dVTmVx5YT52E_DCJ79n6JSJzYfOy7muxSxZk_2dSEx5aWWCsrD12UVsCLAC8hSlggb83r8tX_LSXzeA/s400/lord%20grant%20me%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_peAVFOCrc_BaK8lOgMHHGPvM2xoNsd0t1QKUQu7GO1zRfwrLzKER1Oq1NIxxw1Iffk2ztbNkv4kHOpNGTAvPgg1n5gc_KUUx8VejwQ_dVTmVx5YT52E_DCJ79n6JSJzYfOy7muxSxZk_2dSEx5aWWCsrD12UVsCLAC8hSlggb83r8tX_LSXzeA/w400-h300/lord%20grant%20me%20jn.png" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />FAMILY<br />—Ann Privateer<br /><br />Father of the moment<br />Mother of the underdog<br />Brother of wisdom<br />Sister of stars<br />Lover of a gypsy<br />The morning call.<br /><br />_________________<br /><br />Many thanks to today’s huge variety of contributors, some of which riffed on our Seed of the Week, “Moody”. Be sure to check into the Kitchen on Tuesdays for a new Seed of the Week.<br /><br />Newcomer <span style="color: red;">Annette Towler</span> is a psychotherapist who lives in Milwaukee. She was born in England and moved to the United States thirty years ago, and is now an American citizen. Welcome to the Kitchen, Annette, and don’t be a stranger!</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />Spring is inspiring poets everywhere, and fortunately they're sending their handiwork from around the world to the Kitchen, so we have many tasty posts ahead to look forward to. Don't be left out—send poetry to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. The snakes of Medusa... well, you know...</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />________________<br /><br />—Medusa</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJBC6764agXoYTuHxNB7BWI4OYTN_zqyFFrR_nbw-Bw_xStlDmnEE2p-kkzRpvVNrcB-FFpm3HPsGgik41FS0rJBUo4EvaOqpdBlKJlZuJbR_r_lLYKeO5pCjY6cAl7sTqXVcqC-X1dnKxK666xwuoL3-BUip_LrNzQiGuyneo4qIqZ-2ptQFYnQ/s400/be:reason%20%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="290" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJBC6764agXoYTuHxNB7BWI4OYTN_zqyFFrR_nbw-Bw_xStlDmnEE2p-kkzRpvVNrcB-FFpm3HPsGgik41FS0rJBUo4EvaOqpdBlKJlZuJbR_r_lLYKeO5pCjY6cAl7sTqXVcqC-X1dnKxK666xwuoL3-BUip_LrNzQiGuyneo4qIqZ-2ptQFYnQ/w290-h400/be:reason%20%20jn.png" width="290" /></a></div><br /> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i><br /> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A reminder that <b>Poetic License</b></i><br /><i>takes place in Placerville this morning;</i><br /><i>then <b>Sacramento Poetry Center’s</b></i><b><br /></b><i><b>Youth Open Mic</b> will happen tonight.</i><br /><i>For info about these and other</i><br /><i>future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i><br /><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXuL7mgUvRP_3TSwS-Qa96QYgOPWUwDjHHsxrBHcGCzihNOidaAwGq0JJ-vijW5YXfWIr2sa8K8kSVu33MICapvY4CXeo2ir3C-cENSz-nTuEfYSazwoB_yEAxDJHCMDGmuLMieuUhn5ZNe2XSmdOrTWehp19cU4v5u0MO8K1hzj_ZPh0wfN0FMg/s225/sarcastic.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXuL7mgUvRP_3TSwS-Qa96QYgOPWUwDjHHsxrBHcGCzihNOidaAwGq0JJ-vijW5YXfWIr2sa8K8kSVu33MICapvY4CXeo2ir3C-cENSz-nTuEfYSazwoB_yEAxDJHCMDGmuLMieuUhn5ZNe2XSmdOrTWehp19cU4v5u0MO8K1hzj_ZPh0wfN0FMg/s1600/sarcastic.jpg" width="225" /></a></div><i>Feelin’ moody today?</i><br /><br /></div><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br /> </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-51325594419465372682024-03-10T08:37:00.000-07:002024-03-10T08:38:21.273-07:00Dream After Dream<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3IIoc_shmYfob3RURERij4BjsuH0JovGOsBRvwfFK5BnmLnbzMwJsQ_0Iyv1pFmPdERnv1VjLH-KOC2eFAH0cYNEb3BS1LIM6w5P-uRbjzyvcrFwXxyr1TbjzSQunjz5VdJslC0GtoVT25b115T7lv4iYoJ00ZGVUS11CvY8cFRrsnotKjUYUbQ/s271/1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="186" data-original-width="271" height="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3IIoc_shmYfob3RURERij4BjsuH0JovGOsBRvwfFK5BnmLnbzMwJsQ_0Iyv1pFmPdERnv1VjLH-KOC2eFAH0cYNEb3BS1LIM6w5P-uRbjzyvcrFwXxyr1TbjzSQunjz5VdJslC0GtoVT25b115T7lv4iYoJ00ZGVUS11CvY8cFRrsnotKjUYUbQ/w400-h275/1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <i>—Poetry by Hongwei Bao, Nottingham, UK<br />—Peach Blossom Photos Courtesy of <br />Public Domain</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">A GUIDE TO THE PEACH BLOSSOM GARDEN<br /><br />The Peach Blossom Garden is not a dream, <br />or a fantasy. One simply needs to know how <br /><br />to find it. You follow a murmuring <br />stream that zigzags in front of you. Walk <br /><br />upstream until a giant rock stands <br />in your way. The origin of the stream is hidden <br /><br />beneath the rock. You climb up <br />the giant rock, a small path unfolds <br /><br />amidst green meadows. Keep walking <br />towards the pink clouds that adorn <br /><br />the sky. Do not look back until you arrive <br />at a red-lacquered garden gate decorated <br /><br />by golden frames. Push the gate gently <br />open. Have no fear. You will be greeted <br /><br />by dancing butterflies, buzzing bees, chirping <br />birds and a garden full of peach flowers. <br /><br />If you feel thirsty and hungry, sit down and sip <br />the dewdrops or eat the nectars from the flowers. <br /><br />If you feel tired, lie down on the soft soil covered <br />by fallen peach flower petals, and fall <br /><br />asleep, dream after dream. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZrAoubutYQB-hWb9P_TN7ogdHu73Rlz12wxpjvNtobpQpD5qzqltdwhhFnQY9ciNnE_dVBG3N69LCeRXxk0U8Vt1CL3LGTwRY5ZJ8yQfSEv3DArGAWyxrPqcnTeGU_lIXdWuGpzQeRrmNfNzTFqn5YF8uMNSywVkuCDbGTEd5-NTwlcdMquaZZw/s900/2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="600" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZrAoubutYQB-hWb9P_TN7ogdHu73Rlz12wxpjvNtobpQpD5qzqltdwhhFnQY9ciNnE_dVBG3N69LCeRXxk0U8Vt1CL3LGTwRY5ZJ8yQfSEv3DArGAWyxrPqcnTeGU_lIXdWuGpzQeRrmNfNzTFqn5YF8uMNSywVkuCDbGTEd5-NTwlcdMquaZZw/w266-h400/2.jpg" width="266" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />PICNICKING IN AUSTRALIA<br /><i>for Minglu </i><br /><br />On New Year’s Eve my best friend posted a picture <br />on Facebook showing her having a picnic with her <br />husband. Both wearing T-shirts (because it is <br />summer <br />there), smiling radiantly to the camera, Chardonnay <br />glasses sparkling in their hands. Two plates full <br />of rice <br />and curry invite appetite. Apples and bananas wait <br />patiently on the checked tablecloth. A still life <br />painting. <br />A giant jeep stands brooding behind them, its green <br />surface and shiny glass translucent. Underneath lies <br />the yellow sand and stone. Above, twigs extend like <br />a spider web. Against the backdrop are trees (or <br />bushes <br />as the Aussies say) pressed low by silver clouds, <br />reminiscent of an old Turner painting but set <br />on the Australian outback on a hot summer day. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM0x2ficGNsMU8Nl1mvsJVJjyuhs1smfUSpSfkyp1sn6zlV0B4o2vW4Cm8Vpc6xSP3nfGIety8Th17CBBhRMpF8L6MP_bKEbEXcxtLvD10xElmBhZuzRoQACDC5hzdoAawtjUIw2DLxWlCkqmNm5JknJcDex989w2kE8ZYLST2VGP4tLRZW6KPWg/s225/3.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM0x2ficGNsMU8Nl1mvsJVJjyuhs1smfUSpSfkyp1sn6zlV0B4o2vW4Cm8Vpc6xSP3nfGIety8Th17CBBhRMpF8L6MP_bKEbEXcxtLvD10xElmBhZuzRoQACDC5hzdoAawtjUIw2DLxWlCkqmNm5JknJcDex989w2kE8ZYLST2VGP4tLRZW6KPWg/w400-h400/3.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />GAY BAR<br /><br />In that dark, narrow neighbourhood bar, <br />tucked inside an alleyway, <br />time stands still. <br /><br />Dust dances in the sunbeam. <br />Beer and food stains on the table. <br />Stories of thick and thin times. <br /><br />That pungent smell saturates the air, <br />pounding hearts, <br />speeding up breaths. <br /><br />How many rounds have I walked past, <br />wandering outside <br />before finally giving in? <br /><br />How many casual conversations have I struck up, <br />unfolding another life, <br />a different shade of loneliness? <br /><br />How many times have I stood in trance <br />before the washer, clothes carrying <br />the mixed odours of cigarette, alcohol and sweat, <br /><br />the memories of <br />this man’s bulging veins on his hands, <br />that man’s trimmed mustache on his lips? </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixwgxyWrV3Fz1htCClHQoRu_IA8nMGfaATwvOp7804H6KzytYz5CJTn7tbrsIw_65R_PNskcPDNoU2P2fyDK5YyctMBe7UHUIgh8qaithENyg3mU7Yeq2tBaB6CkWViUDk50Hd91WF40h2OFkOlEVfYl7AgxxX31ZH6uFZgb2y6NDgaDokB0X-vg/s276/4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="276" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixwgxyWrV3Fz1htCClHQoRu_IA8nMGfaATwvOp7804H6KzytYz5CJTn7tbrsIw_65R_PNskcPDNoU2P2fyDK5YyctMBe7UHUIgh8qaithENyg3mU7Yeq2tBaB6CkWViUDk50Hd91WF40h2OFkOlEVfYl7AgxxX31ZH6uFZgb2y6NDgaDokB0X-vg/w400-h265/4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br />CONFESSION<br /><br />We met at the Mardi Gras <br />last summer and kissed <br />under the rainbow-coloured Sydney sun. <br /><br />The cross necklace you wore <br />on your neck <br />dangled in front of your chest. <br /><br />Now I see you wake up <br />in the middle of the night, gazing <br />at the cross, deep in thought. <br /><br />How can you <br />stagger into a church on a Sunday morning, <br />hair messy, eyes half-closing, <br /><br />alcohol in every breath, listening <br />to the preachings of Adam and Eve <br />almost dozing off; <br /><br />waiting patiently in a queue <br />for a pathetic-looking piece of wafer <br />and a drop of sugar-loaded wine <br /><br />after a Saturday night out <br />at a gay club, drinking shots and pints, <br />dancing till your legs ache? <br /><br />And how can you <br />still pick up the Book and pray <br />after we’ve had sex and drugs? <br /><br />What have you told the priest <br />that you won’t tell me? <br /><br />Do I ever feature <br />in your heart-wrenching confession? </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Qg1v8rxgWTw_Ri-4o205XDBtQsocrDPJ1zzs9nRD5eWcgFnXEQkroyVLFslcHn7-cKRBixKZNSYgH_5haVCf3V5mZ2m7Uom66-BIZQjI-JEcw0ox0X-IQY5VoxOqH5iCWMND4qgfjz71V8UqVY68KBsEczY8WcdE3rpHRTF6uSjNmO5rVwWyiw/s275/5.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_Qg1v8rxgWTw_Ri-4o205XDBtQsocrDPJ1zzs9nRD5eWcgFnXEQkroyVLFslcHn7-cKRBixKZNSYgH_5haVCf3V5mZ2m7Uom66-BIZQjI-JEcw0ox0X-IQY5VoxOqH5iCWMND4qgfjz71V8UqVY68KBsEczY8WcdE3rpHRTF6uSjNmO5rVwWyiw/w400-h266/5.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />BLUE SKY THINKING <br /><br />Just imagine— <br />the consultant raises his voice, arms spread wide: <br />a school without departments and departmental <br />offices; <br />teachers allowed to teach what they are researching; <br />students able to choose what they are interested in, <br />walk into a service centre and have all their <br />problems solved; <br />fewer staff which would mean less bureaucracy, <br />more efficiency, <br />better customer service, greater satisfaction rates— <br />how wonderful, how exciting this would be! <br /><br />The consultant drops his arms, still wearing that <br />dreamlike smile, satisfied with the rhetorical <br />force of his words, rehearsed so many times. <br />His thick eyebrows sweep across a room <br />full of impressed managers, silent staff. <br /><br />Trying to avoid his eye contact, <br />I look out of the window and gaze <br />at the small patches of blue sky <br />amid accumulating dark clouds. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBGvTwWfDE77mTPtpIlAKY-y1gUbrS_x2lC793-W2ja_iMHkj0H_n1AEbszbKF-VBlK8tqZlEnbE80FwshqH33n2KBjYO6AH1xXFBQpOdCD7WjswOauvxaw79YV9S-NdekABsKM1xlkEylem01k2xEQt3VlDVoJuqeWKBy5eTub3mTVerGp15GEg/s225/6.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBGvTwWfDE77mTPtpIlAKY-y1gUbrS_x2lC793-W2ja_iMHkj0H_n1AEbszbKF-VBlK8tqZlEnbE80FwshqH33n2KBjYO6AH1xXFBQpOdCD7WjswOauvxaw79YV9S-NdekABsKM1xlkEylem01k2xEQt3VlDVoJuqeWKBy5eTub3mTVerGp15GEg/w400-h400/6.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />PANCAKE <br /><br />On those long, winter nights, <br />I and my friends, a group <br />of university students, pondered <br />on the meanings of life, <br />stomachs rumbling after a whole <br />evening’s banter, film, music, computer game. <br />Someone shouted: <br />The pancake man is here! <br /><br />We rushed downstairs, <br />in our thinly layered clothes, pyjamas even, <br />competing with one another <br />to see who could get there first. <br /><br />Outside the dorm building, <br />on the pavement, dimly lit <br />by the streetlamps, stood a man <br />with his tricycle, a hot <br />pancake stove installed on the back. <br />White steam rose in the air. <br />Sweet aroma stimulated the nostrils. <br /><br />We stood in a zigzagging queue <br />rubbing hands, stamping feet, <br />waiting for our turn, knowing <br />it would be worth the wait. <br /><br />Those were cold nights <br />and bright days. <br />Twenty years later, <br />the chilly wind of the night <br />still penetrates my bones. <br />The sweet smell of the pancakes <br />still titillates my stomach. <br />The young faces of my friends <br />still shimmer in my head. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiDnU1OpO40lXSZ8JQG8tHjV6NYE1SAvPbQGv_IkY_6SQxRJ-LtYw8V3ki5bnSSNcvH03Q49Dqy3BaTxdiTpAMlNDLaciH3KZ2bumzngBRSyYI1-UU8rHithvKyMljaAtbcaQBlnY9NZ9HfNSpiAmexpP3xDvs540bZjL9vDFLvs-sNUkCtuMMSA/s275/7.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiDnU1OpO40lXSZ8JQG8tHjV6NYE1SAvPbQGv_IkY_6SQxRJ-LtYw8V3ki5bnSSNcvH03Q49Dqy3BaTxdiTpAMlNDLaciH3KZ2bumzngBRSyYI1-UU8rHithvKyMljaAtbcaQBlnY9NZ9HfNSpiAmexpP3xDvs540bZjL9vDFLvs-sNUkCtuMMSA/w400-h266/7.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />PUPPY ON THE BRIDGE <br /><br />Last night I saw a puppy. <br />small and white, a Labrador, I think, <br />standing on the cast-iron bridge <br />not knowing where to go. <br /><br />Then I saw you. You bent down <br />and picked it up. It didn’t struggle. <br />Its soft white limbs resting in your arms. <br />Its bright eyes staring at you <br />—that clear pool of water! <br />You hugged the puppy <br />as if holding a baby. You carried it <br />across the bridge and gently put it down. <br /><br />I don’t know what happened next. <br />I couldn’t tell where the dog came from, <br />or what it was doing out there. <br />I wasn’t sure where I was, <br />or if I was there. It was a still <br />image with a clear foreground <br />and blurred background. <br />A deep focus. <br /><br />Perhaps it was a dream. <br />Perhaps I was thinking about the puppy <br />I never had. An idea <br />you’ve always said no to. <br /><br />Perhaps I wish I was that puppy. <br />When I got lost, you’d come <br />to my rescue, picking me up, <br />hugging me gently in your arms. <br /><br />___________________<br /><br /><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />We should consider every day lost on which we have not danced at least once. And we should call every truth false which was not accompanied by at least one laugh. <br /><br />—Friedrich Nietzsche<br /><br />____________________<br /><br />Newcomer <span style="color: red;">Hongwei Bao</span> grew up in Inner Mongolia, China, and now lives in Nottingham, UK. He uses short stories, poems and essays to explore queer desire, Asian identity, diasporic positionality and transcultural intimacy. His creative work has appeared or is forthcoming in </i>Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, The Rialto, Shanghai Literary Review, The Hooghly Review, The Ponder Review, the other side of hope, The Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine <i>and </i>Write On. <i>His flash fiction, ‘A Postcard from Berlin’, won the second prize in the Plaza Prize for Microfiction in 2023. His debut collection, </i>The Passion of the Rabbit God<i>, is forthcoming from Valley Press in Summer 2024. Welcome to the Kitchen, Hongwei, and don’t be a stranger!