Nine Quickies

New Era
—Poems and Visuals by Smith, Cleveland, OH

There’re three mes in me:
skin, brain, and bone
and none of them will leave me alone

 I Eye

Mingus our magic
we mingle our meld both mode
and modality

 Illuminati

A toad down a well
sees only some of the sky
cannot judge true hue

 Safety Stop

It is what it is
this mixture of past present
this of of what was

 You Need Vision

 

Time is big, I am
small, am but shank of shadow
yet no me, no time

 Waterpuss Watching

I sit in the dark
watch the traffic light change
bet on the color

 Watch Your Step

Snake bites scorpion
scorpion stings snake
life goes on

 See and Weep

A dead clock reads right
by accident twice a light
otherwise is lies

 Unknown

Today’s LittleNip:

Fallen sparrow tracks
in the snow lead nowhere
follow anyway

—Smith

___________________

Thank you, Smith (Steven B. Smith) for these brief but pungent poems and visuals, all the way from the Land of Cleves!

Poetry event choices in our area today and tonight include:

•••Third Thursdays in the Sacramento Room of the Sac. Library downtown on I Street meets at noon. Bring poems about any kind of love by someone other than yourself, or about Black History Month (info: www.facebook.com/events/1339877406200216/.)

•••Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar features Jorge Quintana plus open mic, 8pm, on 16th St. in Sacramento;

•••Poetry in Davis features John Brantingham plus open mic at John Natsoulas Gallery on 1st St. in Davis, also 8pm. 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, celebrating the brief and the pungent!

 —Photo of Good-Luck-to-Come by Smith

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.

Pioneer Woman

—Poems by Kimberly Bolton, Jefferson City, MO

—Anonymous Photos

TINTYPE OF A PIONEER WOMAN

Let me tell you ‘bout this here woman,
name of Rhody Hall.
She was a pioneer woman if ever there was one.
Rhody was born a Redford,
of the Stokes County, North Carolina Redfords,
who settled out there on Hixes Fork
right after the Revolutionary War.
In eighteen-and-seventeen she up and married
ole William Hall,
the first of them bunch of Halls to dig themselves
outta the mud of Hixes Fork and head out
to Missouri.

Rhody and Will loaded all their worldly goods
and eight children in a covered wagon
and lit out through the Cumberland.
Took ‘em a month or more to reach Missouri.
Built theirselves a cabin just south of the river
along Grindstone Creek.
Had seven more children before all was said
and done.
Back then, the more children you had,
the more hands there was to help out
on the farm.

It was hard on the women-folk, though.
Made ‘em old before their time,
All that work and worry and birthin’ babies year after year.

I seen a tintype onc’t of Rhody Hall.
Aint Rhody everbody ‘round these parts used to call her.
She had on a plain black dress with a little black bonnet,
the strings tied tight under her chin,
lookin’ just the way you’d figure a pioneer woman
such as herself would look.
She had hardship carved into her face alright.
You know, a man can traipse all over
this here country, leavin’ his mark for the
history books, draggin’ his womenfolk
and the children along behind him,
and they’d call it an adventure.
But you just ask any one of those women what
they might of thought about it,
and I’d bet my bottom dollar
them history books’d have some different to say.

She weren’t real pretty as I recall,
but neither would you or I be
if we had her hard row to hoe.
Rhody had a broad enough forehead
to keep her worries to herself.

RHODA AND WILL

They already had eight children between them
when they left Hixes Fork in Carolina
making the rough trek overland through the
Cumberland Gap.
More children would follow once they lay claim
to their small piece of Missouri.

There, along the banks of Grindstone Creek,
Rhoda and Will built their cabin within
a small stand of pines, surrounded by scrub oak
and sycamore trees.
They made a farm and a garden,
giving their lives and the lives of their offspring
room to grow, room enough to breathe.

In those early days,
when owning their own land
and all they had accomplished
with their own two hands was still flush
with pride,
taking precedence over even their
love for one another,
Rhoda and Will took to rising
before sun-up in the chill early mornings.
In silence, Will stoked the fire.
In silence, Rhoda ground the coffee,
set the kettle to boil on the stove.
They left the children abed so as to have
this time together for themselves alone,
which was all the time they would have.
For the rest of the day did not belong to them,
but to the land and the work the land required
of them.
   
In silence, Rhoda wrapped her shawl
about her shoulders.
Both she and Will stepped out of the cabin
into the freshness of new morning,
and in silence walked down to the creek bank,
where the water ran swift and clear.

