At This Table

—Anonymous Photo

PERHAPS THE WORLD ENDS HERE
—Joyce Harjo

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

___________________

—Medusa, giving thanks for the Kitchen table and all the poets who come to it ~

It Is Good, This Life

—Poems by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA
—Photos Courtesy of James Lee Jobe

Can you see nothing of the moon?
Who is cooped up in their room day and night?
A prisoner of the walls and of the ceiling?
Is the window closed? And are the drapes drawn?
Can you see nothing of the moon? Nothing of the sun?
Are your legs now too weak from atrophy for you
To stand and walk to the door?
Does your hand still possess the strength
To throw the lock and turn the knob?
Do you wish nothing of the fresh air or freedom?
Are you alive or merely existing?
Can you see nothing of the moon?

I love Cuban music, poetry from long ago in Japan and China, and art deco buildings in old cities. I embrace the idea of space travel, but before lift-off I would have us first make sure that every belly is full. And speaking of food, I like hot sauce on mine, and I crave coffee so strong that the neighbors can smell it, and come over for a cup. To watch the clouds drift across a blue sky pleases me, and so does the sound of an owl late at night. It is good, this life, like a kind child slipping beneath the blankets on a winter night. I hold my hands up to the moon and stars to give thanks, and the endearing light shines down with the sweetest love.

Some people face a cross and kneel,
Others face to the east.
Perhaps the incense is lit
Or prayer beads are handled.
You might honor the god you love
Or simply empty out your mind
By focusing on your breath
In silent meditation.
My friend, none of us truly know
The secret of all secrets;
That comes later, maybe.
However, we can know this:
This is something that exists
That is greater than this life.
Honor it.

___________________

Silence needs to be nurtured, like a frail child who lacks love. A young oak tree, chest-high, whispers a thank-you to the soil, to the sun and the water. The air is moving, but far too softly to make a sound. I raise my face to the sunlight, thinking, “I have love in my life. I offer my thanks.” Something moves in the old leaf pile, swift and sudden, but I cannot see what it is.

Crone, she cackles and rubs
Her hands together when she laughs,
And her eyes busy themselves
By raking up the leaves of the night.
See the two moons above the nose
That smell out secrets and shame.
See the two moons below the forehead
Like the searchlights of the damned.
Her flesh is now stone
And her soul is the blue steel of a shotgun,
Cold and murderous.
The shotgun is loaded, jacked,
And aimed at the darkness she loves,
Holds close, and yet does not need.
Crone, she knows those truths
That most people can only guess.
Crone, she has brewed up a potion
That induces dreams and courage.
She has poured a dose of this potion into a vial,
And friend, she is offering this drink to you.

Sometimes the Light inside of me is so strong and bright that even the stones by my feet have voices. Life opens up like a present, like a gift, and so it is. Listen to the wind, and listen to birds, for they understand the wind. Unwrap the gift. Is this too fast for you? I can go slower.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Every day is full of opportunities to do good; may I have the ability to see them, and the courage to step and embrace them.

—James Lee Jobe

___________________

Thanks to James Lee Jobe today for reminding us, this close to Thanksgiving, to give thanks! “It is good, this life…”

Poetry in Motion will meet in Placerville today from 2-4pm at the Placerville Sr. Center on Spring Street in Placerville. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa, giving thanks for this life and the poetry it brings ~

 Man and the Moon

—Anonymous 

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Following The Arrow

—Poems and Photos by Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA

AN ARROW POINTS THE WAY

We climb the wooded slope where
stands a pointed granite boulder and
Manzanita. Fist-sized quartz rocks
rusted with age lie under these
rich maroon branches. 

We note the many golden bees in
trees as we struggle past. Overhead,
dark turkey vultures circle.

Tall tan grass in shade is matted down
where deer have made their beds
beneath the evergreens. A shadowed
hole among brush hides a seldom-seen
gray fox.

Once on top the ridge, we’ll descend
the other side on yellow mats of
wildflowers—then tumble and roll
toward a small stream of aquamarine.

Autumn nears its end, with bees
and vultures and foxes finding refuge
as winter edges in.

ANATOMY OF AN ARROW

I.  Arrowhead:  Flint a curious rock, brittle yet
strong. A chip here, a chip there, a knapping
of sorts—a weapon is formed. Is the arrow
straight which penetrates to the heart? The
river knows not the arrow nor its straight path.
Cruelty is found in flint, a poet once said.