<br /><br />____________________<br /><br />—Medusa </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOS-6gnhSoQV6fW2Ht8y95l_WWsDDNaVRaPL0N72mFkZda6YTmj9gRzS_BcyDU1f8yEotAlw3jzbz3LaF5hzkpID8xMKB1YTo3QU5xGNEQzR52gLMs_q-PrvO_Eb347Wef55o4sCYV8KbWoqqCwi6XJloXSkHjgzi7pk189s5cGaU3nsSBxbkFvw/s4032/Hongwei%20Bao%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOS-6gnhSoQV6fW2Ht8y95l_WWsDDNaVRaPL0N72mFkZda6YTmj9gRzS_BcyDU1f8yEotAlw3jzbz3LaF5hzkpID8xMKB1YTo3QU5xGNEQzR52gLMs_q-PrvO_Eb347Wef55o4sCYV8KbWoqqCwi6XJloXSkHjgzi7pk189s5cGaU3nsSBxbkFvw/w300-h400/Hongwei%20Bao%202.jpg" width="300" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Hongwei Bao</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A reminder that <span style="color: red;">Loch Henson</span></i><br /><i>will be reading today at </i><br /><b><i>The Poets Club of Lincoln’s</i><br /></b><i><b>Open Mic Sunday</b>, 3pm. </i><br /><i>For future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM6ZmsynoBrneKbssMC91meZXuu_M5HytNo8p5slK_q6dmuYYDhF_4II7SkrPwO0rlwGfnjaArhBDqcfp75si9LAehRQExkVofgfOI5EnfHPidInt3K9LPtwe2MeId5zqPmtrrbg4Niy3c0gPA61cwkvkFMETy1akuCRek-T9vVlfrczroiQZuCg/s446/flowers%20around.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="442" data-original-width="446" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiM6ZmsynoBrneKbssMC91meZXuu_M5HytNo8p5slK_q6dmuYYDhF_4II7SkrPwO0rlwGfnjaArhBDqcfp75si9LAehRQExkVofgfOI5EnfHPidInt3K9LPtwe2MeId5zqPmtrrbg4Niy3c0gPA61cwkvkFMETy1akuCRek-T9vVlfrczroiQZuCg/w200-h198/flowers%20around.png" width="200" /></a></div><br /> </i><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-17610251891894645632024-03-09T08:36:00.000-08:002024-03-09T08:48:12.184-08:00One Hand Clapping<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIrqDxdKmyw5y4hFYcsYQXzJBJtp81mPQkKKnLZB0hYMuvnImWm-wmRwfIUCln3HK72hpdAD1W-rrZiqy9rDZ7k8sYVUdu81WEGb4dOhlanQagUTw-P4MVydZ1Svz5vSj_Gmt76RSfPneQM70u6Kv4UN4WTVWKjjHJ8kXVWWMuIieDuvgNSZ-h3g/s657/horse:snow%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="546" data-original-width="657" height="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIrqDxdKmyw5y4hFYcsYQXzJBJtp81mPQkKKnLZB0hYMuvnImWm-wmRwfIUCln3HK72hpdAD1W-rrZiqy9rDZ7k8sYVUdu81WEGb4dOhlanQagUTw-P4MVydZ1Svz5vSj_Gmt76RSfPneQM70u6Kv4UN4WTVWKjjHJ8kXVWWMuIieDuvgNSZ-h3g/w400-h333/horse:snow%20jn.png" width="400" /></a></div><i> —Poetry by Michael H. Brownstein, <br />Jefferson City, MO<br />—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of <br />Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">MOUNTAIN STORM<br /><br />It’s a rock day full of song erosion and then it rains,<br />the wind noise crisscrossed, cross-stitched,<br />glacier waters bleeding off-course, bumps and <br />pebbles,<br />stone and flesh, branch and burp. How easily bones<br />flush from the mountain after a storm, white-washed<br />like albino skin, the broken facade of stucco, the last<br />snow melting, and sometimes the singing is a Siren.<br />Great walls open and collide, stale and crusty. A tree<br />breaks at its waist and everyone hears it. In a rock day,<br />and yes, you can hear the sound of one hand clapping.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRFhMXA_dt_v687e6aLNBvORFjaTOZqO_DJYer_NH854b9JCirDlvv50DrVKktsZ0ASdMesxG1Cvr9GJ7aPjq8mV8zrQMI8prr-GRm231GfTHE-ldaoI8OytkE6ip4mKC9lP_EqtCsiM3h7a83IxwlhQznq3tbJnhd8iRezclb1a7f-TOuDaDCrw/s720/volcano%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="699" data-original-width="720" height="389" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRFhMXA_dt_v687e6aLNBvORFjaTOZqO_DJYer_NH854b9JCirDlvv50DrVKktsZ0ASdMesxG1Cvr9GJ7aPjq8mV8zrQMI8prr-GRm231GfTHE-ldaoI8OytkE6ip4mKC9lP_EqtCsiM3h7a83IxwlhQznq3tbJnhd8iRezclb1a7f-TOuDaDCrw/w400-h389/volcano%20jn.png" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />REIGN OF ASH<br /><br />This is one of those nights you never dream,<br />the sky not on fire, but burning.<br />Falling ash and ember. An orange cantaloupe moon. <br />Nosebleeds. <br />Diarrhea.<br /><br />The volcano dome collapses, a sudden cloud, and <br />night is hyphenated.<br />A rain of black ash<br />And all of the stars drop from sight in bundles.<br /><br />The people come out of their homes and stand on <br />their verandas,<br />A people of the long knife and volcanic dust,<br />Skin hard with ash, hair ash-poisoned, ash-sweat stew.<br /><br />Spirits roam the roads and pathways, find life in <br />the old ones,<br />The village’s simple center crowded into the hill,<br />Welcomes the voices of the dead.<br /><br />Later island rescue comes with breathing masks,<br />A church opens its doors early to pray for rain,<br />Goats come from their hiding places to shake them-<br />selves free.<br /><br />All day dust clouds landscape and window.<br />The mountain sacrifices itself to lahars and spirit <br />people.<br />Everything, every leaf, every iguana, every ghost <br />wrapped in ash.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlQxLDrclwvx0VAYRPXGiPt0J_2r8dtellQZEFFLftI1lFxdyPie9FLYIun_SLMhaMqa4UR3MZNpEWfVnhkjEoEapW6tQvxwYLcm2Bl63f-KbSuFU_QBzf6ju24Iko0KZPSLtYy0aqKoyC2QM1qYiWEftr-tynaZwFsSLDYrSiUAEPC-v4_SEVmQ/s1040/woman:headdress%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1040" data-original-width="735" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlQxLDrclwvx0VAYRPXGiPt0J_2r8dtellQZEFFLftI1lFxdyPie9FLYIun_SLMhaMqa4UR3MZNpEWfVnhkjEoEapW6tQvxwYLcm2Bl63f-KbSuFU_QBzf6ju24Iko0KZPSLtYy0aqKoyC2QM1qYiWEftr-tynaZwFsSLDYrSiUAEPC-v4_SEVmQ/w283-h400/woman:headdress%20jn.png" width="283" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />HIGH ON HER MOUNTAIN, THE <br />WITCH WITCH WARMS HERSELF<br /><br />The witch witch wakes hungry,<br />ice on her breath,<br />clouds in her hair,<br />underwear gray and red,<br />warts sprawled across her arms.<br />There are always people who are meant to harm <br />you.<br />The witch witch is not one of them.<br />She can dig a shallow grave,<br />pray over a cat at play with a mouse,<br />squash a scorpion between thumb and forefinger.<br />The witch witch sees the dormant volcano<br />through an opening in her wall,<br />the sudden rise of steam, the push<br />of ash like wet sand,<br />the beautiful collapse of the dome.<br />She walks onto her veranda,<br />folds her small hands into a smile,<br />and watches the mountain catch fire.<br /><br />___________________<br /><br /><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />WINTER HORIZON<br />—Michael H. Brownstein<br /><br />Winter's horizon<br />an orange line across snow—<br />cloud-light gathers wind.<br /> <br />Then:<br />a cloudy opera,<br />melody of leaf and limb,<br />a quality of falling snow.<br /><br />___________________<br /><br />—Medusa, with thanks to <span style="color: red;">Michael Brownstein</span> for today’s fine poetry! And don't forget to spring your clock ahead one hour tonight at midnight.<br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaQxIH1_4BqzKtRZUFgzJ99Wgd51d94hcHsKiciGQlWWBIOiWPpfxOAYPPDQkmloqCp4yJcqxN8Nq6tg-S-AcebZNchZX-DbmqwKWaXfW3AXvC53Jq3rhDmvSuBiwVzo0ZMJhS3UcReW2RFX3fvngKPV2-G6kCS5FNkpU8YYuGRHUv8Uj80EVJ3Q/s742/horse:motion%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="742" data-original-width="510" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaQxIH1_4BqzKtRZUFgzJ99Wgd51d94hcHsKiciGQlWWBIOiWPpfxOAYPPDQkmloqCp4yJcqxN8Nq6tg-S-AcebZNchZX-DbmqwKWaXfW3AXvC53Jq3rhDmvSuBiwVzo0ZMJhS3UcReW2RFX3fvngKPV2-G6kCS5FNkpU8YYuGRHUv8Uj80EVJ3Q/w275-h400/horse:motion%20jn.png" width="275" /></a></div><br /> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A reminder that <b>Mosaic of Voices</b></i><br /><i>takes place at the Lodi Public Library </i><br /><i>today, 2pm; then tonight, 5-8pm,</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Sacramento Poetry Center will hold an<br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Art Exhibit, Reception and Reading</b> </span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">by <span style="color: red;">Asantewaa Boykin</span>.</span></span> </i><br /><i>For info about these and other</i><br /><i>future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5lei62OInr27nd9CmX0KXtcIDyiq9nZAxm96Pbnv9TXEiBcvmBrZVuvVUrrIqtV_tAi1y67Or18vdSjuNTWV_smwxV2nK89hrMKywpl3HhBfRcMejZ3sRzGHgqsrf4qU0qHsVCnWGcBxdAK3_Cg8F9-nKQGgJNY1-lox7GIJpda4QF9oRzTLR5g/s600/purple%20witch.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5lei62OInr27nd9CmX0KXtcIDyiq9nZAxm96Pbnv9TXEiBcvmBrZVuvVUrrIqtV_tAi1y67Or18vdSjuNTWV_smwxV2nK89hrMKywpl3HhBfRcMejZ3sRzGHgqsrf4qU0qHsVCnWGcBxdAK3_Cg8F9-nKQGgJNY1-lox7GIJpda4QF9oRzTLR5g/w200-h200/purple%20witch.jpg" width="200" /></a></div></i><i>LittleSnake as Witch Witch</i><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-54571655603164615142024-03-08T08:33:00.000-08:002024-03-08T08:33:35.908-08:00Gather Ye Daffodils<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilGOqILwjhY_EKunJloOZDDyXjnwtMOah5LPXKoaQhvucybgU-yl5t0k_sc5SkoJJTKY1sbyC1wcCLM71gtOpsDH-ZB8OPR2ET_iL4J1U1KlDh3IdXch_ILuLSnNk_qH2HuNZm0o21UHt5Zq7-tSXKiV6ilK3GfcALZZmiNTAJkLuBcJrfJlLo-g/s4080/waterfall%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3060" data-original-width="4080" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilGOqILwjhY_EKunJloOZDDyXjnwtMOah5LPXKoaQhvucybgU-yl5t0k_sc5SkoJJTKY1sbyC1wcCLM71gtOpsDH-ZB8OPR2ET_iL4J1U1KlDh3IdXch_ILuLSnNk_qH2HuNZm0o21UHt5Zq7-tSXKiV6ilK3GfcALZZmiNTAJkLuBcJrfJlLo-g/w400-h300/waterfall%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <i>—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,<br />Placerville, CA<br />—And then scroll down for <br /><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Form Fiddlers’ Friday</span></b>, with poetry by<br />Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,<br />Joe Nolan, Michael H. Brownstein,<br />Caschwa, Joyce Odam, <br />and Acelin Kane</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">GET MOVING<br /><br />Out the door and out to greet the morning. <br />Time to reboot the computer in your head. Listen. <br />That’s no old winter song the towhee’s trilling. <br />Maybe it’s the avian version of “gather ye rosebuds<br />while ye may.” Who knows? the words are yours <br />to find. And the brain works freer, fresher <br />when the body is engaged in moving. <br />February rains have plumped and plushed <br />the moss on stone and stump, a thousand <br />soft green pillows if you need a moment’s rest.<br />The grass will never be sweeter.<br />In droughty summer you’ll recall this living <br />green-gem day. Was it just a dream?<br />Get out your camera, <br />you may need proof this day is real.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRYBy1rvurVR-9C5cuK5a8CjbdBkKplUu2slcj5s5tVojXX5dhNykp3GzCqDwmsIaM4e_aaAuwvZ6mIyoyQsZm4ZhzS98KH6jer1gcZoBuhHRc1JTrjDbUSL82klmsHH_3iTiykM-uHAz0KZHIAhyphenhyphenZblkJ5t7-JxAjpdiB8zv8rtkzsKeKyw8Erw/s640/daffodils%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="640" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRYBy1rvurVR-9C5cuK5a8CjbdBkKplUu2slcj5s5tVojXX5dhNykp3GzCqDwmsIaM4e_aaAuwvZ6mIyoyQsZm4ZhzS98KH6jer1gcZoBuhHRc1JTrjDbUSL82klmsHH_3iTiykM-uHAz0KZHIAhyphenhyphenZblkJ5t7-JxAjpdiB8zv8rtkzsKeKyw8Erw/w400-h301/daffodils%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">AMONG SPRING GREEN<br /><br />Last year’s star-thistle stands brittle<br />as if forever, with a dead<br />white blossom at each branching tip—<br />golden stars turned to ash.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaMj38KsreQlHS_I1S53xT3q5KmxzYW275EFu9JF202HxuCFUt21ar_E9YxeiGI2A1jIEVr0GlyZf04GNeGY7Hs5HJUVuFOFnsMIjkStx1uC9aoJqlH287jwoUqM6t7APT9Xas4SB-0ClHdowZgFwKfKng9aqR4XCP8-E63nkzc_HDYvpE0FsnFA/s640/is%20it%20jewel%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="640" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaMj38KsreQlHS_I1S53xT3q5KmxzYW275EFu9JF202HxuCFUt21ar_E9YxeiGI2A1jIEVr0GlyZf04GNeGY7Hs5HJUVuFOFnsMIjkStx1uC9aoJqlH287jwoUqM6t7APT9Xas4SB-0ClHdowZgFwKfKng9aqR4XCP8-E63nkzc_HDYvpE0FsnFA/w400-h301/is%20it%20jewel%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Claytonia</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />IS IT JEWEL, BLOSSOM, OR SALAD?<br /><br />Claytonia—Indian lettuce—<br />heart-shaped green leaf on <br />slender stem. Then,<br />a jazzy rough cupped disk<br /><br />with a tiny<br />faceted green gem,<br />soon to burst into one<br />pale pink blossom. In all <br /><br />these shapes and phases of <br />its spring, I <br />pick a mouthful while my <br />dog grazes on <br /><br />green grass whose <br />solitary jewel is the dew.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhViY5MdcN-Eil_trnJNdOpwZXNwaVPJ2yAd4CBnmSbxuKgY3_m-k5OyA9FAiovIv_GphKquIZW1mGo6BB9zj7NqtwE-C18FHwGih4I_Meo4HfcI9qrhxEYba17uHw7088eNBp2k3GY50oPmHP3fYX_pVsvUKKB-jGhVczjg9TRzXxsP7eBtFDWMg/s4080/pastoral%20frenzy%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3060" data-original-width="4080" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhViY5MdcN-Eil_trnJNdOpwZXNwaVPJ2yAd4CBnmSbxuKgY3_m-k5OyA9FAiovIv_GphKquIZW1mGo6BB9zj7NqtwE-C18FHwGih4I_Meo4HfcI9qrhxEYba17uHw7088eNBp2k3GY50oPmHP3fYX_pVsvUKKB-jGhVczjg9TRzXxsP7eBtFDWMg/w400-h300/pastoral%20frenzy%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />PASTORAL FRENZY<br /><br />Another communal flutter session<br />around the feeders overlooking our east field.<br />Titmouse chases the nuthatch away, <br />jay’s jabbering and throwing uneaten seed<br />down for migrant sparrows and juncos—<br />a model of unintended generosity.<br />Now a woodpecker replaces the titmouse.<br />I never provide enough. I might scatter <br />cornbread crumbs but no one wants them. <br />On the backwoods edge, a vagrant cat <br />furrows the fur of its brow with homicidal <br />(or is it avicidal?) aspirations.<br />But the seed is gone, the birds fly off<br />so I can refill the feeders.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUUrv_-UNeAeAcyl_sItA7Oz_3AtJye32g9APoiIetiBeMeW2bsaa5bNCdiMdirotJSbEIPZEIQ0_2lj7cv3IDYnzg5P3s02Mw6U5j0pUw8nFR0U7t1P6IH4IFdTdFmbH-zeu-M6_6U9_kWticEdMev8qFOFu2g_9hSYrkAT4N3jH_3PyEbAqqWg/s4080/paved%20creek%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3060" data-original-width="4080" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUUrv_-UNeAeAcyl_sItA7Oz_3AtJye32g9APoiIetiBeMeW2bsaa5bNCdiMdirotJSbEIPZEIQ0_2lj7cv3IDYnzg5P3s02Mw6U5j0pUw8nFR0U7t1P6IH4IFdTdFmbH-zeu-M6_6U9_kWticEdMev8qFOFu2g_9hSYrkAT4N3jH_3PyEbAqqWg/w400-h300/paved%20creek%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />PAVED CREEK THRU TOWN<br /><br />How high the waters, wild the storm to hoist<br />this pennant on wrecked debris—<br />ghost flag of a stripped ship.