In silence, they stood together,
not touching, but watching the current
flash by,
listening to the deep-throated frogs coax
the swell of the sun up overt the distant
hump-backed hills.
Rhoda and Will watched their world form
out of the low-lying fog.
This they did each morning,
forever it seemed.
A pleasurable duty.

And how small a thing it was,
husband and wife standing side by side,
letting the world reveal itself to them
as it was want to do.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

You’re never going to kill storytelling, because it’s built into the human plan. We come with it.

—Margaret Atwood

___________________

Welcome back to Kimberly Bolton, who was featured in the Kitchen recently. I asked her if I could call her a “cowboy poet”, having the knack for dialect and storytelling that she does, and she said, Sure. These poems are from her new book, Tales From Grindstone Creek. I love cowboy poetry, the history it brings—especially the new wave of cowgirl poets—and am proud to have such poets join us around the Kitchen table.

Kimberly says that, if people are interested in purchasing a copy of her previous book, Folk, they can order a copy by emailing her at boltonk@mrrl.org. Please include your name and mailing address. The books are $14.00, which includes shipping and handling. Then mail a check or money order to 214 Adams Street, Jefferson City, Mo. 65101, marked ATTN: Kim Bolton.

For more about the background of Folk, go to www.newstribune.com/news/news/story/2018/dec/27/bolton-shares-her-familys-rich-history-folk/758368/.

For up-coming poetry events in our area, scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

__________________

—Medusa, celebrating the poetry of our heritage ~

 —Anonymous Tumbling Tumbleweeds

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.

Thorned, And Petaled Soft

Golden Thirst

—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

QUEST

To begin this odyssey, we gave away all we owned,
kept our map in a secret place, and memorized what
we could of it to dispel our growing terror at the
thought of thieves. The Spirit of the Self seemed
far away, but we had to find its shrine which filled
the empty place of our imagination and desire. The
village faded behind us with all our old connections.
I could not relinquish everything. I kept a souvenir-
cup from when I was a child—later we would drink
from it and use it to scoop and portion with. At last
we reached the shrine of our long seeking—a small
place, really—not what we expected—set way back,
with all its windows broken, the path to it overgrown.
But something told us this was it. Though worn-to-the
heart with weariness and dried-up tears, we stayed—
content at last, to repair its damages, hack its weeds.

 As You Are

ON PERFECTION

I have marred the page with my pencil,
made a rude mark
and reached for an eraser.

Now there is flaw and rectification.
Now there is penance and smug solution.
How easily we repair our damages :

a pencil mark of carelessness—
a pen
would have been fatal.

But the page leaves a scar,
wears a smudge of reproof.
I put a bookmark there.

The bookmark is a stare. It knows I am guilty,
will not let me get past this point of reading.
How careless I have become.

 Flower Within Flower

SNOWFLAKE
“To you I send a single snowflake, beautiful,
complex and delicate: different from all the others.”
             —Louis Jenkins (“Too Much Snow”)


Snowflake
I wish to steal—
so beautiful in that
poem I read by another—
mine now.

______________________

FOR ROSES

Thorned, and petaled soft,
the marvel of their scent—
their wonder is enough.

For science and intention,
for all that intervention,
all is moot—

that something of the mind
can alter what is there,
will alter what is truth.

Thorned, and petaled soft—
with lack of scent—how can
the sacrifice of roses be enough.

 Deeper Than Now

OLD MIRROR

What quarrel is this that I have
with the unremembered self
that derives in fragments.
Dare I say again what I say to it,
that it could have saved me,
which it denies.
And we go round again
in our game of truth
and our game of lies,
which each says
the other is.
What is
this dark exchange
that envelops like a shroud :
metaphor of fear, that void, 
that grave, that crumbling year,
as if life did not exist, except in
burrowings, returning as we do
to the old battleground of self against self—
unrecognized—unyielded to—wearing the
skin-shiver of the other in an old exchange,
the mirror entered, locking both of us inside.

 Blue Echo

IMPORTANCE

the song of the keys
as he walks
swinging away from his body
clanking against him
many-toned
rhythmic to his
powerful unlockings

_____________________

HUNGRY—HUNGRY FOR WHAT

For what is hunger if not interpretive yearning—
not a reason, not the quest through madness,
that state through mind-rebellion,
the first birds singing in the trees.

Morning again. The night sleepless.
The birds singing. I would sing.
Tears are easy. Moaning is harsh.
Night is full of useless pain.

Suffer. Suffer.
The house goes silent,
the cat stares, looks at you,
you and the cat, suffering together.