II.  Shaft:  Dogwood near the river: The blooms
provide snap-shots into what it is to be a lovely
thing in a world that scrutinizes every arch of
brow, splash of rouge across the face, hairdo
a perfect cut—Nature is a girl in bloom.

III.  Pinch Grip:  His knife worked well for carving
out the pinch grip of his first arrow—whittled,
sanded. Pride comes to him through working
with his hands. His grammar school injury, a
nun’s knuckle-rap, had finally healed. He knew
his worth was in his handcraft. To hell with
calligraphic penmanship.

IV.  Paint:  Comanche fletchers painted their
arrows with common laundry bluing. What a
practical people! I could learn more by studying
the complete anatomy of an arrow. Our
American history is riddled with achievements
and failures, progress and misunderstandings,
pride and regret. And, what have we learned?

V.  Sinew:  Deer sinew is something like the
palm’s lifeline. Chew it for awhile; mull over
your life’s disappointments. Then, chart a new
course. Move quickly to execute your plans,
before you end up creating regrets for yourself.

ARROW GHAZAL
                           
Sit with me and imagine you read a tarot
card. Now look upon the clock, the arrow.

The arrow points to all my tomorrows.
I’ve heard it said cruel is the flint of an arrow.

Cruel arrow hits the heart, bleeding sorrows.
Regret should not be my choice of arrow.

I have regret, and the dread it borrows
from the map “You Are Not Here” arrow.

I’ve missed being there for Mother—rows
of Sundays—many and one cruel arrow.

She’s gone. Arrowhead and target know
the poet speaks of another broken arrow.

The bow is drawn, the pathway narrows.
It’s too late. The poet takes an arrow.

URBAN TURKEY

Why did the turkey cross the road
if not to counsel turkeys there
of holiday anxiety in overload?

The biggest tom, and closest to his
expiration date, had much to state
for how he had survived those years
which witnessed other fowl demise.

Had he now another plan, a B-Plan?
Let us see. Would some need to be
sacrificed so others would be free?

Or, could they all lie in disguise,
had too soon met their own demise
through virus, bug or injury—
feign they rigor mortesized?

Perhaps he simply crossed the road,
‘twas farthest from the residence,
having cleared out henhouse first,
then jumped the yellow picket fence.

If they could make it cross the road
past fast cars, big trucks towing boats,
then they’d have saved their throats.

Wistful thoughts are all these are.
For truth is this: we’re thankful
or their simple little minds,
the cute way that they gobble—

and of course, the ease in which
they end up on our table.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Truth is as straight as an arrow, while a lie swivels like a snake.

—Suzy Kassem

___________________

Thanks to Carol Louise Moon today for her pointed, poignant poetry and pictures! 

You might be able to attend today’s Poetry Appreciation Class on Emily Dickinson, presented at 1pm by Marie Taylor at Hart Sr. Center, 915 27th St., Sacramento. Call 916-808-5462 to reg. and see if there’s room for you. And scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

The latest issue of Sisyphus is now available online at sisyphuslitmag.org/. And the latest issue of the long-running Sacramento poetry journal, Ekphrasis, is also available. See ekphrasisjournal.com for details.

__________________

FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY! 
  

It’s time for more Friday contributions from Form Fiddlers, those intrepid poets who chose to throw themselves into the ring by trying some of the forms mentioned in the Kitchen during the week. First we have Taylor Graham’s response to my comment about trying to rhyme with “Medusa”. About her limerick, she says: “OK, I can't pass up a challenge (mixed metaphors getting tangled as Medusa's hair)”:


RIDING SNAKE-SHOD
—Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

There was an old bard named Medusa
with snake-locks poetically loose-a.
A verse was her hair
when the snakes gave a stare.
Her Pegasus? stoned appaloosa.


Then we have Caschwa’s (Carl Schwartz’s) response to Taylor’s response:


CAPITOL
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

We have a president who will goose ‘ya
till your hair becomes snakes like Medusa
then he’ll toss you away
for a new one today
covered with nothing but fuchsia


Carl just couldn’t help himself this week; he sent another Limerick, plus a poem made up of three limericks with a slightly modified rhyming pattern:


HISTORY BUFF
—Caschwa

I know jokes that are older than I am
but don’t press me for facts about Siam
if it tickles my fancy
I’ll take risks and be chancy
there’s no net if you trip on an iamb!