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhEJozfjZ1VrnoP4ZnQ3QQsZZc4vYBkhikQKCPUua5tnn_xRGahqat0GHa9JJTUdbl8_dCQawWRGmkfwWE-0QMdc0woZtiTbPbNh-9dq5ZFRnfnmaopKxBxk1cQ_7VbL5X99feuAQDK4Ra6ZO23tVXyf4yT3h6W0kmTtvmOmD0A6a1W_9fkmAnNQ/s4080/wht%20blossoms%20tg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3060" data-original-width="4080" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhEJozfjZ1VrnoP4ZnQ3QQsZZc4vYBkhikQKCPUua5tnn_xRGahqat0GHa9JJTUdbl8_dCQawWRGmkfwWE-0QMdc0woZtiTbPbNh-9dq5ZFRnfnmaopKxBxk1cQ_7VbL5X99feuAQDK4Ra6ZO23tVXyf4yT3h6W0kmTtvmOmD0A6a1W_9fkmAnNQ/w400-h300/wht%20blossoms%20tg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />NO MILESTONES<br /><br />Beyond the locked <br />bar gate across the track <br />where no train <br />runs, beyond the official trail<br /><br />we start walking —<br />our first time <br />here. No marker tells how <br />far we’ve got to go.<br /><br />The track is long deserted, <br />train not running<br />anymore. We walk between abandoned <br />rails, muddy paths.<br /><br />If the spirit moves us<br />we may run.<br /><br />____________________<br /><i><br /><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />IT COMES DOWN TO THIS<br />—Taylor Graham <br /><br />What’s that garnet-red<br />I glimpsed thru trees, here just off<br />railroad track and trail?<br />Oh, another derelict<br />red car, once gem-like, rusting.<br /><br />____________________<br /><br />Spring is tiptoeing in around here, despite the recent storms; <span style="color: red;">Taylor Graham</span> has written about it this morning, and we are grateful to her for her fine poetry. Forms she has used this week include two <b>Bema's Bests</b> (“Is It Jewel, Blossom, or Salad?” and “No Milestones”); a <b>Pastoral</b> that is also a <b>Word-Can Poem</b> (“Pastoral Frenzy”); a <b>Tanka</b> (“It Comes Down to This”); a <b>Kimo</b> that is also an <b>Ekphrastic</b> on her photo (”Paved Creek Thru Town”); and a <b>Ryūka</b> (“Among Spring Green”). The Bema’s Best was one of the Triple-F Challenges last week.<br /><br />Tonight in El Dorado County, there will be a <b>book launch</b> for </i>A River Called Home—a river fable<i> by <span style="color: red;">Robin Center </span>and <span style="color: red;">Moira Magneson</span>, at The Barn at Camp Lotus in Lotus, CA, 5-7pm. And then next Monday morning, Poetic License read-around takes place in Placerville at the Sr. Center, 10:30am. For news about El Dorado County poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s <b>Western Slope El Dorado</b> on Facebook at <a href="http://www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry">www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry</a> or see <span style="color: red;">Lara Gularte</span>’s Facebook page at <a href="https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077">https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077</a>/. (Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!) And of course you can always click on Medusa's <b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b> (<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>) for details about future poetry events in the NorCal area. <br /><br />And now it’s time for… <br /><br /><br /><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;">FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY! </span></b></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"> </span></b></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><b><span style="color: #2b00fe; font-size: large;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE-Q1jYwHlrV4afTpnO4m-dPPfVVfNB7zP3-cp0gGAgVfBnmgenPNiyHtKJOzyVs4GHxAiuLwYHPSSXv0wobOr8IJJ8eI5hiuv7pjjwFeee6DpoZeFodGdyKZTgBNhaVpzHsxw4SiM7YiYAPpFzVI6DP4zPRwyBqGTq4MWbGK8JJ1H9Tb64cK1GA/s225/boy:stump.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE-Q1jYwHlrV4afTpnO4m-dPPfVVfNB7zP3-cp0gGAgVfBnmgenPNiyHtKJOzyVs4GHxAiuLwYHPSSXv0wobOr8IJJ8eI5hiuv7pjjwFeee6DpoZeFodGdyKZTgBNhaVpzHsxw4SiM7YiYAPpFzVI6DP4zPRwyBqGTq4MWbGK8JJ1H9Tb64cK1GA/w200-h200/boy:stump.jpg" width="200" /> </a></div></span></b></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>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.)</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /> There’s also a 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. Got any more resources to add to our list? Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com for the benefit of all man/woman/poetkind!</i><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">* * *</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX_o1KE6fkd7jhXygkf6sCbEfUvGIu1RXEHx7WupchUV57uPnb-FHoAfSRDOVJ0zWGaUGd5diZO16HBwEwctS2Fl5e5uHRpnZmbJe-LqkYXzDv2zKtc_Qh5XNObaJagtyqYl8l5ofCqob6-tAldETGrb2X0_rXpmd_N-87kAHtobuniF2aI7kjBg/s350/OLD%20EK%20tea%20kk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="293" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX_o1KE6fkd7jhXygkf6sCbEfUvGIu1RXEHx7WupchUV57uPnb-FHoAfSRDOVJ0zWGaUGd5diZO16HBwEwctS2Fl5e5uHRpnZmbJe-LqkYXzDv2zKtc_Qh5XNObaJagtyqYl8l5ofCqob6-tAldETGrb2X0_rXpmd_N-87kAHtobuniF2aI7kjBg/w335-h400/OLD%20EK%20tea%20kk.jpg" width="335" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo</b></i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><i>This week we received responses to last week’s Ekphrastic photo from <span style="color: red;">Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth, </span>and<span style="color: red;"> Joe Nolan</span>:</i><br /><br /><br />TEA<i><br />—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY</i><br /><br />The table set <br />for tea for one. <br />The finest china, <br />buttered scone <br />filled with red jam. <br />Flowers in a <br />matching vase <br />and near my plate <br />distracts me from <br />the empty chair <br />where you once sat.<br /><br />• • •<br /><br /><i><span style="color: red;">Stephen Kingsnorth</span>, our resident in Wales, writes that “the EK led me in a little rant”. Appropriate comments here from a Britishman—and who better to talk about the daily tea?</i><br /><br /><br />EMBROIDERED<br /><i>—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales</i><br /><br />But what a setup, fairy tale, <br />a nonsense to those in the know— <br />I’m animated, sacred cow, <br />that studio could blow the show, <br />misrepresent ceremony. <br /><br />It’s scone that gives the game away <br />(some rhyme with ‘cone’, but me, I’m ‘con’) <br />for who could have so wide a gob <br />at English tea, in café, home, <br />when daintily is how it’s done? <br /><br />Blue Willow pattern, English set—<br />we use these pieces in our home <br />because my grandpa, grandma did, <br />with milk jug—take the roses out— <br />and if they’re plastic, in the bin. <br /><br />A knife important as the spoon, <br />and sugar bowl with silver tongs, <br />with serviette to dab the mouth; <br />where clotted cream, preserve preferred, <br />but never two halves joined as one. <br /><br />Which first applied, by county lines, <br />in Devon, teen home, jam on top, <br />but Cornwall border, foreign ways; <br />and pastry offered, fruit or plain— <br />I’m for the latter—don’t distract. <br /><br />A stronger brew, as I would have, <br />unlike the ‘tea-dash’, Auntie Flo— <br />both white and brown in equal tide <br />(why little boys would want tea cold?)— <br />but we could not offend our aunt. <br /><br />Back after war, end ration books, <br />they sent that cream up London way; <br />it came by post, in tin with string, <br />and thrilled us kids, in fifties gear. <br />Now you’d be sick—the postman’s week. <br /><br />* * *<br /><br />ENGLISH TEA<br /><i>—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA</i><br /> <br />This must be English tea?<br />Open wide,<br />Across the gums,<br />Look out, tummy,<br />Here it comes!<br /><br />And its full<br />Of yummy jam?<br /><br />And is that <br />A slather of butter?<br />That's the way<br />To do a scone. <br /><br />Too good to be true.<br />And it comes with tea and flowers?<br />Maybe British Imperialism wasn’t all bad?<br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><i>Two <b>Haiku</b> this morning from <span style="color: red;">Michael Brownstein</span>. Be sure to check out the Kitchen tomorrow for more of Michael's poetry:</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOiaZyyXLYEXLumCyP4p9TRMK30FOj1nnjSuzUQs7n5CpCLfp62gXv955Jer4CJ3u7F_rV7ZqgIJYkHKPK6y2Spc2yn_Z-qHMz7CjDQWr_sbQa_bmxdQ9ZD6td80zp7_gsU20QiT-HDPNP5D7feqtLHUqsXZh9wJWzQCtWnQTPfraHPilkKIJdSA/s373/buddha.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="228" data-original-width="373" height="196" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOiaZyyXLYEXLumCyP4p9TRMK30FOj1nnjSuzUQs7n5CpCLfp62gXv955Jer4CJ3u7F_rV7ZqgIJYkHKPK6y2Spc2yn_Z-qHMz7CjDQWr_sbQa_bmxdQ9ZD6td80zp7_gsU20QiT-HDPNP5D7feqtLHUqsXZh9wJWzQCtWnQTPfraHPilkKIJdSA/s320/buddha.png" width="320" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />1.<br /><br />in the shade, Basho's<br />ghost sings its praise to blue skies—<br />wind imagery<br /><br />2.<br /><br />the ghost of Basho<br />sits under the gingko tree<br />perfumed imagery<br /><br /><br /><i>—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />Another <b>Haiku</b>, this one from <span style="color: red;">Carl Schwartz</span> <span style="color: red;">(Caschwa)</span>:</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRqJf6_PfuqLbpxd_7On8Sv4yOI-UWGeBdtmYk88pFyEL6mTBjJofBDCw8mTBFUbwCNjxUp8rx9Gk1ALlNlX3ddE_0jtOlNpBlYCgQT5HqZ9C3i7F52rhYdQujU7rPLZ5YeVx4iF1RBoR6PAaB5bXwrFimuaB_4rhOSMPOQn3k8GJx1W-FuGfphA/s225/lyre.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRqJf6_PfuqLbpxd_7On8Sv4yOI-UWGeBdtmYk88pFyEL6mTBjJofBDCw8mTBFUbwCNjxUp8rx9Gk1ALlNlX3ddE_0jtOlNpBlYCgQT5HqZ9C3i7F52rhYdQujU7rPLZ5YeVx4iF1RBoR6PAaB5bXwrFimuaB_4rhOSMPOQn3k8GJx1W-FuGfphA/s1600/lyre.jpg" width="225" /></a></div> <br /> </div><div style="text-align: left;">BALD FACE LYRE <br /><i>—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA</i><br /><br />it would only hold <br />the music page upside down <br />and no other way<br /><br />* * *<br /><i><br />Here are five <b>Katautas</b> from <span style="color: red;">Joyce Odam</span>. This form uses the question-answer format as laid out here by Joyce: </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZcGGGQixlsz_vbhc9htCDUZQvEsfa5ImJFsQpgf6gROzPiP8N3fMS2h6pMKOibeT2_NsD4FcuSHpW7e8RP7gCsCLoAcIT1m87er9zdRc4nmx2_wnK42K5U9fLwRlhEgH3lRkmFQgRRDDd8OvJ7tXDYfkDoP2Mw4q4Pn7RflMJirtALdq1aCX_gQ/s259/geese.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZcGGGQixlsz_vbhc9htCDUZQvEsfa5ImJFsQpgf6gROzPiP8N3fMS2h6pMKOibeT2_NsD4FcuSHpW7e8RP7gCsCLoAcIT1m87er9zdRc4nmx2_wnK42K5U9fLwRlhEgH3lRkmFQgRRDDd8OvJ7tXDYfkDoP2Mw4q4Pn7RflMJirtALdq1aCX_gQ/s1600/geese.jpg" width="259" /></a></div><br /></i><br />THE HOLLOW LIGHT<br /><i>—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA</i><br /><br /><b>What is that bright sound?</b><br /><i>Whenever I hear color<br />rage against light, there is grief.</i><br /><br /><b>What does the sky pull?</b><br /><i>The geese cried down this morning.<br />It was too bright to see them.</i><br /><br /><b>What will release us? </b> <br /><i>Shadows pass through each other<br />then separate with no touch.</i><br /><br /><b>Will we remember? </b><br /><i>Blue beads will break to a path,<br />then just the string, then the clasp.</i><br /><br /><b>Will there be regret?</b><br /><i>Love aches with hunger, then starves.<br />There is taste, then aftertaste.</i><br /><br /> <i><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/31/17) </span></i><br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><i>Questions. All writing, including poetry, lets questions (implied or open) hang in the air. I asked form-whiz Taylor Graham if she knew of poetry forms that were mainly—or all—questions, and here is her reply:<br /><br />“Neruda's </i>Book of Questions (El libro de las preguntas) <i>consists of couplets and single lines (usually 4 or 5 grouped together) that are questions—no introductory sentence, no answers or commentary. </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />"Then there's the <b>Quinzaine</b>. There may be other such forms, but this is the only one that comes to mind. I suppose you might, with punctuation, make the entire stanza a question (?). This is what <a href="http://poetscollective.org">poetscollective.org</a> says:<br /><br />"The <b>Quinzaine</b> is an internet form found at </i>Shadow Poetry<i> and </i>Instant Poetry for Kids<i>, named from the French </i>quinze<i> (fifteen) for the 15 syllables the poem contains. The <b>Quinzaine</b> is:<br /> —a tristich, a poem of 3 linesm<br /> —syllabic, 7/5/3 syllables per linem<br /> —unrhymed,<br /> —composed of: L1 a statement, L2 and L3 questions related to the statement.”<br /> <br />Here is TG’s example of a <b>Quinzaine</b>:</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2uLYddLOfwpjVkjtlgYO_K3qH3JtjBB4_issQI9dny7npJ04xX_OP_mZVs473j0N0p8zY9Yog-HVJYWfwOxtVngGvKN8444oYZ_tIqSYj79ZPRsSGxwPnya2w-FoBdfNdx7V8emfmZZAKhyi9Fm_7x80tQPSoBA2Fkhnx7YYqWcjhs5jxLnPTdw/s264/tomatoes.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="191" data-original-width="264" height="191" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2uLYddLOfwpjVkjtlgYO_K3qH3JtjBB4_issQI9dny7npJ04xX_OP_mZVs473j0N0p8zY9Yog-HVJYWfwOxtVngGvKN8444oYZ_tIqSYj79ZPRsSGxwPnya2w-FoBdfNdx7V8emfmZZAKhyi9Fm_7x80tQPSoBA2Fkhnx7YYqWcjhs5jxLnPTdw/s1600/tomatoes.jpeg" width="264" /></a></div></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i><br /><br />NOVEMBER QUESTIONS<br /><i>—Taylor Graham</i><br /> <br />Green tomatoes on the sill,<br />do they mourn the end<br />of garden?<br /> <br />Our deck is damp with drizzle.<br />When might fire season<br />ever end?<br /> <br />Dark-eyed juncos have arrived.<br />Does this mean winter<br />has found us?<br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><i>There is also the <b>Question Poem</b> as listed on </i>Pen & the Pad<i>, at <a href="http://penandthepad.com/write-question-poem-6933078.html">penandthepad.com/write-question-poem-6933078.html</a>/. <br /><br />Here is a <b>Question Poem</b> from newcomer <span style="color: red;">Acelin Kane</span>, about which she writes, “This piece was a kind of experiment for me. I noticed that I include a lot of questions in my journal entries and some of my poetry and it got me inspired. I wanted to try and write an experimental form where the poem was solely made up of questions.” <br /><br />Acelin is a college student, herbalist, and aspiring teacher originally hailing from Colorado. She is a queer disabled author and activist and currently lives in Wisconsin with her partner and their cat, Turnip. You can find her on X/Twitter @acelinkane. Welcome to the Kitchen, Acelin, and don’t be a stranger!<br /><br />Here is Acelin’s <b>Question Poem</b>:</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhahaB4KOGWf_hY1BNpQB_KI7XmW7rhYc1KmOwC65iaGwD2CXhN6iQHEeVnUo42cZpfKtTqaVBKTd7Cjt3FmZCHgrHMcN1WfiYN1A4sW79k8GzU_7R6NjKZDC6eL5i89xKr4sg-2EiQWPTsToRgHAZH-eIv2VUwh9tBgk1VyilIlt1tqU0dQr9u-Q/s700/broken_heart.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="467" data-original-width="700" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhahaB4KOGWf_hY1BNpQB_KI7XmW7rhYc1KmOwC65iaGwD2CXhN6iQHEeVnUo42cZpfKtTqaVBKTd7Cjt3FmZCHgrHMcN1WfiYN1A4sW79k8GzU_7R6NjKZDC6eL5i89xKr4sg-2EiQWPTsToRgHAZH-eIv2VUwh9tBgk1VyilIlt1tqU0dQr9u-Q/s320/broken_heart.