This is new.
This is not.
It’s all shamble.
The house shudders. A block of silence

waits to burst. We are not through with this. 
There is no solution.    
Bear it.   Bear it.    Let it continue.
In and out of sleep. 

Mind is mirage.
In silence now, confusion caught
in mind’s trap.
Its door open. No key. How it is.

 Flower Prayer

ON RIDDLES AND SOLUTIONS
(After "Frangipani Grove" by Cindy St. Onge)

What stays was never here.
What’s gone returns.
Riddles are solved and nothing
learns what one should learn.

Ambition burns the way it should.
Something portends to spoil the joy.
Rhythm adheres to discord.
All is pleased without an ear to care.

The eye assumes what balance learns.
Hold still and wait till balance holds.
Don’t press for what the miracle denies.
The secret knows, and you must solve—

but only when you die—to die is to
begin—but different now—somewhere
you do not know—too far to measure back.
Fear not. There is no measurement for that.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

TAMPERING WITH DIRECTION
—Joyce Odam

What if
someone changes
the arrow—stealing our
direction, while we ask, Which way?
Which way?

                                  
(first pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine)

_____________________

Thank you to Joyce Odam for her smooth poems and photos in the Kitchen today!

Our new Seed of the Week. contributed by Carl Schwartz, is Just a Masquerade. 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.

For up-coming poetry events in our area, scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

______________________

—Medusa, who is indeed thorned, and petaled soft ~ well, sort of…

 —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.

Lost Keys & The North Wind

Now What?

—Anonymous Photos Courtesy of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

KEY
—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove, CA

Not lost,
There in plain
Sight, in the
Ignition
Of the locked
Car,
Again,
Waiting for
The Triple A
Driver
To arrive
With the rueful
Smile and
The shiv, again. 

CHRONIC PAIN
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

It’s a little bit
Like a torture chamber,
A little bit
Like rain;
It’s a place
Where you
Can manage,
But always
In pain.

They try to
Give you opium,
To numb you
From your pain,
But, of course,
They’ll always
Charge you,
‘Til your money’s
Gone away.

Money gone,
But pain
Still there,
Look out
Your rainy
Window,
And stare!

Look out
Your rainy
Window,
And stare!

___________________

DEVELOPING ART
—Joseph Nolan

She is a work of art
In the process of development,
Her features gradually appearing
Through the blurry liquid in the tray,

Almost ready
To be hung up to dry,
In total darkness,
Except for glowing, red light
From an indirect source.

Her nose, her lips,
Cheekbones,
Her mouth, a rose!
Her eyes, reflective mirrors.
She knows, she knows, she knows!

SUMMER NIGHT IN THE OUTBACK
—Joseph Nolan

I listened to another
Softly sleeping,
Curtains rustling,
In the warm-night’s
Summer breeze,

All windows open,
Protected from the world, outside,
Only by the thinnest screens

And I sat listening,
As the soft sounds of quiet breathing
Turned to snores.

Surely, then, she was resting,
Deeply resting,
And I grew bored,

And dropped down in my chair
As we both let the summer air
Blow from screen to screen.

__________________

TOUR CHINA NOW?
—Joseph Nolan

There’s great prices
For tours of China
For those willing to
Wear haz-mat suits
All the way through.

__________________

MUSINGS
—Joseph Nolan

The Earth,
A stone,
Thrown
Into the sky.

Our lives,
We never own.
We always die.

Time
Rhymes with
Rhyme,
But never echoes
Or returns.

Passion
Is not an end
In itself.
It always burns.

Eternity
Is what
Maternity
Is shooting for.

Expectant fathers
Always pace the floor.

SWEETS & SOURS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

we have come to another
holiday weekend!

put out the flag and handle
it properly

stock up on all those spirits
and tasty treats while gleefully
acknowledging that they are
not really part of your carefully
managed diet

read and watch commercial
ads that feature some of the
most trivial aspects of people
who have served in the
highest office

bury your head in the sand
when the local newspaper
prints out statistics showing
all the holiday traffic fatalities,
again, as everyone knew
there would be, again

take in the flag and handle
it properly

RAW POTATOES
—Caschwa

ushered in by the North Wind
with delightful flavor hints
daring to contradict unsweetened tea
and un-rhymed poetry:

a new house, a new spouse
shifting candidates, drifting tectonic plates
puppies, babies, what ifs, maybes

bake so nice, or fry and slice
add onions and salts
suits kids and adults

ignore allergies, itchin’
it passed the damn test kitchen
start heating the oven, prepare for some lovin’
the timer is set, our lips are so wet

get that bag from the store off of my nice, clean floor
only the real deal becomes part of our meal
peeled and skinned by gusts from the North Wind