* * *

SOLD OUT
—Caschwa

take a nibble of the bible
you will choke on false pretensions
it was always the goal
for you to swallow it whole
conforming to ancient conventions

the truth was written and spit’n
that we are just the sheep
the grand design:
what’s yours is mine
there’s nothing you can keep

fork it over and over and over
don’t wait for the bread dough to leaven
the town closes at five
there is no one alive
except for our rich lords in heaven

Carl also sends us a Tritina and a Quintilla, both based on forms sent in by others recently:


EYES HALF OPEN
—Caschwa (a Tritina)

an evening star appeared in the window
competing with a normal street light
to silhouette the falling leaves

at last, when the moon finally leaves
the frost piles up to open a window
of time to make garden chores light

inside, a yule log all ready to light
as told in books with golden leaves
sometimes our only open window

behold the window, light of all lights, that never leaves

* * *

ANY WAY YOU FOLD IT
—Caschwa (a tortilla Quintilla)

Tortillas of wheat or of corn
will be the first ingredient
to greet sleepy eyes in the morn
then add toppings all heaven sent

a beautiful breakfast is born!


Bravo, Carl and Taylor, for fiddling with forms for us this week! Keep up the good work!

—Medusa, always in fine form, yes?

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Mourning The Oaks

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

DANCE OF BLACK

Two figures approach
from the east, gliding over treeline.
A pair, flying a black pattern
headed downcanyon with the sun—
making a sudden U
exactly over our house to intercept
a second pair westbound
in flight. The four muster over-
head in pairs, perform a circle-dance.
I catch black corvid eye fixed
on me. The crows swing,
circle-skim our oak-tops. Are they
searching? scouting?
So much news today in our canyon—
assault on trees. Chainsaws,
chippers cleaning what’s left
in fear of fire. Sky devoid
of smoke, pure blue offsetting
black wings.
Without a word, four crows turn
west to catch the sun
before it sets, before it’s gone.

ROSACEAE

The last grandiflora bloomed almost unnoticed,
her rose garden taken over by wild plum,
rowdy cousin seeded by passing birds. A native
rose fares better, untended, in this climate.
All things must change. One day the water
stopped altogether from her hose. But even in
this year’s dry November, wild plum
goldens the dark edge of woods with its startling
yellow leaves, its geisha-graceful boughs.

IT’S DAYLIGHT AGAIN
a Golden Shovel based on Maxine Kumin’s
“The Hermit Prays”

And our work resumes, bowed to the god
of necessity, of “defensible space,” of
safety from fire. I’m carrying dregs, the
deadfall of winter cast from sheltering
canopies of oak. I step carefully on leaf-
fall, so as not to slip on hillside built of fold
upon fold of uplifted stone. I bring to your
saw dry branches splayed dead as wing-
bones. You cut them to lengths for over-
wintering, so our woodstove might keep
us warm. Can hard work breed a secret
contentment, this worry-hauling and
tether to the here/now, the need to keep
present, this day more beautiful than safe?

FORMS AND CONNECTIONS
on a line by Mary Oliver

the fires / and the black river of loss—
of course they’re connected. To prevent
the fires, men worked up and down our canyon
with chainsaws, and lo! the greatest valley oak
stood a stump between two-lane and right-of-way.
All for the sake of safety. Lives, homes.
I couldn’t explain it to the woods.
And what of our formerly unseen neighbors
on the other side? whose lives
were private up to this very day. Now
must we learn to pull our curtains tight. Every-
one in this canyon more connected
than we used to be. Not as every tree
in the woods is connected, living
roots supporting brothers, mourning their lost
cousins. Connected not by words and forms
we humans make, but deeper
like water underground; like faith. 