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> </i><br /><br />UNANSWERED QUERIES<br /><i>—Acelin Kane, Wisconsin</i><br /><br />Do you still miss me? Do I want to know? Would it make a difference? Would a difference feel like a difference? And what if it did, would I be happier? Could I ever go back to how I felt before? Can time turn back with the sheer force of will? If it could, would life stay stuck forever? Would it be a better or a worse hell to stay stuck with the devil you know? And what about you then? Did you feel stuck with me? Did you think I was too stuck on you? Did I make you happy? Did you mean it when you said you loved me? Did you wish you could stop? Did you regret stopping? How was it for you after? Did slowly ruining me do it for you? Was that enough? Did you want to take something more? More than my soul? Has anyone else made you feel that way? If anyone else could then why are you still here? Do you know that you are the snake lurking in my garden? Do you know that I turn you into a million things you are not? Do you know it’s because I cannot believe a man could do everything you did? Do you know there are people worse? Do you know I’ve never met any of them? Are you proud to be a unique kind of Hell to me? Do I want to know? </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><i>If you can think of another poetry form that uses questions, don’t be shy about letting us know about it at kathykieth@hotmail.com/.</i><br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><i><span style="color: red;">Nolcha Fox</span> has been ferreting around in MK’s Calliope’s Closet page [<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/calliopes-closet.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/calliopes-closet.html</a>] for prompts, and she writes that “<span style="color: red;">Robin Gale Odam</span>’s abandoned stairs idea sent me off into a potpourri of images.” (Scroll down on that page to “Some Sample Ekphrastic Subjects.) Here’s Nolcha’s <b>Ekphrastic</b> response (which is also a <b>Haibun</b>) to Robin’s abandoned stairs photo:</i><br /><br /><br />UNGENTLY USED<br /><i>—Nolcha Fox</i><br /><br />You used me as a rug, a rag, a set of stairs to clamber to devotion from another with more money and more fame. You didn’t care about the dents and whacks your rising pride inflicted on my tender hide. I was just a can of nectar you enjoyed, then crushed and tossed, litter on a highway to perdition. <br /><br />I’d rather be abandoned <br />than to join you on the road<br />to bad intentions.<br /><br />* * *<br /><br /><i>And here is another <b>Ekphrastic </b>poem, this one by <span style="color: red;">Stephen Kingsnorth</span>, based on a photo by <span style="color: red;">Taylor Graham</span> that was posted on MK on 2/23/24:</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb8RZWRrv78easLRKu_zHnBLwJ3YR0fWRuffCe9DfMbGjG9Tbz0T6zVY0FCtbiD76vcspQvDXFqIYGCd6Muigfb0b5R_kZpH5dkgAwzRpHy2-lrsCNEhjS05F1kWNaxlluKVptDK4G9em6rZj2rOzD9WyrE8oQP06jWFbA70NPjC7CH-lw1Yi0qQ/s400/TG%20walker.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="400" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb8RZWRrv78easLRKu_zHnBLwJ3YR0fWRuffCe9DfMbGjG9Tbz0T6zVY0FCtbiD76vcspQvDXFqIYGCd6Muigfb0b5R_kZpH5dkgAwzRpHy2-lrsCNEhjS05F1kWNaxlluKVptDK4G9em6rZj2rOzD9WyrE8oQP06jWFbA70NPjC7CH-lw1Yi0qQ/s320/TG%20walker.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i>—Photo by Taylor Graham</i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />ZEN? <br /><i>—Stephen Kingsnorth</i><br /><br />A walker rests against the tree, <br />not strange with tangled undergrowth. <br />But with this frame come question marks— <br />can such support be burdensome, <br />equipped as seat, perambulate, <br />but not freewheeling mountain bike? <br />Is it redundant, old machine, <br />a flying carpet, had its day, <br />though part recycled, resting post, <br />awaiting daily route’s repose? <br />If this four-wheeled, rare crash conclude, <br />its forward motion hitting trunk— <br />through ‘tree’ a clearer steer, report, <br />jalopy, hood in cut and shut. <br />So tired, retired, however gloss, <br />in ready black this throne awaits <br />Zen master of the overview; <br />will they turn scrub to paradise? <br /><br /><i>___________________<br /><br />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!<br /><br />___________________<br /><br /><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">TRIPLE-F CHALLENGES! </span></b></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgubO1g2DrgUx0tGT6MT9F807K5aFxCeufA8G5gpLLb4Tq82jC_6shLD8kopMeOQTMgJU-iDUvnuDDP4nHs-OHrgrF1-hTBxijYeRiGUIax5eBRgOjE0xOyf2A9iNLZu66X-oUA7aP3P3sga2lL9FYrkdlsN4kGJsT6G7_Wa7ew9f3AhSdaP7nJQQ/s1300/snake%20around%20pen.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgubO1g2DrgUx0tGT6MT9F807K5aFxCeufA8G5gpLLb4Tq82jC_6shLD8kopMeOQTMgJU-iDUvnuDDP4nHs-OHrgrF1-hTBxijYeRiGUIax5eBRgOjE0xOyf2A9iNLZu66X-oUA7aP3P3sga2lL9FYrkdlsN4kGJsT6G7_Wa7ew9f3AhSdaP7nJQQ/s1300/snake%20around%20pen.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="778" data-original-width="1300" height="120" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgubO1g2DrgUx0tGT6MT9F807K5aFxCeufA8G5gpLLb4Tq82jC_6shLD8kopMeOQTMgJU-iDUvnuDDP4nHs-OHrgrF1-hTBxijYeRiGUIax5eBRgOjE0xOyf2A9iNLZu66X-oUA7aP3P3sga2lL9FYrkdlsN4kGJsT6G7_Wa7ew9f3AhSdaP7nJQQ/w200-h120/snake%20around%20pen.jpg" width="200" /></a></div></span></b><br />See what you can make of these challenges, and send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.) This week, try your hand at one or all of the question poems. Writing one of each will solidify the differences between them in your mind:<br /><br />•••<b>Katauta:</b> <a href="http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/katauta-poetic-form">www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/katauta-poetic-form</a></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> <br />•••<b>Quinzaine:</b> <a href="http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/quinzaine.html">www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/quinzaine.html</a></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> <br />•••<b>Question Poem:</b> <a href="http://penandthepad.com/write-question-poem-6933078.html">penandthepad.com/write-question-poem-6933078.html</a>, either in the couplet form that Neruda used, or like the longer example that Acelin Kane used [see above].<br /><br />•••See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an <b>Ekphrastic</b> photo.<br /><br />•••And don’t forget each <b>Tuesday’s Seed of the Week!</b> This week it’s “Moody”.<br /><br />____________________<br /><br /><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:</span></b><br /><br />•••<b>Bema’s Best:</b> <a href="https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bemas-best">https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bemas-best</a><br />•••<b>Ekphrastic Poem: </b><a href="http://notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry">notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry</a> <br />•••<b>Haibun:</b> <a href="http://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form">www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form</a><br />•••<b>Haiku:</b> <a href="http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html">www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html</a><br />•••<b>Katauta:</b> <a href="http://www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/katauta-poetic-form">www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/katauta-poetic-form</a><br />•••<b>Kimo:</b> <a href="http://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/kimo-poetic-form">www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/kimo-poetic-form</a> AND/OR <a href="http://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/kimo">poetscollective.org/poetryforms/kimo</a><br />•••<b>Pastoral Poetry: </b><a href="http://poets.org/glossary/pastoral">poets.org/glossary/pastoral</a> AND/OR <a href="http://4thstcog.com/theology/what-are-the-characteristics-of-pastoral-poetry.html">4thstcog.com/theology/what-are-the-characteristics-of-pastoral-poetry.html</a> AND/OR <a href="http://www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-a-pastoral-poem-learn-about-the-conventions-and-history-of-pastoral-poems-with-examples">www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-a-pastoral-poem-learn-about-the-conventions-and-history-of-pastoral-poems-with-examples</a>/, A short pastoral poem is called an <b>Eclogue</b> (<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eclogue">en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eclogue</a>), also an <b>Idyll </b>or a <b>Madrigal.</b><br />•••<b>Question Poem:</b> <a href="http://penandthepad.com/write-question-poem-6933078.html">penandthepad.com/write-question-poem-6933078.html</a><br />•••<b>Quinzaine:</b> <a href="http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/quinzaine.html">www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/quinzaine.html</a><br />•••<b>Rondeau: </b><a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/rondeau">www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/rondeau</a><br />•••<b>Ryūka:</b> <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryūka">en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryūka</a><br />•••<b>Tanka:</b> <a href="http://poets.org/glossary/tanka">poets.org/glossary/tanka</a><br />•••<b>Word-Can Poem:</b> putting random words on slips of paper into a can, then drawing out a few and making a poem out of them<br /><br />___________________<br /><br />—Medusa</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXp8lXcTHq7KY8VSVnDG_RmRU8Tkxv5k1ZMoYy3ablcAjRUuoi0PHNQhoRkZ8M73Re6_XOfaUidnDCQua-jVDbQ8BF_UFRpV2fTEYovyJIf_oFhfil5kFcKXAtifhh3-_dyObrvVyAjlkcU1UX7lg1yKPcKyQs9AyW-Z95VwHDEtCNMP2_dFdsqw/s800/lion%20cranky%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="800" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXp8lXcTHq7KY8VSVnDG_RmRU8Tkxv5k1ZMoYy3ablcAjRUuoi0PHNQhoRkZ8M73Re6_XOfaUidnDCQua-jVDbQ8BF_UFRpV2fTEYovyJIf_oFhfil5kFcKXAtifhh3-_dyObrvVyAjlkcU1UX7lg1yKPcKyQs9AyW-Z95VwHDEtCNMP2_dFdsqw/w400-h225/lion%20cranky%20jn.png" width="400" /></a></div></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan<br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> <br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b> Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!</b></i><br /><i> </i><br /><i> Make what you can of today's </i><br /><i>photo, and send your poetic results to </i><br /><i>kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)</i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><br /></div><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by <br />clicking on them once, then clicking on the x <br />in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.<br /><br />Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down<br />under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button<br />at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets <br />by typing the name of the poet or poem<br /> into the little beige box at the top <br />left-hand side of today’s post; or go to <br />Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of <br />the blue column at the right<br /> to find the date you want.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPeGgh1FteNSrLLvjHqJvNvpVoIilmCEZE2sM-fzuCTrskx_SaRBSQ-j8X8-ywEF4IN3Rd2frRdWn768QkMirGFNcogJj-54jcqsv_WUDnpgdF7c2GpFKp5ZA47NT-oiOq0X0kIXbm3D1YZjgbrkHbq_o_mRXBEc5EwY6qAr7FPkoH5hrVGbMpNQ/s246/lion.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="205" data-original-width="246" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPeGgh1FteNSrLLvjHqJvNvpVoIilmCEZE2sM-fzuCTrskx_SaRBSQ-j8X8-ywEF4IN3Rd2frRdWn768QkMirGFNcogJj-54jcqsv_WUDnpgdF7c2GpFKp5ZA47NT-oiOq0X0kIXbm3D1YZjgbrkHbq_o_mRXBEc5EwY6qAr7FPkoH5hrVGbMpNQ/w200-h167/lion.png" width="200" /></a></div><br /> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /><br /></i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-38936427862275641722024-03-07T08:37:00.000-08:002024-03-07T08:37:43.611-08:00Kitchen Table, Treatment Room<div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF3JnWiOPrVs-upCFfhquOCZY73Yeo74op2746RyzFQuZvAvFhQa5xiYBkM7m7oxGkR2gUh0LRB5ba-B947ZOeUSDKsF4ER75mcEYDOZiugxNWMBGbaoDX5oHmrBPJQEJL8Zs3h4gJfs7m-MVg8sR3EHMf2ITTaFt-l4qXAnbJPa26ZN_cwXq6Jw/s2594/Fig%20Bowl%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2594" data-original-width="2198" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF3JnWiOPrVs-upCFfhquOCZY73Yeo74op2746RyzFQuZvAvFhQa5xiYBkM7m7oxGkR2gUh0LRB5ba-B947ZOeUSDKsF4ER75mcEYDOZiugxNWMBGbaoDX5oHmrBPJQEJL8Zs3h4gJfs7m-MVg8sR3EHMf2ITTaFt-l4qXAnbJPa26ZN_cwXq6Jw/w339-h400/Fig%20Bowl%202.jpg" width="339" /></a></div><i> —Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, <br />Wrexham, Wales<br />—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of <br />Stephen Kingsnorth</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">THE FIG BOWL<br /><br />The fig bowl not a bowl at all,<br />but named so in the family,<br />an amber pot like honey glazed,<br />but circled, fig limbs curling round.<br />Because he daily ate them, loved—<br />the routine comfort of itself—<br />hard pressed and packed in cellophane,<br />a fruit unseen in nature’s growth,<br />the tree alike unknown to him,<br />save on the Bible picture page.<br />But there, in corner, by his chair<br />the brave pot made its stand for him—<br />assumed an heirloom from his past—<br />who taught the scriptures all his life<br />but never saw the Holy Land.<br />I wonder how it would have been—<br />he who never sailed or flew—<br />a trip to see that native soil.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Could he drink deep beside the shore<br />and eat his fig by Galilee,<br />see sycamore by Jericho,<br />the winepress near tiered vineyard hills,<br />those garnered fields from sowers’ work?<br />Or more annoyed, commercial tone,<br />injustice seethe for Palestine,<br />take pills for change of food and time,<br />dream, his chair, and the fig bowl?</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHws679L6CBdNcjfXWfNrL_v6JGgfIxNJDTLnb8s8goLdl8VK2vYQDOkPUDYaGgN-sk45kp_LEWFOX_qVU3YlMjNGIezd_47opNeBj-8t4Fpgm5ZeYlNsSn8z8-FsKT4N-QcxmFp9nHeWyPOqVNWfcRl66lDnGUM9WgvlzTYqZmrZQ7ms7zD8zfw/s1024/table%20kk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHws679L6CBdNcjfXWfNrL_v6JGgfIxNJDTLnb8s8goLdl8VK2vYQDOkPUDYaGgN-sk45kp_LEWFOX_qVU3YlMjNGIezd_47opNeBj-8t4Fpgm5ZeYlNsSn8z8-FsKT4N-QcxmFp9nHeWyPOqVNWfcRl66lDnGUM9WgvlzTYqZmrZQ7ms7zD8zfw/w300-h400/table%20kk.jpg" width="300" /></a></div> <br /><br />TREATMENT ROOM<br /><br />Dead leaves, tea treasure chest, transport,<br />once caddy locked, Nilgiri hills,<br />one scoop for each plus ‘one for pot’,<br />then cosy capped against cool draught,<br />bone china cup with pinkie crooked,<br />more likely mug when comfort sought.<br />Restricted bag with lifting string,<br />but better loose, then strained with milk,<br />yet how the study, upturned cup,<br />those swirling specks in saucer tipped,<br />for seers and charlatans to treat.<br />What is our reading, comfort break,<br />the past consoled, or future meet?