FREE WOOD
Vegetation Management for fire season
 
When the world gets too much with us, a big guy gets out of his pickup. I walk our rocky slope above country road, he hails me. “Wood,” he yells, “can I take it?” Fallen leaves underfoot, lichened oak trunks. He motions arms wide—chunks, lengths of oak. Buckeye’s visioning a coming season. Live-oak jackstraw’d on cutbank right-of-way. Cooper’s hawk sails from her unseen perch. Felled oak too heavy, too big for your saw. Crow above treetops, scream of red-tail. Tricky business, with traffic speeding by. I’m meditation-walking in free air—trunks and limbs on both sides of fence as the woods go about their business. More cut wood than you and I could handle. Sunlight and shade, rooted deep for water. “Is it OK for me to take it?” he asks.

trees tall enough to
breathe without us—this bounty
from oak woods cut down

THE UNION CEMETERY, PLACERVILLE
a Mirrored Refrain for the Rev. C.C. Peirce

Among stones, a place for grave reflection
on past and now; what’s above, what’s below.
Two headstones where a barefoot preacher lies
as autumn breezes through the ages flow.

His name and dates on one; just C.C.P.
on the other. What would C.C. surmise
as autumn breezes through the ages flow?—
two headstones where a barefoot preacher lies

who had no use for money or for creed,
but spread the Word where nameless grasses grow.
Two headstones where a barefoot preacher lies
as autumn breezes through the ages flow.

NIGHT SCAPE

The perfect disk of Beaver Moon
lights a neighbor’s monster RV, visible
now after drastic tree surgery
by PG&E in the name of fire-safety.
On the other side of canyon, a dog howls.
Moon’s brilliance interferes
with the next constellation over, hazing
it like mist on cobweb.
Young black cat longs to sneak
outside, to glide through autumn dark
seeking anything in flight—quail
in a brush pile, sylph flitting
through dead thistle. I keep my cat inside,
safe from the night bird with beak
and talons, silent on moon-silver wings.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Poetry is like a bird, it ignores all frontiers.

—Yevgeny Yevtushenko

_____________________

Thursday thanks to Taylor Graham for her fine poetry and photos! TG sends us forms today; for information about them, see:

•••haibun:  www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/haibun.htm

•••golden shovel:  www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/articles/92023/introduction-586e948ad9af8

•••mirrored refrain:  www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/mirroredrefrain.html

_____________________

Today at noon, head down to the Central library for Third Thursdays in the Sacramento Room, 828 I St., Sacramento. Bring your favorite poems (by other poets) which express, explore or celebrate gratitude, thanksgiving, appreciation.

Then tonight at 8pm, Poetry in Davis features Katie Peterson and Candice Reffe plus open mic at the John Natsoulas Gallery, 521 1st St., Davis. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa, mourning the oaks. Where will the night bird live? ~

 “… night bird… silent on moon-silver wings.”
—Anonymous Photo

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Our California

—Poems by Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA
—Anonymous Photos and Paintings of California

SATURDAY AFTERNOON SERIAL, 1943

Long sadness overshrouds the old Masked Marvel’s
cliff-dangling action serial: to unravel
the young lead’s unsolved murder, we still wait.
Unbeatable in celluloid. His fate
bloodstained, a closed True Crime book’s near-congealing
cover. Frisson—to ice the stale, unchilling
suspense, the racist tone, the master spy’s
hyper-clichéd “Jap” menace Marvel defies?
How quaint, the incessant pistols, knuckle-busters;
our hero’s team of brawling claims adjuster…

MY CALIFORNIA

Such elements combine in you: dark gold,
And earth tones auguring gold, stark cinnabar red.
Each pure strain of earth-magic leaves its trace.
Discovering your metal outstrips the veriest placer.
Mingled of others' colors, you are yet wholly
You, all you: supple, elegant, radiant.

Geiger counters clack when radiant
You pace by. Metal detectors, prospect gold
Found crisping your hair, appraise your life thus holy.
Holy the copper in your smile’s light red.
Who could rebuff my gallantry: Un placer
Conocerte? That would be Spanish, for I trace

In you one Romance-language smidgen; trace
Deep-veined or in clear skin a glow, a radiant
Consortium of cultures which defines that placer
Others might seek to delve; but you, my gold,
Bring blushing from my dream a private red
Tainting my skin, no longer me, but wholly

You. Yet: still obvious me, in love of Holy,
Pilgrim-Puzzling Enigma You. A trace
Of amusement flicks your coral mouth corners red,
Yet you raise the sardonic to that steep gradient
most canebrake-sweet that sugars the rise toward gold
Where Fate holds summit for all who seek the placer.

I seek my aureate child, no rash replacer
Of one with another woman while One, holy,
Dulcet-smiling, shrined alive in gold
And white feldspar, haunts this niche. No doubtful trace
To annoy the professional tracker. Radiant
As a rubescent dawn sun, daubing red

Each fresh day pleading with us to be read
Across live pages of grass and granite placer.
Only on radium terms can you be your radiant
Essence, precious to us lowly; holy
Down to each finger’s fingernail’s-edge trace.
Your bright skin seems to offer “easy” gold,

A pledge and subterfuge—while deeper gold
Hides darkly lodged as do the sun’s Ur-radiant
Sun-innards: the Holiest veils beneath the Holy.

FANTASIA

What will I do, what can I do, when wild
subterranean longings flame a seam
far down in my mind’s-mine, and, flaring riled
as rage, but filtered like sun’s muted beam,
these longings, these old-Adam urges groan
that your too-ready blush and urgent speech
disturb my belowground essence lorn-and-lone
with those glow-nuances far out of reach
for one whose native haunt is harsh daylight,
me, knowing your shyest vibrancy is fraught
with resonance so palpable, your voice
alone can turn coarse granite more like milk
than rock, or that you own a flair untaught
for touch that shames de chine with your sleek silk,
wakes all my skin while slumber-lulling choice? 

YOUNG “SHAKESPEARE” AT HINCHINGBROOKE, 1564

Elizabeth’s on progress with her train
Of courtiers, menials, and hangers-on;
A rout of schoolboy (college) thespians fawns,
Begs of her the chance to play, if she will deign,
A play—more truly, a skit—at Hinchingbrooke,
Next stop on her long sojourn through her realm.
Travel-weary, complaisant (underwhelmed),
Obligingly she consents to take a look.
Night in the great hall: by torchlight goes the play.
Imprisoned Catholic bishops, satirized
As animals: in a dog mask, one mouths the Host.
“We’ll have no more of this, by the Holy Ghost!”
Cries Bess. Leaves, calling for “Lights! Lights! Lights!” Chastised,
The troupe—Her Grace’s taper-sun of day
Snuffed—left in the dark. One clever stripling can see.
A king will wield this snub, in this boy’s Danish tragedy…

TO SHAKESPEARE

It isn’t only your language can entice
your worshipers to worship, though I hope
that soon enough I’ll demonstrate that vice-
from-excess-of-virtue strength, that thin tightrope
your style must teeter, daring the line-vibrate.
It’s also how you inspire by your example,
enliven comedy—tragedy even—by wit,
instill that wit in us. Here’s a brief sample:
Experienced local actor, playing Touchstone
outdoors, nonplussed to find no Rosalind…
somewhere behind set? He thinks, but quick, to clown
it, character-wise, pentameter cap and bells:
Methinks the forest is unpeopled else!
In swoops Roz-hawk, hallooed from just upwind…  

FOR TWO CO-EDITOR POETS*

Lucy

Lucille Lang Day, a name to conjure light,
And that light, light of the solstice, lang agley
As I write, but you gleam too with the night
Stars you appraise: Copernican modes of play.
Wedding poetry with your science-bent,
You might be an Emily Dickinson microscope,
The kind “in an emergency” most “prudent.”
Not over-analytic lens…more…vibrascope!

Helen Keller’s term for alert-nerved skin
Coupled with intuition—that’s your strength
Of strengths. Few others thus equipped to sense
Malignant, world-degrading human sin:
Waste, fouling our air, our water…I love the lengths
You go to give tidings, heal this present tense.


Ruth

Ruth Nolan, you debunk the “empty space”
Canard we greenhorns cling to regarding desert.
Your California’s alive with every trace
The blowing sands can hold, of where a shy lizard,
An unseen skink, wolf spider, has etched a furrow.
What you don’t know, Creation Itself might not;
You stir with dawn’s inland-outland-stirring burrows,
Crevices where a creosote bush will squat,

Take root. You take routes unlensed by prior camera,
Bring back from scarred road russet dusk exposures;
Snap exposés, eye-evidence—truth, no chimera—
Of waste in “waste places,” so styled by their polluters.
Your fire-fighting poem adjoins my neighbor lane:
Lines on hydraulic mining. Flame beside water main.  