<br />A ceremony of the heart,<br />the kitchen table, treatment room.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdVjTyGaQ6U6AQMDR_p2HRmXpnOjIW6RPfsTglxPIT9AFo4B2y49u31fxZk5tQ6usOnvf-AOtU4ypJnVZ9I-eIMW9XsvJbNVl1vSYbyDpE1aKpHT1-741qt_wbZQeNiYwGW4qPixfQ9B_CVshTdFjRyh4dQLnavKKYhmIl60rWP4uzHCASu7svpQ/s477/pinky.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="357" data-original-width="477" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdVjTyGaQ6U6AQMDR_p2HRmXpnOjIW6RPfsTglxPIT9AFo4B2y49u31fxZk5tQ6usOnvf-AOtU4ypJnVZ9I-eIMW9XsvJbNVl1vSYbyDpE1aKpHT1-741qt_wbZQeNiYwGW4qPixfQ9B_CVshTdFjRyh4dQLnavKKYhmIl60rWP4uzHCASu7svpQ/w400-h299/pinky.png" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />COMFORT BREAK<br /><br />There’s nowt so cozy, cup of tea,<br />said pot prepared with boiling scald,<br />one scoop for each plus ‘one for pot’,<br />then cosy capped against cool draught,<br />as leaves infused or mashed, e’en stewed,<br />each clause of place as gazetteer.<br />From first weak pour to builder’s brew:<br />bone china cup with pinkie crooked,<br />translucent body of the ware,<br />or mug with sugars piling up,<br />and floating bag since loose the norm.<br />‘Shall I be mother’, lore of pour,<br />a cuppa, char and chai well known,<br />when ‘squeeze one more’, ceramic told,<br />the rite for every mishap calmed,<br />a comfort break as ministered,<br />ceremony unrealised.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_hkA6r0E1pvaFohrAOYHl1CoqCYXBtrFbF5rlLNH9BYwgyHypWpGIVL7St_RrnYDPJJ59YShh3TLB908yW53wMXr-VfGYw6f6d7OqVVH_dETOuA18OPynSQUUXTSEhCyNiqCp8qT6semn11GtcKA85Qb5inP8UztYiBYLlAsRPx_iI5GqxmsDiA/s335/Bite.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="234" data-original-width="335" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_hkA6r0E1pvaFohrAOYHl1CoqCYXBtrFbF5rlLNH9BYwgyHypWpGIVL7St_RrnYDPJJ59YShh3TLB908yW53wMXr-VfGYw6f6d7OqVVH_dETOuA18OPynSQUUXTSEhCyNiqCp8qT6semn11GtcKA85Qb5inP8UztYiBYLlAsRPx_iI5GqxmsDiA/w400-h280/Bite.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />BITE<br /><br />My meal means mouthful maelstrom,<br />strange sense, secretions by buds,<br />aromas acting as they should, <br />trigger to tingle under tongue, <br />sharp shooting zest meets test,<br />those first incisors, firebrand taste,<br />tandoori chicken, bite of breast.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdV1b8CxgL-F5EbmhBvSqCPZNkVKkaH2VVwqJnIvrm6NP4uIsKCKLGtyBFX3glZlYKuu2qEejFs92UCFrgpY-voc6cgEqc1x2e82wwPy1nUWuPOgAk9ybcU6Va38cYdcu4DMiDlNdHLyOYbbEDxefkIrA3X6ekQd9irjhz0Z0twGIGHMkG8WjVCw/s1874/green%20room%20kk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1874" data-original-width="1500" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdV1b8CxgL-F5EbmhBvSqCPZNkVKkaH2VVwqJnIvrm6NP4uIsKCKLGtyBFX3glZlYKuu2qEejFs92UCFrgpY-voc6cgEqc1x2e82wwPy1nUWuPOgAk9ybcU6Va38cYdcu4DMiDlNdHLyOYbbEDxefkIrA3X6ekQd9irjhz0Z0twGIGHMkG8WjVCw/w320-h400/green%20room%20kk.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />GREEN ROOM<br /><br />As comfort, night time malted drink,<br />a pattern followed, by the clock,<br />without good reason to disown—<br />why would I end the day alone?<br /><br />I’m told that change is all around, <br />I’m not an island to myself,<br />or I’ll be simply left behind,<br />which is my lot—as I remind.<br />Change marks growth, from seed to bloom,<br />but do core values yet remain,<br />the mannerisms, polite style,<br />courtesy, respect, second mile?<br /><br />While yes, there’s much so strange to me,<br />it is routine, my leading star,<br />for I need anchor, taking strain,<br />secure hold, less their binding chain.<br />They have my ways mechanical,<br />when customary more my frame;<br />I sense my five alone will guide,<br />but well-worn paths from synapse hide?<br /><br />Now dado, carpets, green I see;<br />this path I’m sure goes to my room.<br />But when the bell chimes in my head,<br />the corridors are meat and bread.<br />So here I am at bed and board,<br />with folks uncertain who they are;<br />that night time malted drink my own,<br />so I’ll not end this day alone.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5oh59RZr7T-s8uC6G1xbXhdoYbHNBShvqLlUzx95sU_Xmd8e9NetJV9tanDNAAy6BwgmH8tkr9hcoWti8dctTwk-vTJ1r8mLmlGppxq1eOtQFByAlrNUWGgvCrRDLybDFtfmwP_Sm_U-9bRM_3C0fInIUipYQlqDQhug5wnduvZ6RWfNNxuH1-w/s293/The%20Patient%20Dyed.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="293" data-original-width="210" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5oh59RZr7T-s8uC6G1xbXhdoYbHNBShvqLlUzx95sU_Xmd8e9NetJV9tanDNAAy6BwgmH8tkr9hcoWti8dctTwk-vTJ1r8mLmlGppxq1eOtQFByAlrNUWGgvCrRDLybDFtfmwP_Sm_U-9bRM_3C0fInIUipYQlqDQhug5wnduvZ6RWfNNxuH1-w/w287-h400/The%20Patient%20Dyed.jpg" width="287" /></a></div> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />THE PATIENT DYED<br /><br />Is it branched tree in carmine sky,<br />a silver beech in silkscreen art;<br />is it red cabbage for the chop,<br />when pickled, with a meaty dish?<br />Is this rare steak, so marbled strange,<br />more flesh exhibit than a meal;<br />are these branched veins, the patient dyed,<br />or desiccated, mummified?<br />It may be all, or none of these—<br />for context, knowledge, how perceive;<br />so, art, cuisine and butchery,<br />the surgeon staring, scope or screen,<br />or Fleet Street demon barber dream?<br /><br />I have met each in past life scenes—<br />but what of you, and where you’ve been—<br />what have you seen to raise the steaks,<br />to lay your bet on what is framed?<br />So much fake news, but this I know—<br />and not cause AI told me so—<br />this is the work of Sweeney Todd,<br />said surgeon barber, stripey pole,<br />who sliced his victims, well-preserved,<br />and served them, oriental meal;<br />chop-suey of short back and sides,<br />with cutthroat razor, threw a strop,<br />to lift his cargo, meaty dish.<br /><br />So that’s my takeaway today,<br />that Mrs Lovett of meat pies,<br />a penny dreadful deceit, lies,<br />some fiction friction to deny.<br />As huddled in this corner space<br />with graphic prompts snipped down to size,<br />bred cabbage, brassica unfurled—<br />though whole, when split, still writhes white tree—<br />I find new worlds and words uncurled. <br />My aches retreat from inclined plane<br />(this rise-recline at angled choice),<br />my licenced verse unbalanced, fine,<br />as poetry my dopamine.<br /><br />___________________<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b></i><br /><br /><i>You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me.</i><br /><br /><i>—C.S. Lewis</i><br /><br /><i>___________________</i><br /><br /><i>—Medusa, with thanks to <span style="color: red;">Stephen Kingsnorth</span> for today’s poetry—a fine packet of food for thought! The cup-of-tea motif was an Ekphrastic challenge on our last <span style="color: #2b00fe;"><b>Form Fiddlers' Friday</b></span>. Check into the Kitchen tomorrow for more "cuppa" poems from Stephen and others.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZDKL_OABrT0MYBb1mScTfk1OgHQj39dDWvqi3sFS2E0MmdMah07TfVL_k6G7Cy5iAHaw4CgTyr1ySvxTYmZPjtfx9HVMNJAjU-IPWoC6AdweVo5Rb8DrVoNTXp-PJD4AoZP8x8fFzvobtcqgwGpM_WtoIZB2rYQ_asn17fgDzoGQUSNDgxL5vaQ/s200/tea%20cup%20kk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="150" data-original-width="200" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZDKL_OABrT0MYBb1mScTfk1OgHQj39dDWvqi3sFS2E0MmdMah07TfVL_k6G7Cy5iAHaw4CgTyr1ySvxTYmZPjtfx9HVMNJAjU-IPWoC6AdweVo5Rb8DrVoNTXp-PJD4AoZP8x8fFzvobtcqgwGpM_WtoIZB2rYQ_asn17fgDzoGQUSNDgxL5vaQ/w400-h300/tea%20cup%20kk.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> </i><br /></div><i><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A reminder that <br /><b>Poetry Night Reading Series </b><br />in Davis tonight features<br /><span style="color: red;">Maceo Montoya</span> and <span style="color: red;">León Salvatierra</span>.<br />For info about this and other<br />future poetry happenings in <br />Northern California and otherwheres, <br />click on<br /><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b><br />(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)<br />in the links at the top of this page—<br />and keep an eye on this link and on<br />the daily Kitchen for happenings <br />that might pop up<br />—or get changed!—<br /> during the week.<br /><br />Photos in this column can be enlarged by <br />clicking on them once, then clicking on the x <br />in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.<br /><br />Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down<br />under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button<br />at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets <br />by typing the name of the poet or poem<br /> into the little beige box at the top <br />left-hand side of today’s post; or go to <br />Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of <br />the blue column at the right<br /> to find the date you want.<br /><br />Would you like to be a SnakePal? <br />Guidelines are at the top of this page<br />at the Placating the Gorgon link;<br />send poetry and/or photos and artwork<br />to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post<br />work from all over the world—including<br />that which was previously published—<br />and collaborations are welcome. <br />Just remember:<br />the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—<br />for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBaT3qoxGTXbOKkUHV8coiSTVSDAlSbGoVUpVl2MKEEoFTd6YwdAoBkNgbFjTHPGiPO9lmbBjQkRAkHwdiAc-RSNosu9NHRTjb4Qb6Mm1DTBruq-YDNzXm6NA5qOquhbGuk74NXFoQk_QGouQY9CCc1wbFHGxtd7CTUhzfDYA66cYll6hFtgswdw/s232/coiled:coffee.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="232" data-original-width="217" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBaT3qoxGTXbOKkUHV8coiSTVSDAlSbGoVUpVl2MKEEoFTd6YwdAoBkNgbFjTHPGiPO9lmbBjQkRAkHwdiAc-RSNosu9NHRTjb4Qb6Mm1DTBruq-YDNzXm6NA5qOquhbGuk74NXFoQk_QGouQY9CCc1wbFHGxtd7CTUhzfDYA66cYll6hFtgswdw/w187-h200/coiled:coffee.jpg" width="187" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /> <br /></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-4441574633311172972024-03-06T08:34:00.000-08:002024-03-06T08:34:21.175-08:00Leftover Food of Regrets<div style="text-align: center;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHVYF8evXO6JphkDtVmrDp9QgnGVl2EZixfcFO034LZ2oKpV2SzDA-KSQhY72TgjliCZQPTrG3S3MxHGjU-_WTUi_QPHMdubXzlfi7XnK3nFAPIEboFseu7Ey0zFzaWbPgtKmOqYVAU324XHDYqwCkkjiBa4xeXOmMtcG-3tKKuOEoG2AWd2gsNQ/s4608/Photo%20of%20Sreelekha%20Chatterjee_2.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3456" data-original-width="4608" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHVYF8evXO6JphkDtVmrDp9QgnGVl2EZixfcFO034LZ2oKpV2SzDA-KSQhY72TgjliCZQPTrG3S3MxHGjU-_WTUi_QPHMdubXzlfi7XnK3nFAPIEboFseu7Ey0zFzaWbPgtKmOqYVAU324XHDYqwCkkjiBa4xeXOmMtcG-3tKKuOEoG2AWd2gsNQ/w400-h300/Photo%20of%20Sreelekha%20Chatterjee_2.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><i>Sreelekha Chatterjee <br />—Poetry by Sreelekha Chatterjee, <br />New Delhi, India<br />—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain </i><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">UNVOICED WOUNDS<br /><br />Convulsive movements of suddenly agitated body <br />parts,<br />pulvinated, then drowned in fatigue,<br />display the pain of the speechless<br />when leaves are torn, branches dislodged—<br />physical disturbance, disrupting the normalcy.<br />Spontaneous pulsation of the leaves accompanies<br />like heartbeats—irregular systolic and diastolic, <br />arrhythmic curves, anomalous fluctuations.<br />Lacerated twigs with signs of decay,<br />tension reaches the throbbing tissues.<br />A shock wave overwhelms the entire plant body,<br />negative impulse transmits, followed by<br />excitation varying with age, season, intensity of <br />wound.<br />Depression for hours together, <br />an inexpressive interlunation.<br />Leaves paralyzed, senses benumbed; <br />gradually regain sensitivity<br />leaving the hurt as a thing of the past.<br />Each green body experiences birth, growth, and <br />death.<br />All predestined yet intervened by human <br />invasions—<br />war, cruelty, insensitivity, selfish motives.<br />Clouds of battle smoke, irritants,<br />toxins, clearing of verdure<br />leave the vegetative world in gloom.<br />Their noiseless screams from death and wound,<br />discouragements, reminders of pain and mis-<br />fortune <br />fill the air, but drown in the humdrum<br />of the burgeoning human population.<br />Cosmic palaver of life stirs the green entities—<br />both giant trees and miniature species like algae—<br />who wordlessly react to them, striving and carefree,<br />enduring the moments of light and darkness,<br />blazing summers and freezing winters, gentle <br />breeze<br />and whirling storms, arrival of life and its <br />departure.<br />Ways to end the trespassing footprints, <br />torments of human interventions, <br />unloading their incessant purgatories<br />on the green, verdant creatures of nature seem <br />uncertain,<br />unless they learn to lend a voice to their cries. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZKEqA7BSaZFV6guXBCZEazX4otDCTFdjsxcdB7kU99c0adMcC51OG78T4neMGkCV8tA6VJykS4PFnlWAs6uwvd1Ejgm9_zs1H2UULohgrEBkmsntY1LWaMACQ8t8_y_eLwi4Fb7jAlKYj-HcjMwv6gUjPE1WzosMdCUy3z9yowHZL0cK_F5P-Ag/s470/lotus%201.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="311" data-original-width="470" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZKEqA7BSaZFV6guXBCZEazX4otDCTFdjsxcdB7kU99c0adMcC51OG78T4neMGkCV8tA6VJykS4PFnlWAs6uwvd1Ejgm9_zs1H2UULohgrEBkmsntY1LWaMACQ8t8_y_eLwi4Fb7jAlKYj-HcjMwv6gUjPE1WzosMdCUy3z9yowHZL0cK_F5P-Ag/w400-h265/lotus%201.png" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />LARCENY<br /><br />Unusually long time for filling up my water tank<br />arouses my suspicion.<br />A neighbor is stealing my water.<br />I confront him, charging him with it.<br />He hovers over several excuses pleading not guilty.<br />I cannot turn a blind eye to the witnessed utility <br />theft.<br />A thief, perhaps a kleptomaniac, unable to control <br />his urge<br />to steal from a place of abundance.<br />Without any supply shortage, he appropriates water <br />to save expenses on running the electric pump.<br /><br />Goldilocks reaches an unlocked house in the forest,<br />sees porridge spread on the dining table to cool.<br />Delicious aroma from the steaming bowls draws her <br />near.<br />She tastes the bowls of Mama bear, Papa bear, <br />but finds the one of the Baby bear to be just right.<br />When she finishes eating and looks up,<br />the three bear are right in front—wide-eyed, gaping.<br />Defying the need for permission, she celebrates her <br />win.<br />Ridiculed, the three bear—utterly stupefied— <br />stare at her when she asks for proof of her pilfering.<br /><br />Similarly, I have no evidence of the thievery.<br />A photograph or a video will suffice my point,<br />as if catching him red-handed isn’t enough.<br />I remain bewildered at his audacity<br />to conduct surreptitious burglary, <br />lending an air of subterfuge.<br />With a bitterness hanging in the air,<br />I return to the solitude of my room.