*Of Fire and Rain: Ecopoetry of California, Scarlet Tanager Press, 2018

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Soon it got dusk, a grapy dusk, a purple dusk over tangerine groves and long melon fields; the sun the color of pressed grapes, slashed with burgandy red, the fields the color of love and Spanish mysteries.

―Jack Kerouac, On the Road

_________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Tom Goff for today’s fine poetry! Can you spot the sonnets? 

 “In swoops Roz-hawk…”
For more about Shakespeare’s use of birds, see 

shakespearestudyguide.com/Shake2/birdsofprey.html/.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Roses and Sun Dust

Beatitude
—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

A HEADY SCENT OF ROSES

What a surprise to find this room heady with roses—
full of light—full of you, sinuating toward me. And
what a surprise to find myself going toward all this
with my old rhythm, caught again on this drift of
memory.

False, says the sun dust, swirling with disturbance
as I approach—as I enter the image of regret.

But you are waiting—wrapped in rose-scent—rose
petals falling all around you, the soft floor rising
with a subtle feel of dizziness. I merge toward you
as if we loved each other; as if there were gifts to
offer and receive; as if you were not only made of light.

And you are fading into the sun dust—only an open
window now, where a frayed curtain flutters with some
movement I misinterpret out of an old sensation. 

 Bliss

THE MEMORY-SCENT OF DRIED
ROSE PETALS

What are roses when they wilt—
wilt and die—scented and soft,
as the softest words to say this?

Expensive when alive :
roses for lovers
as token,
as symbol,
perfection without claim—
roses with long green stems,
innocent thorns, warning against touch.

Roses cut from bushes are for sacrifice.
Shrubs cannot hold them against this.
Vases will oblige them—present them.

Single,
or by the dozen,
roses will pose for you with their presence—
admire them,
sigh over them,
take their picture
from bud to fullness, to petal-fall,

trash now—
tossed away—given to loss—
leaving a trail of sadness behind them.

 The Day of the Day

THE DEADLY ROSES              

I am not so content with roses now. They crowd
and suffocate. Their petals drop like prayers—
unanswered and obscene. They bruise my carpet
where I pace in all my fury. Love has killed me, so
I kill it back. I tear it into screams. These roses
that you send compress the air. Why send me
roses now! Why offer insult upon pain! Words
cannot be taken back. I scorn your roses—keep
their thorns.

________________

SYMPATHIES

Meager though the tokens are
I hoard them now.

A paper clip will fit them all :

One letter, and one formal card,
one small note from a shop bouquet.


(first pub. in Muse of Fire, 1997)

 Remembering Goodbye

RAVEL

Light—and the power
within light—
lingers past the season.
She flows under time
in her dress of wilting roses.
She will become unreal.
She will not be held by dull formality.
She can feel a tone of weeping. 
She moves away from it.
It follows and waits. Every love
has its sadness, hers is given back now
to the old enmity and need. It is
the music under everything,
far away and merciless.
She finds herself humming
and it makes her throat ache,
and her heart—grief, useless grief—
and the way grief tries to hold her
against life like an accusation.
Why does grief still want her?
Time has slipped beyond her, bringing
her back, through the moment, into the hour—
into the year, and she is back at the beginning.
She picks up the thread of conversation and smiles.

 Aging Beautifully

THE RECONSTRUCTED MEMORY
After Memory, 1937, by Agnes Lawrence Pelton

Let’s take this apart, discover it,
wonder is for wonder :

A pure white vase over-
spills with rose petals, floating off.

The vase gleams from within
with contained light.

A new-born sea erupts from its base,
teeming with new realities.

The white vase becomes white heat
no longer able to contain form.

Was it always meant to spew roses?
Create stars? Why is it familiar?

Memory: white flare, white burst
of energy taking shape,
fragile with illusion . . .

Memory: Needing to find you
in the swarm of thought, even now
able to define me.

Memory: Contrived image now,
talking on its own memory. . .
memories . . . on and on . . . beyond mine. . .

 Holding

WHITE ROSE, RED ROSE
An Inverted Terza Rima

Brush touches canvas. Something knows,  
or seems to know, what must evolve;
the mind envisioning a rose.