<br />I pray for a world without deception and purloining,<br />hoping my wish will be fulfilled.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTr2_uQzqH-NlH9VIOOQ8azYeaLLJrDpEVs35cDgmrVqddSLaFQsmcvSz__xMfUnIC0MtnNlFwj6WMgaviPZIXFMKDIVLYO-_R8BFVLz2neSKiG6SyyV77ctHW2bcloXY9YjI0c0OvAXRI7m6g_wvu4kx7vJkS8UhSz47yLTsgpGsg6DlNeuM9sA/s275/lotus%202.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTr2_uQzqH-NlH9VIOOQ8azYeaLLJrDpEVs35cDgmrVqddSLaFQsmcvSz__xMfUnIC0MtnNlFwj6WMgaviPZIXFMKDIVLYO-_R8BFVLz2neSKiG6SyyV77ctHW2bcloXY9YjI0c0OvAXRI7m6g_wvu4kx7vJkS8UhSz47yLTsgpGsg6DlNeuM9sA/w400-h266/lotus%202.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />DEFENCELESS<br /><br />Unseen wounds—old and new—accumulate like <br />silt<br />on the mind’s river bed,<br />sometimes washed by the current of daily lives<br />to distant shores as time schedules,<br />at times stuck like stubborn stains on clothes.<br />When one bites into the labyrinth of consciousness—<br />lacerated with torture and agony—<br />they taste like the metallic tinge of despair.<br />In moments of desolation, scare and torment,<br />they resurface, uninvited, each of their <br />ugly faces contesting for attention—<br />a prey in the threatened grip of birds’ talons,<br />an insincere existence of wisdom tooth<br />hassling with sudden, occasional aches.<br />Like Bhishma’s bed of arrows, one lays<br />floating in the air around, ungrounded.<br />Each arrow stinging with regrets, vices, <br />temptations,<br />said–unsaid hurt, pain, betrayal, sins—<br />the list endless, extorting the quiet.<br />Unlike Bhishma’s boon, the voluntary egress from <br />the never-ending passage of emotional anguish is <br />hard,<br />as the stairway for its easy ingress remains <br />unrestricted.<br /><br /><br /><i>Note: Bhishma is a major character in the Hindu </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>epic, </i>Mahabharata.<i> He reclines upon the bed of </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>arrows on the battlefield, waiting for the auspicious </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>moment to choose his time of death. </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjde3BSODdbDUUbxCx3p2rDCd058vSaPbmD2BlIWDFmbinYLNES86nebvfsGedcI-QgCJSypzwLW2y39PPEVugiDbP__PudK7gANu7rrY2XNpBbSb1FYFM_NMBWWfLucj8xTn8sVUpV9tspb7QjUjXiqwQ9EDTcb-Nk1WPji-bB_4absAFpewm8TA/s225/lotus%205.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjde3BSODdbDUUbxCx3p2rDCd058vSaPbmD2BlIWDFmbinYLNES86nebvfsGedcI-QgCJSypzwLW2y39PPEVugiDbP__PudK7gANu7rrY2XNpBbSb1FYFM_NMBWWfLucj8xTn8sVUpV9tspb7QjUjXiqwQ9EDTcb-Nk1WPji-bB_4absAFpewm8TA/w400-h400/lotus%205.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i><br />YOUR EYES SAY IT ALL<br /><br />Your eyes are the vessels where beauty manifests,<br />the unparalleled sublime, mesmerizing creation,<br />the windows through which you gaze upon the <br />world, <br />through which love and tenderness find voices to <br />prevail.<br />Your calm eyes serve as channels to spread warmth,<br />I long to be bathed in that gaze of comfort. <br />Your lotus eyes—an awakening of life in full <br />splendor,<br />a living embodiment of the divine.<br />Your ethereal eyes are the conduits for the galactic <br />energy,<br />forces of creation and preservation.<br />I wish to take refuge under the wings of your eyes,<br />like a spider suddenly slipped down from its silken <br />web,<br />exposed, rushes back to hide somewhere safe, <br />when its home in the gigantic world is momentarily <br />out of sight.<br />Sheltered under your affectionate glance,<br />like a traveler under the tree’s shade <br />in midst of the scorching sun,<br />your eyes route me back to life,<br />when lost in the world’s cursed temptations.<br />Your eyes embellish my soul,<br />I experience the ambrosial pudding of contentment,<br />the cherries of satisfaction and fruits of solace. <br />Your open eyes depict the sunshine of my universe;<br />when they close, they determine my deliverance. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw432AT6nzsZ9i7FUABIuZxpsZ1h2HhtCa0Y2XzVtF9z8ERp5pMetS1EzwhTmBwXFUaZu44dPsDQe8UUnIP5JSGFEHzAgKMS8UBEvNGgpcy5_Iu9m1x4jepgiAhp9wzkvzudhYckimqZRBjCLhwXgvHuZ8Ens0XMBq1m_cYk88uVwi9-qDTyfvTw/s3430/lotus%204.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1960" data-original-width="3430" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw432AT6nzsZ9i7FUABIuZxpsZ1h2HhtCa0Y2XzVtF9z8ERp5pMetS1EzwhTmBwXFUaZu44dPsDQe8UUnIP5JSGFEHzAgKMS8UBEvNGgpcy5_Iu9m1x4jepgiAhp9wzkvzudhYckimqZRBjCLhwXgvHuZ8Ens0XMBq1m_cYk88uVwi9-qDTyfvTw/w400-h229/lotus%204.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <br /><br />CHIMERICAL THREATS<br /><br />Paperboys exhibit excellent memory,<br />know exactly where to deliver which newspaper.<br />I forget to return to my house of contentment<br />in my head when stuck in a muddy, sorrowful <br />humdrum.<br />Migratory birds have eidetic memory,<br />remember the only way back home <br />after a long winter vacation in a warmer foreign <br />land.<br />I forget my achievements in difficult phases,<br />linger over the trivial failures.<br />Shopkeepers have a photographic memory of the <br />prices—<br />a level of unparalleled expertise honed specially <br />with mental calculations of purchase.<br />I neglect the value of happiness, underprice its <br />sharing, <br />dwell over the sad moments in isolation.<br />Ant colonies remember their habitual trail systems <br />year after year,<br />older ants transfer to the younger ones the<br />knowledge <br />of progressions,<br />the next generations retain and reproduce the<br />previous path.<br />I fail to follow the course of satisfaction,<br />accustomed comfort routes of my understanding.<br />Enduring memory though the deleterious<br />will soon find a way to extinction.<br />My memory slowly establishes like a book,<br />consciously I get entangled in episodic and <br />semantic memories.<br />I release the button of unlearning, clear the road<br />jams of mental traffic<br />only to find what has been learned has already<br />been forgotten.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7mxtzZ4ni4cmJ-uYm4ESECPhwpcGpduqqdMMqoWh1nIuW_c5755XjQgzZ6dezd90InFHnW2Yn-8QQbFRhrCKC231Q67uIxMmC-eITN4ZpWGQLvTiMIgNcoAC9OJpbFkac8HuTekLJFc8_tMtfSKWfG2sYoki35vBp-nCluJ4JmKcQ9Xx9W-v5vw/s274/lotus%203.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="274" data-original-width="184" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7mxtzZ4ni4cmJ-uYm4ESECPhwpcGpduqqdMMqoWh1nIuW_c5755XjQgzZ6dezd90InFHnW2Yn-8QQbFRhrCKC231Q67uIxMmC-eITN4ZpWGQLvTiMIgNcoAC9OJpbFkac8HuTekLJFc8_tMtfSKWfG2sYoki35vBp-nCluJ4JmKcQ9Xx9W-v5vw/w269-h400/lotus%203.jpg" width="269" /></a></div> <br /><br />RESPITE<br /><br />Teardrops sparkle in my eyes like gleaming dew-<br />drops,<br />the day losing its physiognomy to the darkest of <br />clouds.<br />Calm wavers in my eyes like the lightning in a <br />murky sky—<br />playing hide and seek amidst the tumultuous <br />weather of my mind;<br />a shudder flowing through its great countenance,<br />perpetrating a tensed agitation of mysterious <br />cognizance.<br />A crowded kitchen sink or a busy countertop <br />resembles my thinking abode—<br />constant cleaning of the leftover food of regrets,<br />wiping up the spills of expectations, <br />closing open containers of sorrow,<br />tossing out empty bottles of worries,<br />washing, sweeping and tidying the internal <br />conflicts.<br />At times successful, mostly a failure,<br />my intellect giving way to frenzied emotions. <br />My eyes have the intensity of a bottomless pit—<br />riotous, yet unknown, in my realm of <br />consciousness,<br />brimming with heartaches that can hold no longer.<br />Precipitation at first inconsistent, then free-flowing <br />like rain,<br />I mourn my weaknesses concealed <br />behind a false façade of strength;<br />I repent the aspirations that birthed in my mind’s <br />womb<br />but emerged as stillborn.<br />I grieve all natural sorrows, loss of both living and <br />non-living.<br />Uncontrolled release from my eyes like a dam burst,<br />I remind myself of the difficult phases survived.<br />But inexorable tears appear to be soothing, <br />easing my tensed inner being—<br />a sweltering day getting relief in the comfort of a <br />downpour.<br />I see a rainbow when the light <br />of my eyes scatters from my teardrops.<br />When its fragments disperse in every corner,<br />the rainbow-hued space brightens<br />as colors spill into my monochrome air,<br />calling an end to my belated miseries, a much-<br />needed respite.<br /><br />__________________<br /><br /><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />Make the most of your regrets; never smother your sorrow, but tend and cherish it till it comes to have a separate and integral interest. To regret deeply is to live afresh.<br /><br />—Henry David Thoreau<br /><br />__________________ <br /><br />Newcomer <span style="color: red;">Sreelekha Chatterjee</span>’s poems have appeared in various magazines and journals, such as </i>Raw Lit, The Mini Magazine of Assam, Verse-Virtual, The Wise Owl, Ghudsavar Literary Magazine, Orenaug Mountain Poetry Journal,<i> and </i>Ukiyo Literary Magazine,<i> as well as in anthologies such as </i>The Harvest & the Reaping, Winter Glimmerings, Whose Spirits Touch<i> (Orenaug Mountain Publishing, USA) and </i>Christmas-Winter Anthology Volume 4<i> (Black Bough Poetry, Wales, UK). She can be reached at Facebook: <a href="http://facebook.com/sreelekha.chatterjee.1">facebook.com/sreelekha.chatterjee.1</a>/, X (formerly Twitter): @sreelekha001, and Instagram: @sreelekha2023/. Welcome to the Kitchen, Sreelekha, and don’t be a stranger!<br /><br />__________________<br /><br />—Medusa</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkHj87blANM0l-LWHWc7Tj-HXsUoMStx9bsa_YkowF_0d8SCx1Qv-_4eoEI8QgK_jNZ4D4UotjojHyG3wVzI60ZiWnLuVNgVXH4JNTaXh0Y9JJ5ezdMMtXgXfLhLh8inAWWwn66-nnBAVjJbzae_maYq9qzsP5jgOCq6UuIxoui-kL4uiXFDwKQA/s3079/Photograph%20of%20Sreelekha%20Chatterjee_1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2309" data-original-width="3079" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkHj87blANM0l-LWHWc7Tj-HXsUoMStx9bsa_YkowF_0d8SCx1Qv-_4eoEI8QgK_jNZ4D4UotjojHyG3wVzI60ZiWnLuVNgVXH4JNTaXh0Y9JJ5ezdMMtXgXfLhLh8inAWWwn66-nnBAVjJbzae_maYq9qzsP5jgOCq6UuIxoui-kL4uiXFDwKQA/w400-h300/Photograph%20of%20Sreelekha%20Chatterjee_1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Sreelekha Chatterjee</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> <span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en" style="font-size: small;">A reminder that this <b> </b></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en" style="font-size: small;"><b>Sunday, March 10</b>, is the deadline </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en" style="font-size: small;">for applications to this year's </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en" style="font-size: small;"><b>Community of Writers </b></span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en" style="font-size: small;"><b>Summer 2024 Poetry Workshop</b>, </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en" style="font-size: small;">to be held from June 17-23. </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en" style="font-size: small;">See info at <a href="http://communityofwriters.org">communityofwriters.org</a>/. </span></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>For future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi57rGdQYV7l3iDveJovHOMhMDQKWa7ljmX_K23a7HtF7jGQTYDyMVCSHU7eXzYskluxnOzco8cP8e8MtbGVE0XNGolfIzaYN-0wWFWogUWklJCDl7HDmoyrssP34UrBZecTYlWckPUfsZ3KDr-VvZnHL_YM5HqTu3QV5F4tIG72n-X7OTLspK88w/s303/white%20flwrs:log.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="166" data-original-width="303" height="110" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi57rGdQYV7l3iDveJovHOMhMDQKWa7ljmX_K23a7HtF7jGQTYDyMVCSHU7eXzYskluxnOzco8cP8e8MtbGVE0XNGolfIzaYN-0wWFWogUWklJCDl7HDmoyrssP34UrBZecTYlWckPUfsZ3KDr-VvZnHL_YM5HqTu3QV5F4tIG72n-X7OTLspK88w/w200-h110/white%20flwrs:log.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /> </i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> </div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-61168039358387294892024-03-05T08:37:00.000-08:002024-03-05T08:37:06.373-08:00Black Beads in Winter<div style="text-align: center;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6meruw5ARE51363QKI9-w1Dm86V1bwqadCYQFDFFL4ktx3kXiVAdcLDTAcmNGAHoAjlmlWsP-kc7GUtzcjQhf9Y-CBTQGpJB20NijNg3Vf3K5MTrBPcQK_rKxx68SdczeNkjZt0ldonFnvZo_WotpG36sIHtLelOLhKEzcB2oRhUCnRfzJIQWFw/s3648/LETS%20GO%20THERE%20(012).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6meruw5ARE51363QKI9-w1Dm86V1bwqadCYQFDFFL4ktx3kXiVAdcLDTAcmNGAHoAjlmlWsP-kc7GUtzcjQhf9Y-CBTQGpJB20NijNg3Vf3K5MTrBPcQK_rKxx68SdczeNkjZt0ldonFnvZo_WotpG36sIHtLelOLhKEzcB2oRhUCnRfzJIQWFw/w400-h300/LETS%20GO%20THERE%20(012).JPG" width="400" /></a></div><i>Let’s Go There <br />—Photos by Joyce Odam<br /><br />* * *<br /><br />—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,<br />Sacramento, CA</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">HOOFPRINT<br /><i>—Robin Gale Odam</i><br /><br />Black ribbon-clouds <br />cut the sky <br /><br />Trails of heartbreak <br />twine through mountains <br /><br />Ice crystals before sunrise,<br />memory at low hills <br /><br />Through tangles of branches, <br />the tailwind of a storm <br /><br />__________________<br /> <br />BLACK BEADS <br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />I wear black beads in winter. <br />Am I sad? <br /><br />I wear the black of ceremony, <br />dimensionless and closed, <br /><br />a privacy—<br />a sentimental flaw—<br /><br />or just a grief, <br />too long refused. <br /><br /> <span style="font-size: x-small;"> <br /><i>(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/15/12) </i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikO_BBJx2tlT_Fnmc2hb-uUKdn-Y7-nUdaFD_W2-bQs-ZsgBhN_0oeKxAOA1qRLrT57h6c6ASjCKLznZLowAr4vYpIQRLuAdg2GNwcGPYJMh1l0MHCJMUs07RTxybgIuE1isXD_LtYgTUc1oF2wsVhEPVURkUJsg8asmsIiEjXoIKdoDI5myojfA/s1778/BETTER%20TO%20HAVE%20LOVED%20(044).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1333" data-original-width="1778" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikO_BBJx2tlT_Fnmc2hb-uUKdn-Y7-nUdaFD_W2-bQs-ZsgBhN_0oeKxAOA1qRLrT57h6c6ASjCKLznZLowAr4vYpIQRLuAdg2GNwcGPYJMh1l0MHCJMUs07RTxybgIuE1isXD_LtYgTUc1oF2wsVhEPVURkUJsg8asmsIiEjXoIKdoDI5myojfA/w400-h300/BETTER%20TO%20HAVE%20LOVED%20(044).JPG" width="400" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Better To Have Loved</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />NECKLACES<br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />I remember the world<br />of seven to eight—<br />the Home—<br /><br />where you left me, Mother,<br />to redirect our lives<br />without Father.<br /><br />I remember the rules<br />imposed<br />to fit me in with the others—<br /><br />abandoned, I thought—<br />and learning the tics of childhood,<br />I wet the bed<br /><br />and was taught by<br />impersonal punishments to grow shy<br />and ashamed<br /><br />and obedient. I remember the<br />waiting-hall where I sat on the floor,<br />to be invisible,<br /><br />sucking my bottom lip to rawness;<br />and the long communal tables<br />of the dining hall<br /><br />where we ate together,<br />none sibling to another,<br />but where one girl<br /><br />had a bottle of catsup that was<br />all her own, that she shared<br />when I asked for some.