The artist knows what will involve          
the vision and selects pure white,
proceeding on this firm resolve.

Brush tries to bring the rose to life,           
turns shape and color to a smear,
turns early effort to a blight.
                                                            
No brush nor artist can be seer.                     
The rose itself wants to be red.
The finished painting makes it clear:

Surely the canvas is to blame.                   
The white rose, sacrificed, and bled,
gives up its purity. It wanted fame.  


(first pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine)

_______________________

THE LAST BLOOMING ROSE

Rose I am,
here mid the stems and leaves,
the thorns,

the opening buds—
the dying others—
here among the winter roses
in the gathering flow of time.

_______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

SINGLE ROSE IN BUD VASE
—Joyce Odam

Rose, and echoed rose, single-hued
in mirror-facing windows, where
the twilit glass mirrors her rare
garden roses—publicly viewed.

Her Silk Rose now takes all her care.


(first pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine, 2008)
 
______________________

Our thanks to Joyce Odam for the heady scent of roses in her poems and photos today! Her “Single Rose in Bud Vase” is a Quintilla: Five 8-syllable lines: ababa  |  ababb | abaab  |  aabab  |  abbab  |  aabba.  (See www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/quintilla-poetic-forms/.) As for her “White Rose, Red Rose”, the Inverted Terza Rima is based on the Terza Rima (popularpoetryforms.blogspot.com/2013/01/terza-rima.html), only it’s rhymed as aba | cac | dcd | ede | fef.

Our new Seed of the Week is Smoke. Write about smoke—lovely or lethal, memory or fear, cigarettes, forest fires, burnt toast—and 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.

—Medusa, dreaming of smoke and roses ~

 Memory

—Painting by Agnes Lawrence Pelton

For more about Agnes Pelton and her work, go to 

brooklynrail.org/2018/06/criticspage/Agnes-Pelton-The-Familiar-Sublime/.

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Sweet As . . .

Sugar Skull by Rob-O, Sacramento

—Photos by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento, CA

YOU’RE GORGEOUS!
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

Anonymous, eponymous
Amorphous, enormous
Unanimous, poly-amorous
You’re gorgeous!

_________________

MEANDERING DAYDREAMS
—Joseph Nolan

I’m living,
I’m dying,
I’m loving,
I’m crying!

There is no escape,
From meatloaf
On your plate,
Unless you order chicken,
Or meandering daydreams.

Every animal should know
There is only this moment
And the Universal Soul.

 Chicken w/Pole

 THE CARPET-CLEANER
—Joseph Nolan

“We like to spray some of this stuff
On the heavy-traffic areas
To loosen up the crusty top-layer,
Before we scrub
With our steam wand;
It’s called ‘footprint-be-gone’.
It’s for the best result.

It’s another fifteen.
You want it?

And this spot-remover
Is good to make sure
Your carpet won’t look
Like a collection of polka-dots
When we are done.

It’s another fifteen.
You want it?

And this deodorizer/freshener
Is so your house
Won’t smell like monkey-breath
For a couple of days
After we are done.

It’s another fifteen.
You want it?

I know it was
Only supposed to be
A-room-for-fifteen,
But you want it to be clean,
And smell good,
Don’t you?”

__________________

PG&E AND FIRELESS WIRES
—Joseph Nolan

We are innocent victims
In the crossfire
Of the wires!

We live in the fires
That come from desires,
For which PG&E
Has no wisdom.

Burning, burning,
All aflame,
In the nescient
Preacher’s name,
Who loves things
All undone!

PG&E,
How we love to see thee
Fighting furtive fires!

Have you any idea
How to string

Fireless wires?

 INTO THE FIRE!
—Joseph Nolan

We dance the dance
Of burning flames,
Thrown into the sun,
Consuming all,
Into the thrall
Of coming all undone.

What can be won?
What matters
If all matters
Will just be
Bells, un-rung?

Sing your song
Into the crackle
Of the roaring flames!

Commit yourself
Unto the blazes
That consume the ages!

__________________

PG&E VERSUS PARADISE
—Joseph Nolan

I weary.
I tire.
Surely,
I fail to inspire.

I set
Hills and towns
On fire
With electrical wires.
I am PG&E.

EEEEEEEEE!

Run for it!
There’s a fire coming
To a town near you!
There’s only one way out
And it’s plugged up
With burning cars!

Let’s all move to Chico!
We’ll camp out
In the Wal-Mart parking lot
And remember
What we haven’t got
Anymore.
 

    Unlike other flowers,
    when roses wither away in the Fall
    they leave edible “hips” where the petals dropped off
    in which are contained seeds
    These you can dry and save for planting next year
    or else grind them up to be steeped in hot water for tea
    Also to be used as medicine high in vitamin C,
    rose hips can help treat a “cold” in winter
                         

—Michelle Kunert

VOLODYMYR ZELENSKYY
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

(According to Wikipedia, this is the way he prefers his name to be spelled on his passport.)


An onlyy child
no phoneyy baloneyy
likes to layy in the hayy
on payy dayy
in the merryy month of Mayy
playing with his Sillyy Puttyy
while sipping a Bloodyy Maryy

__________________

ALTER EGOS
—Caschwa

ASPCA
Animal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Americans

BAC
Broken And Confused

CBS
Corned Beef Sandwich

DMV
Deeply Mysterious Vortex

ERISA
Every Rose Is Sweet Affection

FBI
Find Better Information

GPA
Gladly Party Anytime  

STAY IN STEP
—Caschwa

(inspired by “places of annihilation”
from “If the Galaxy Disappeared” by
Joseph Nolan, Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/7/19)


Hitler’s Reich
North Korea’s army
KKK rallies, plus

American citizens are called for jury
service and are presented with Rules
of Court they would never have thought
of on their own

break any of these iron-clad Rules and
face Contempt of Court which can end
up denying that same precious Liberty
and Freedom we cite when saluting the
flag

and so a panel is chosen, all expected
to remain in lock step with those Rules
or be removed and put where no one
will ever find them

__________________

A TWISTORY LESSON
—Caschwa

Sodom gave us
sodomy

Gomorrah gave us
“give me more aah”

our answer today is
Sodom & Gomorrah
cigarettes

Put one in your mouth
lick it, suck on it
add flames to kill the sin

enjoy to your
heart’s content
again and again

ANGER MISMANAGEMENT
—Caschwa

A fellow in Texas
went to a bar
then drove drunk in his car
to his ex’s

where he pulled out a gun
and shot 8 people dead
who to blame for this dread?
O the stories that were spun

the bartender was accused
of serving him too much
letting him escape her touch
lighting his short fuse

the Creator could be blamed
for giving him life and breath
free will to cause other’s death
the Devil’s plan enflamed

a grand jury declined
to indict the bartender
home free they would send her
but no peace will she find 

 —Photo by Ann Privateer, Davis, CA

Today’s LittleNip:

THE EYE OF FATIMA
—Cynthia Linville, Lincoln, CA

The round moon blinks
blooms into a lotus
opening and closing—
pulses
kaleidoscopes
dances on the water
shimmering my skin
with soft lashes

___________________

Monday thanks to our fine contributors today: saucy (Carl and Joe), seasonal (Ann), sultry (Cynthia) and Seed of the Week (Michelle).

This week’s poetry readings in our area begin tonight at Sac. Poetry Center with Wren Tuatha and Sally Ashton plus open mic, 7:30pm. Thursday begins at noon with Third Thursdays in the Sacramento Room of the Central Library in Sacramento. Bring your favorite poems (by other poets) which express, explore or celebrate gratitude, thanksgiving, appreciation.

Also on Thursday: Poetry in Davis features Katie Peterson and Candice Reffe plus open mic at John Natsoulas Gallery, 8pm.

Sign up for the Poetry Appreciation Class with Marie Taylor this coming Friday at Hart Center on 27th & J Sts. in Sacramento. This session will be about Emily Dickinson, 1pm.

And Saturday is the Poetic License read-around in Placerville at the Sr. Center, 2-4pm. The suggested topic for this month is "mischief”, but other subjects are also welcome. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

Interested in workshops? Check the green box at the right for a listing of local ones which will be held this week and/or later.

A reminder that the deadline for submissions to The Poeming Pigeon is December 15. This issue is devoted to “pop culture”. See thepoetrybox.com/the-poeming-pigeon for details.

—Medusa (Monday?? Bring it on!)

 May your week be as sweet as… well……
—Anonymous Photo

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.