<br /><br />And the territory<br />of the playing-room<br />with the individual cubicles<br /> <br />for our individual belongings,<br />and how I envied one exotic girl<br />who was Indian, she said,<br /><br />and who had a coveted box of beads<br />that she would string<br />and restring into necklaces.<br /><br /><br /><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in </span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;">Poets’ Forum Magazine</span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">, 9/96)</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxl6IbZDztkCeAlmjJB098pKsI8hCQEkP5NnzLN7AO8qJm7VOyBAkXIGFXaYqZNWtnsD6rkdmb1rYw-gVg6K-dYCqQI4DiwU4dA9ItnyTn1F_rj3OjTK_W8XHxgk1HhoHvis6sWr6_q6rHCLVsJfutq8mh2BU5Z3fRPCzqsOhzokaUasai9wKoHQ/s2535/PEACE%20THAT%20SURPASSES%20ALL%20UNDERSTANDING%20(002).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1669" data-original-width="2535" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxl6IbZDztkCeAlmjJB098pKsI8hCQEkP5NnzLN7AO8qJm7VOyBAkXIGFXaYqZNWtnsD6rkdmb1rYw-gVg6K-dYCqQI4DiwU4dA9ItnyTn1F_rj3OjTK_W8XHxgk1HhoHvis6sWr6_q6rHCLVsJfutq8mh2BU5Z3fRPCzqsOhzokaUasai9wKoHQ/w400-h264/PEACE%20THAT%20SURPASSES%20ALL%20UNDERSTANDING%20(002).JPG" width="400" /></a></div></span></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span>Peace That Surpasses Understanding</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><b><br />and now it rains </b><br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />upon a place of never ending drought<br />falls into cracks of earth<br />rolls down the backs <br />of cattle <br />and polishes <br />their long curved horns <br />glossing over <br />the naked body of the child<br />who dreams the rain is real<br />who makes it rain by his imagining<br />the rain is gray—thick and gray—and dry <br />and is not a mirage <br />only the dusty <br />long-imagined rain<br />dreamed by the native child <br />who wears but a string of beads <br />and cannot remember rain<br />the dust kicks up as the milling herd <br />tramples the silt with their restlessness <br />the child is an icon now<br />barely seen through the raising of the dust<br />and the cow he strokes so solemnly<br />bows her head into his touch</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEVkR1zSycLccUednb_p0NyTXTrQPpOBJh-Ll3NFbtbxkDYvm4GtjFv8qMzj52P8p88THRVTYMYfPeJc1EVhs1EHuZWpLgqPPgPOJQVicIvy0KHk8fpwi6TTDSeDMgROxNpScfMZANJUkACzt2qKDMBzdUZxXTMffJQZxDVBCyR_qDzazAIgEnBw/s3648/SILVER%20HEART%20(025).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2736" data-original-width="3648" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEVkR1zSycLccUednb_p0NyTXTrQPpOBJh-Ll3NFbtbxkDYvm4GtjFv8qMzj52P8p88THRVTYMYfPeJc1EVhs1EHuZWpLgqPPgPOJQVicIvy0KHk8fpwi6TTDSeDMgROxNpScfMZANJUkACzt2qKDMBzdUZxXTMffJQZxDVBCyR_qDzazAIgEnBw/w400-h300/SILVER%20HEART%20(025).JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Silver Heart</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />SILVER <br /><i>—Robin Gale Odam <br /></i><br />she woke and thought about color, <br />considered the brushes and the palette—<br /><br />she felt for the silver locket at her neck, <br />chose sorrow for the shade of the day, <br />curled into her blanket, closed her eyes <br /><br />__________________<br /><br />WEARING THE HAT<br /><i>After </i>The Plumed Hat, <i>c. 1919, Henri Matisse</i><br /><br />Too young for such a hat<br />this ingénue sophisticate <br /><br />stares long into herself,<br />changing the expression of her face <br /><br />to suit the feather—brim,<br />and lace—liking the way<br /><br />it tames her hair <br />and makes her see <br /><br />her self— <br />matured<br /><br />in voile dress<br />laden with beads— <br /><br />the listening way <br />she stands<br /><br />and stills her hands <br />and fills the mirror with her eyes, <br /><br />seeing Her… Her… Her…<br />in such a hat.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB9G6aXdT5xXdMhtHm-V51NrWuNwXbL5MbMgu8gFhT3cqDxzcqCWYhBs5G5c2zwQyNGiDO1moxFHTqeSZQpxRaP8iTS7vJqlRlFuP4qVvsFlX6hB-GsC3P4-wlBRZyc0gdjikeSZzC-Fxha5TSO-RqJ__c11vHoXBTaX-gQkF4Dp0Gh7g6MTNy1w/s1824/ALWAYS%20AND%20FOREVER%20(032).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1368" data-original-width="1824" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB9G6aXdT5xXdMhtHm-V51NrWuNwXbL5MbMgu8gFhT3cqDxzcqCWYhBs5G5c2zwQyNGiDO1moxFHTqeSZQpxRaP8iTS7vJqlRlFuP4qVvsFlX6hB-GsC3P4-wlBRZyc0gdjikeSZzC-Fxha5TSO-RqJ__c11vHoXBTaX-gQkF4Dp0Gh7g6MTNy1w/w400-h300/ALWAYS%20AND%20FOREVER%20(032).JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Always And Forever</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />THE DISSUASION<br /><i>—Joyce Odam</i><br /><br />If you see me as beautiful, know I am real,<br />I am tattooed to enhance my beauty,<br /><br />I wear a gold ring in my nose <br />and a silver one in my lower lip.<br /><br />I wear a spiked bracelet around my head.<br />I braid beads into my hair.<br /><br />I carry this branch of tree-life in my hand.<br />Every talisman has its power.<br /><br />I am the daughter of the sky <br />and of the stricken land. We accuse you.<br /><br />You see love in my eyes.<br />You see my mouth does not open to speak.<br /><br />I am female. <br />I forgive nothing.<br /><br />I may love you, but I love my beauty more. <br />It is my own.<br /><br />You may desire me, <br />but that would be your sacrifice.<br /><br />Animal soul and tree soul imbue me<br />The elements nourish me.<br /><br />I am deathless now. Would you hold me?<br />It will take more than that. It will take more.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcroicudcrXjkhkQJnk-RfAurWAxXy92EGytV3PzJnzkURjdO87eJQa6awL1Zx1jIrlb5Sqx9Nu41uRZlBaxp8QEXmBv-A3xjhRSEQgeroc37BjEhFN23cAOVCc07hxHnLCAH9SvROYp4wPotblRzrjAeWPPq45H5cq5yloFsZPwqzo3DrbwNdyg/s1056/WORDS%20TO%20MURMUR%20(054).JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1056" data-original-width="733" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcroicudcrXjkhkQJnk-RfAurWAxXy92EGytV3PzJnzkURjdO87eJQa6awL1Zx1jIrlb5Sqx9Nu41uRZlBaxp8QEXmBv-A3xjhRSEQgeroc37BjEhFN23cAOVCc07hxHnLCAH9SvROYp4wPotblRzrjAeWPPq45H5cq5yloFsZPwqzo3DrbwNdyg/w278-h400/WORDS%20TO%20MURMUR%20(054).JPG" width="278" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Words To Murmur</i><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />WIND OUTSIDE THE DOOR <br /><i>—Robin Gale Odam</i><br /><br />He took the best of her poetry <br />with him—he is gone away <br /><br />She can barely remember—<br />there are stuttering consonants <br /><br />and vowels unfolding, <br />the pencil in the heavy green jar <br /><br />and the dry paper with curled edges, <br />and the little box of matches <br /><br />and the candle blown out—<br />she cannot fathom the ache in her <br /><br />bosom, the mark on the calendar, <br />the cold diamond on her hand <br /><br />___________________<br /><br /><i><b>Today’s LittleNip:</b><br /><br />SOFT SHADOWS OF DELUSION<br />—Joyce Odam<br /><br />by dark waters of daylight<br />long summer sea-edge <br />and clockless-ness<br /><br />mermaid child<br />never again<br />to know tears<br /><br />those bright beads<br />never to reach the end <br />of this continuous beach<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;">(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/3/19)</span><br /><br />___________________<br /><br />Our Seed of the Week was Jewels, and <span style="color: red;">Joyce and Robin</span> took the challenge and ran with it. Many thanks to them for today’s fine, moody poetry and for Joyce’s photos!<br /><br /><b>Our new Seed of the Week is, in fact, “Moody”</b>—whether it’s you or your cat or the weather or…? 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 <b>Form Fiddlers’ Friday</b> for poetry form challenges, including those of the <b>Ekphrastic</b> type.<br /><br />___________________<br /><br />—Medusa</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzir6IxM9kT3fXjaHplYFgc6J-Vi_wLacUfi9YtkeijGzGi3LIcDKK7mMrK6B7-MAGQuMq49vNA6jqRuyir5z1pwa-7980WpFLFslwJzEgcxfm7w4zxiarPFjmEOg5hCLLzhjcUi7HtrVgeItKbWpMN0MZFrqgpyx9qshNbWVAjn77Jc1OKLa8Bg/s400/plumed%20hat.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="300" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzir6IxM9kT3fXjaHplYFgc6J-Vi_wLacUfi9YtkeijGzGi3LIcDKK7mMrK6B7-MAGQuMq49vNA6jqRuyir5z1pwa-7980WpFLFslwJzEgcxfm7w4zxiarPFjmEOg5hCLLzhjcUi7HtrVgeItKbWpMN0MZFrqgpyx9qshNbWVAjn77Jc1OKLa8Bg/w300-h400/plumed%20hat.jpg" width="300" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i> The Plumed Hat</i><br /><i>—Painting by Henri Matisse</i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>For future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEUDZ1CoA_EukYwURldP_Uw2SyEon3zZQdJKH2OOMH418ZGccDNf2NFnAvS7NeJfjLp_59oe4_KYPOKV7-YnyBclkSoV5JhMqeRB-AQ4zk4RbUH0d4ufcv_Kxqh75F0FYPaUJFM7dnYmaNMIqE4Q9V7UfvBv3ZcSGjnCxdifgpPCDfhGeUgDpxDA/s291/dark%20cloud.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="291" data-original-width="173" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEUDZ1CoA_EukYwURldP_Uw2SyEon3zZQdJKH2OOMH418ZGccDNf2NFnAvS7NeJfjLp_59oe4_KYPOKV7-YnyBclkSoV5JhMqeRB-AQ4zk4RbUH0d4ufcv_Kxqh75F0FYPaUJFM7dnYmaNMIqE4Q9V7UfvBv3ZcSGjnCxdifgpPCDfhGeUgDpxDA/w119-h200/dark%20cloud.png" width="119" /></a></div><br /> </i><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13262320.post-14001052137851627062024-03-04T08:32:00.000-08:002024-03-04T08:32:51.211-08:00A Preference for Dewdrops<div style="text-align: center;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQxUlrcZUtmdTeUJ9peX5JxhL5jeIL84gWMlnXDAq72Q62tVlxVJbsqe-F5Twkq_ByfzbpTPextYBRea4NZP2btfM-4XXlWW8NCU6A0EnC0uP0XqJoHLRrD8GQTsnUXk2sNpFREYRM3qnhpKoQKcPVgrgzkKrWjMh7X6pSzs_pb3d0P5FC56NJqw/s391/daffodils%20kk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="391" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQxUlrcZUtmdTeUJ9peX5JxhL5jeIL84gWMlnXDAq72Q62tVlxVJbsqe-F5Twkq_ByfzbpTPextYBRea4NZP2btfM-4XXlWW8NCU6A0EnC0uP0XqJoHLRrD8GQTsnUXk2sNpFREYRM3qnhpKoQKcPVgrgzkKrWjMh7X6pSzs_pb3d0P5FC56NJqw/w400-h358/daffodils%20kk.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><i>Daffodil season is here!<br />—Public Domain Photo</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>* * *<br /><br />—Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Stephen Kingsnorth, <br />Caschwa, and Joe Nolan<br />—Original Photos by Caschwa<br />—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: center;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">EARLY MORNING LAWN <br /><i>A cinquain to condensation <br />—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA</i><br /><br />I’ll bend, <br />hold a loose pearl <br />beside fresh-grass dewdrops— <br />a brief game to prove I prefer <br />dewdrops. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBLFOOM2FnXR2ACECHpf8cOiEAK8onRIBz4fH-pj6_wAo_qu9mS3LYQNtFLogyMkZrqWHBdV84tzP6F4no4i3TyahfjhgCeCpKHTctXGWOhFpjvFsgm3BgSs9Ix3dJ0taKf22uEeSxaidm02jPQywBlKPXs_vUXEmXB3ivu1YQYAXUuBpfzZcOuQ/s950/hummer%20fdg%20chx%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="950" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBLFOOM2FnXR2ACECHpf8cOiEAK8onRIBz4fH-pj6_wAo_qu9mS3LYQNtFLogyMkZrqWHBdV84tzP6F4no4i3TyahfjhgCeCpKHTctXGWOhFpjvFsgm3BgSs9Ix3dJ0taKf22uEeSxaidm02jPQywBlKPXs_vUXEmXB3ivu1YQYAXUuBpfzZcOuQ/w400-h265/hummer%20fdg%20chx%20jn.png" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan</span></i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />GIRL’S BEST FRIEND<br /><i>—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales </i><br /><br />These jewels pried out from the pit <br />by those abused and undermined, <br />in ruby red, blood diamonds, <br />like pearls emerging through that grit. <br /><br />So many chained, hanged by the neck, <br />while empire thieves stole native wealth <br />to dress ivory towers of wives <br />with baubles hanging, chained at nape. <br /><br />Not Crown and Chalice, public house, <br />those gems instead for king and church, <br />with minor stones around the wrist, <br />watch movements strapped below the blouse. <br /><br />Hard pressed, those minerals in rock, <br />and dense, as measured by Mohs scale, <br />investment banked ’gainst ’flation’s rise, <br />until needs must put stock in hock. <br /><br />See garniture that garnets bring, <br />or opalescent opal ice, <br />Sri Lankan sapphire saturate, <br />it’s cut and claw that holds the ring. <br /><br />But if those riches passed you by <br />and you rely on common sights, <br />then watch the stars, spy rippling stream, <br />or walk the woods, light dappled sky. <br /><br />Thus you’ll see wonders of our world, <br />eye lustre, facets, daily round, <br />their smiles that are a girl’s best friend, <br />the laughing face of child unfurled. </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge7ZBCItQmh1pyE2ckXGciAehaAJ0q2AYGteumouocKAIS7xNf6gmQHlssV6xXkBe7BgkTgfPJ5b-K-LU1eEv_0LVJds9iQmojwviOJ4aPBmTXBh69rc0w5POWxJHouL4Uu7yqEXKCBPReEo5SX7H5WotOXbgIu3DN7mBsWdlgUk5208gF74ylYw/s1920/camellia2%20cs.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1920" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge7ZBCItQmh1pyE2ckXGciAehaAJ0q2AYGteumouocKAIS7xNf6gmQHlssV6xXkBe7BgkTgfPJ5b-K-LU1eEv_0LVJds9iQmojwviOJ4aPBmTXBh69rc0w5POWxJHouL4Uu7yqEXKCBPReEo5SX7H5WotOXbgIu3DN7mBsWdlgUk5208gF74ylYw/w400-h300/camellia2%20cs.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Photo by Caschwa </span></i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />THE CROWN JEWELS <i><br />—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA <br /></i><br />Hey, wait! <br />This is America <br />we had an F-ing <br />revolt against that <br />terrible system <br />and we won! <br />Or did we? <br /><br />Madison Avenue <br />hits us with daily <br />ads about the King <br />of this, that, and <br />the other, roll out <br />the red carpet, like <br />it has the same <br />meaning it had in <br />royalty <br /><br />look on the shelves <br />at the grocery store <br />and see all the nice <br />product names using <br />Crown, or Royal, or <br />Jewel <br /><br />So the F-ing revolt <br />killed bodies of men <br />but we’re still very <br />stuck with the same <br />expressions they used <br />over and over again <br /><br />one can dare to quote <br />Shakespeare without <br />wading in royal <br />accoutrements, <br /><br />but Royal Crown Jewels <br />puts us right back to being <br />subjects of a king, as if we <br />never really wanted it <br />different than that </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLUDuas4riKXEkV074cHESnJxlqXMZWUbZ2TcFUufiJAZtQUbc8vtGCAhWLI3bcBQL0uK691Yfq9TLpKb5AMsxrpw0OJkdbIlfUbxC07exwV3-Hb7a2TNUD_PH5rnQkSaBy0aXciX0w3L4wIYHyuulKhBNPqy2KlkU0b6h9Xa5Tz8wRSdzJhejFg/s2448/camellia%20cs.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1836" data-original-width="2448" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLUDuas4riKXEkV074cHESnJxlqXMZWUbZ2TcFUufiJAZtQUbc8vtGCAhWLI3bcBQL0uK691Yfq9TLpKb5AMsxrpw0OJkdbIlfUbxC07exwV3-Hb7a2TNUD_PH5rnQkSaBy0aXciX0w3L4wIYHyuulKhBNPqy2KlkU0b6h9Xa5Tz8wRSdzJhejFg/w400-h300/camellia%20cs.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> <i>—Photo by Caschwa</i></span><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />THE FAITH GAME <br /><i>—Caschwa</i><br /><br />travel agent, travel agent <br />book me a flight <br />red eye, all night <br />I sense a winning Lotto ticket! <br /><br />numbers pageant, numbers pageant <br />waiting to be chosen <br />like some embryos still frozen <br />this will surely be the one! <br /><br />purely cogent, purely cogent <br />the world’s best melodrama <br />unfolding in Alabama <br />just can’t wait to cash it in!</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXBdcuCmqKQWFsQHKUAUajcN67X66ypEY5aSsHSG89O2-_wPVOgoDJGd1tBJ70BN8DsiAFA7Oft2FtXcEfz9lT0roHTBmVkXWyDA7YjqK_wQO0iiJNKqeNBQsx9BLluDrdXc8P-XA-s7pVDt2E-M_dezxOaz5CsJZVJ6qysY-pBrFGBBBvyW4vRA/s680/baby%20goats:space%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="680" data-original-width="599" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXBdcuCmqKQWFsQHKUAUajcN67X66ypEY5aSsHSG89O2-_wPVOgoDJGd1tBJ70BN8DsiAFA7Oft2FtXcEfz9lT0roHTBmVkXWyDA7YjqK_wQO0iiJNKqeNBQsx9BLluDrdXc8P-XA-s7pVDt2E-M_dezxOaz5CsJZVJ6qysY-pBrFGBBBvyW4vRA/w353-h400/baby%20goats:space%20jn.png" width="353" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>—Public Domain Visual Courtesy </i></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>of Joe Nolan</i></span></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;">DON’T MACH TOO MUCH NOISE <br /><i>—Caschwa </i><br /><br />you want to know what it is like <br />being a Baby Boomer? well just <br />imagine you are in the pilot’s seat <br />of a single turboprop, powered by a <br />Pratt & Whitney PT6. And no sooner <br />do you fire up the engine to drive <br />the propeller, than you notice that <br />all the dash meters and monitors <br />have changed <br /><br />there is now a strange reference <br />to jet fuel, and a sign prohibiting <br />non-military aircraft from flying <br />faster than sound, so as not to make <br />too much noise or cause property <br />damage to those below you <br /><br />the headphones on your ears no <br />longer connect with any wires, and <br />something called micro circuits have <br />significantly shrunken many of the <br />larger, heavier implements you were <br />used to using <br /><br />other than that, it is pretty much just <br />like any other day at the airport</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZtxG-D0Hu5pT3ra51djIKERps9GJaIs1A4JUXXWbjJgCkuSV_Oybn2SmM76OrRlTJdhW-ePXmd4zXChXrTugA_sZk9p66eSdAsmL3AWgXUivt6iXuDrZ6K5Bew-5t7CAUsuDmNpgX3tJFocKfFRXzpp4FfM44np0uSHvbXPiynIk5mLQ_eibksg/s640/rocket%20man%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="451" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZtxG-D0Hu5pT3ra51djIKERps9GJaIs1A4JUXXWbjJgCkuSV_Oybn2SmM76OrRlTJdhW-ePXmd4zXChXrTugA_sZk9p66eSdAsmL3AWgXUivt6iXuDrZ6K5Bew-5t7CAUsuDmNpgX3tJFocKfFRXzpp4FfM44np0uSHvbXPiynIk5mLQ_eibksg/w283-h400/rocket%20man%20jn.png" width="283" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> <i>—Public Domain Photo Courtesy </i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>of Joe Nolan</i></span><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />IT’S THERE SOMEWHERE <br /><i>—Caschwa</i><br /><br />for sure, the keyboard rendering <br />of my ideas into words and phrases <br />is much, much easier to read than <br />my handwriting <br /><br />that said, putting form over substance <br />doesn’t mean that I had anything <br />particularly relevant to say in the <br />first place <br /><br />we readily accept Mark Twain’s <br />recurrent flaws in grammar and <br />spelling because he effectively <br />makes the point he is trying to make <br /><br />so I may have valid findings to <br />report, but I cannot fit them into <br />all the regimens dictated by <br />scientific practice and procedure, <br />nor can I, all of the sudden, issue <br />poetry and prose as if I had for <br />years been a devoted understudy <br />to the Bard <br /><br />maybe our nation has been looking <br />for Democracy in all the wrong <br />places, as if we could open up the <br />Constitution like a glasses case <br />and find Democracy sitting in there <br />just waiting for us to use it <br /><br />so the hunt will continue, with mongrel <br />dogs and purebred know-it-alls, all with <br />a keen eye for the different shapes and <br />reflections of truth </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhTf5wly_p97V_E6bHUuzw6asFcINRCdvW3A6alFnwWnuDGSe-Ucse-4SKhAoIYrdgYfhbLWDGSB-9XZjdZfWg63u0rVaYFpbjfJVGrfw1yc6gj27EVHZU53v3i8Cs3-SxbWJO7xGP5BRgmqBCkpsgDq7mYBz_KY7kniE6XqHsE0L6gJ9NJtmqxg/s350/jersey%20devil%20kk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="240" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhTf5wly_p97V_E6bHUuzw6asFcINRCdvW3A6alFnwWnuDGSe-Ucse-4SKhAoIYrdgYfhbLWDGSB-9XZjdZfWg63u0rVaYFpbjfJVGrfw1yc6gj27EVHZU53v3i8Cs3-SxbWJO7xGP5BRgmqBCkpsgDq7mYBz_KY7kniE6XqHsE0L6gJ9NJtmqxg/w274-h400/jersey%20devil%20kk.jpg" width="274" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> <i>—Public Domain Photo </i></span><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />ANGELS AND DEMONS<br /><i>—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA</i><br /> <br />Angels know<br />How to deal<br />With demons.<br /><br />Slap them with<br />Energy blasts<br />That come from<br /><br />Divine light. <br />After that,<br />They take flight.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp50lFG8seejJuIp_vMyOxQc8b7wu3mMWjcrFGZ5rI1fI_zX0_a_zEsGaSLXgprKksHITpJY2oLCEKySqIqpCMvUXq0ITO9eyc1SSd8fh2m4yHEnJ89PzVK851unWnr2bQURZs2nDDoJMl946aXTyHUFCRuLdTRLaGdF2gj4OTPQ3_Ogad7kx8ng/s350/kitten:bk%20kk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="280" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp50lFG8seejJuIp_vMyOxQc8b7wu3mMWjcrFGZ5rI1fI_zX0_a_zEsGaSLXgprKksHITpJY2oLCEKySqIqpCMvUXq0ITO9eyc1SSd8fh2m4yHEnJ89PzVK851unWnr2bQURZs2nDDoJMl946aXTyHUFCRuLdTRLaGdF2gj4OTPQ3_Ogad7kx8ng/w320-h400/kitten:bk%20kk.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> <i>—Public Domain Photo </i></span><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /> <br />SUCH A BUSY PLACE!<br /><i>—Joe Nolan</i><br /><br />Such a busy place!<br /><br />Whiskers help them<br />Find their way in the dark,<br />Home from a public park,<br />Where they fought <br />With other cats<br />For the right to mate.<br /><br />Dogs are so good at smelling.<br />With tails wagging, <br />They sniff the ground,<br />Knowing, thus, <br />What’s been around.<br />They can trace a trail<br />All the way to its source,<br />So rabbits had <br />Better beware!</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirlGWGsOYwAqMc9J-tuh7yJ2em1KAB1sjSx2AHqvxSpwqdcrE77pmE_2AxOg7jmmKdETJBDk80CYkaRhyRF54p0QjDWcn7ngZwfiTW98F473QQgos-K6qzJF-0b0yfFhn22wnWOhkvhlHy0wup5jdy4Xt9IPLAogzVh87Kqyjo2maTF0nWK_VkDQ/s200/cat:%20talk%20kk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirlGWGsOYwAqMc9J-tuh7yJ2em1KAB1sjSx2AHqvxSpwqdcrE77pmE_2AxOg7jmmKdETJBDk80CYkaRhyRF54p0QjDWcn7ngZwfiTW98F473QQgos-K6qzJF-0b0yfFhn22wnWOhkvhlHy0wup5jdy4Xt9IPLAogzVh87Kqyjo2maTF0nWK_VkDQ/w400-h400/cat:%20talk%20kk.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> —Public Domain Visual </span></i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />IS REMBRANDT DEAD?<br /><i>—Joe Nolan<br /></i><br />Who said <br />Rembrandt is dead?<br /><br />His paintings seem<br />To burn an ochre flame<br />Deep into the night,<br />That gives flight<br />To hope and imagination,<br /><br />Beyond the realm of pastels,<br />Into dirty treasures—<br />That glow<br />In their furtive details.</div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"> </div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAgqNJegcimymEe4_RzVio5j3SNoQ30NIIFgwdo3pnggpvSsuqDdnuK2KCMb0Cvh1x9d1AVy5Lt7TOMkJEecJx5kMxWsbP9GgKrakmg8JWryiZzGai6PN0wxozE-5C8QAz448pf7oUc4To_szIXbD_JC6X2QqEZXRlMrQirT5CsZG7LrOxfdlZ6Q/s200/selfie%20cat%20kk.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="188" data-original-width="200" height="376" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAgqNJegcimymEe4_RzVio5j3SNoQ30NIIFgwdo3pnggpvSsuqDdnuK2KCMb0Cvh1x9d1AVy5Lt7TOMkJEecJx5kMxWsbP9GgKrakmg8JWryiZzGai6PN0wxozE-5C8QAz448pf7oUc4To_szIXbD_JC6X2QqEZXRlMrQirT5CsZG7LrOxfdlZ6Q/w400-h376/selfie%20cat%20kk.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Selfie Cat <br /></i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">—Public Domain Photo</span> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />ACES UP THEIR SLEEVES<br /><i>—Joe Nolan<br /> </i><br />We’ve declared a reprieve<br />From the reams of aces<br />We have up our sleeves<br />With which we win all poker games,<br />Since five aces beats <br />A Royal Flush<br />And we never blush,<br />But insist we are correct<br />Even though <br />A deck of cards<br />Only has four aces.<br /><br />It’s a matter of interest and usury–<br />We can make what doesn’t exist,<br />By virtue of fractional, reserve banking,<br />And a simple slip of the wrist.<br /><br />You’re dealing with a card-mechanic<br />Who knows how to stack a deck.<br />We have every card marked well.<br />Playing with us<br />Is a pathway to Hell.<br /> <br />___________________<br /><b><br /><i>Today’s LittleNip:</i></b><i><br /><br />GRACE<br />—Joe Nolan<br /><br />Grace is <br />Like a<br />Tuning fork<br />That rings<br />In harmony<br />With what it is <br />And should be, <br />Internally,<br />Ringing out<br />Its pure sound<br />For all the world to hear,<br />Silently— <br />A sound that none can hear<br />With human ear,<br />From a place of balance<br />We call “grace.”<br /><br />_________________<br /><br />Good morning from the bowels of the lower Sierra as we shake the rain off and give thanks for today’s contributors. Our Seed of the Week was “Jewels”, but don’t think you have to send poems that are only based on that subject. Every Monday, we have a mix of poets writing on Tuesday's SOW subject and many other subjects as well. <br /><br />SnakePal<span style="color: red;"> Ken Tamaro</span> has put together a project for YouTube, in which he had 14 people—some poets and some that Ken calls “everyday people”—read his poetry. Listen to it at <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HwUGCkzc3C0">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HwUGCkzc3C0</a>/. Interesting project, Ken!<br /><br />Saturday I posted that poets everywhere are encouraged to send information about new books [and other projects] they have in publication to Medusa's Kitchen (kathykieth@hotmail.com), and we'll give you free advertising. It's best to send a packet o' poems in the package, too, of course. The snakes of Medusa are always hungry!</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>The March issue of Sacramento Poetry Center's </i><b>Poet News </b><i>is now available<span style="font-size: small;"> at </span></i><i><span class="x_gmail-s1" style="font-kerning: none;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a data-auth="NotApplicable" data-linkindex="1" href="https://www.sacpoetrycenter.org/poetnews" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank"><span class="x_gmail-s2" style="font-kerning: none;">https://www.sacpoetrycenter.org/poetnews</span></a>/.</span><span class="x_gmail-Apple-converted-space"> <br /></span></span></i><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br />____________________<br /><br />—Medusa</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizxx7dv91Z9hNgkGlfnbWSRf8kfMxWn9MgNUaPTnjCN90tBMITHMtuHCMBmqyQwy8snkOPo3gu9bW_4gy1UePS3E0K84zs-8ziuAZCzbv4zet__YnYST2A69GM07f6ODX7iEUNrjeQrIgpb1yPc5jCOGFp7b9NPS48HT_yb8DG3fQP9hG-7-BdZQ/s585/big%20girls%20on%20top%20jn.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="490" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizxx7dv91Z9hNgkGlfnbWSRf8kfMxWn9MgNUaPTnjCN90tBMITHMtuHCMBmqyQwy8snkOPo3gu9bW_4gy1UePS3E0K84zs-8ziuAZCzbv4zet__YnYST2A69GM07f6ODX7iEUNrjeQrIgpb1yPc5jCOGFp7b9NPS48HT_yb8DG3fQP9hG-7-BdZQ/w335-h400/big%20girls%20on%20top%20jn.png" width="335" /></a></div></i><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> —Public Domain Visual Courtesy of Joe Nolan</span></i></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>A reminder that tonight is the</i><br /><i><b>2nd Annual Al-Mutanabbi Street Starts Here </b></i><br /><i>reading at <b>Sacramento Poetry Center.</b></i><br /><i>For info about this and other</i><br /><i>future poetry happenings in </i><br /><i>Northern California and otherwheres, </i><br /><i>click on</i><br /><i><b>UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS</b></i><br /><i>(<a href="http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html">http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html</a>)</i><br /><i>in the links at the top of this page—</i><br /><i>and keep an eye on this link and on</i><br /><i>the daily Kitchen for happenings </i><br /><i>that might pop up</i><br /><i>—or get changed!—</i><br /><i> during the week.</i><br /><br /><i>Photos in this column can be enlarged by </i><br /><i>clicking on them once, then clicking on the x </i><br /><i>in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.</i><br /><br /><i>Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down</i><br /><i>under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button</i><br /><i>at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets </i><br /><i>by typing the name of the poet or poem</i><br /><i> into the little beige box at the top </i><br /><i>left-hand side of today’s post; or go to </i><br /><i>Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of </i><br /><i>the blue column at the right</i><br /><i> to find the date you want.</i><br /><br /><i>Would you like to be a SnakePal? </i><br /><i>Guidelines are at the top of this page</i><br /><i>at the Placating the Gorgon link;</i><br /><i>send poetry and/or photos and artwork</i><br /><i>to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post</i><br /><i>work from all over the world—including</i><br /><i>that which was previously published—</i><br /><i>and collaborations are welcome. </i><br /><i>Just remember:</i><br /><i>the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—</i><br /><i>for poetry, of course!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHX0H_dRGI19m8FOx7lvr-IPKC8f8BT5lJsVCerGACtbxAco4aOL88u2_y4CieLhHuBR7WE_dvEWMlG4xLhoVOoVsvjosQl6EFsaEqnI_Yt39t2NHQ7W95fLRRqarYeExsu5XMHeWApFR6dBWU8q2mZVWs4Y8V58OXeK-U4Mgd4VWxI2GOyo6tcA/s450/flowers:tulips.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="450" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHX0H_dRGI19m8FOx7lvr-IPKC8f8BT5lJsVCerGACtbxAco4aOL88u2_y4CieLhHuBR7WE_dvEWMlG4xLhoVOoVsvjosQl6EFsaEqnI_Yt39t2NHQ7W95fLRRqarYeExsu5XMHeWApFR6dBWU8q2mZVWs4Y8V58OXeK-U4Mgd4VWxI2GOyo6tcA/w200-h200/flowers:tulips.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /> </i><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><br /><br /><br /></div>Kathy Kieth, Wrangler-in-Chiefhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11925893540872899117noreply@blogger.com