___________________

A trio of cinquains:

LOST
—Caschwa

stepped out
off of the trail
out of my mind for sure
what could I have been thinking of?
photos

* * *

FOUND
—Caschwa

perfect
big rib eye steaks
rubbed, ready for the grill
baked Yukon Gold potatoes, too
eaten

* * *

SAFE
—Caschwa

today
I yielded my
right of way to morons
this was for my own benefit
no dents 

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE XXVI
—Caschwa

when you do your best to be proactive
because that is supposed to be a good thing

and you dutifully mark your calendar
in pencil several months ahead
to indicate which different days the County
is scheduled to pick up which different cans

and then the County, for no stated reason,
decides to change those pickup days

that’s why the pencil

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

VERY CRUDE POEM
—Caschwa

Okay, let’s get started: this is a
Very Crude Poem (VCP)
to highlight the differences among
Voluptuous Pudding Chocolate (VPC)

Positive Crankcase Ventilation (PVC)
Polyvinyl Chloride (PCV)

Carefully Pruned Vines (CPV), and
Creative Voodoo Potions (CVP)

_____________________

Thanks to our lively Monday crew for today's poems and photos! Lost Keys and The North Wind are two of our recent Seeds of the Week.

Poetry readings in our area tonight begin with Kelly Grace Thomas and Linda Scheller at Sac. Poetry Center, 7:30pm, plus open mic. That’s at 25th & R Sts., Sacramento.

Thursday is busy, with Third Thursdays in the Sacramento Room at noon for a poetry read-around (bring poems by someone other than yourself) at the Central Library in Sacramento at 828 I St. Then at 8pm at Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar on 16th St. in Sacramento, Jorge Quintana reads, plus open mic. Also at 8pm but at Poetry in Davis, John Brantingham reads, plus open mic, at the John Natsoulas Gallery, 521 1st St.

On Friday, also at Luna’s, also at 8pm, there will be a Sac Unified Slam fundraiser for the women who are headed to Dallas, Texas this March for the Women of the World Poetry Slam. And in Davis at 7:30pm that night, Bill Gainer and Traci Gourdine read (plus open mic) at The Other Voice Poetry Series, Unitarian Universalist Church library, 27074 Patwin Rd., Davis. (Wish Bill Gainer a happy birthday today!)

Saturday will also be very busy, beginning at 9:30am in the morning with Writers on the Air at Sac. Poetry Center, featuring Frederick Foote, Michelle Woods and Vicki Carroll plus open mic. That afternoon, a Poetic License read-around will take place from 2-4pm at Placerville Sr. Center lobby on Spring St. in Placerville. The suggested topic for this month is "close encounter" but other subjects are also welcome. Then at 4pm at Sac. Poetry Center, there will be readings from the 2020 Tule Review. 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.

____________________

—Medusa, celebrating the diverse subjects of today’s poetry crew ~

 Fruit Does Not Belong On Pizza!

—Anonymous Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

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.

A Past President's Poem for Presidents' Day

Barack Obama

POP
—Barack Obama

Sitting in his seat, a seat broad and broken


In, sprinkled with ashes,


Pop switches channels, takes another


Shot of Seagrams, neat, and asks


What to do with me, a green young man


Who fails to consider the


Flim and flam of the world, since


Things have been easy for me;


I stare hard at his face, a stare


That deflects off his brow;


I’m sure he’s unaware of his


Dark, watery eyes, that


Glance in different directions,


And his slow, unwelcome twitches,


Fail to pass.


I listen, nod,


Listen, open, till I cling to his pale,

Beige T-shirt, yelling,


Yelling in his ears, that hang


With heavy lobes, but he’s still telling


His joke, so I ask why


He’s so unhappy, to which he replies...


But I don’t care anymore, cause


He took too damn long, and from


Under my seat, I pull out the


Mirror I’ve been saving; I’m laughing,


Laughing loud, the blood rushing from his face


To mine, as he grows small,


A spot in my brain, something


That may be squeezed out, like a


Watermelon seed between


Two fingers.


Pop takes another shot, neat,


Points out the same amber


Stain on his shorts that I’ve got on mine, and


Makes me smell his smell, coming


From me; he switches channels, recites an old poem


He wrote before his mother died,


Stands, shouts, and asks


For a hug, as I shink, my


Arms barely reaching around


His thick, oily neck, and his broad back; ‘cause


I see my face, framed within


Pop’s black-framed glasses


And know he’s laughing too.

________________________

For commentary on Obama’s poem (and the typo), as well as another of his poems, “Underground”, go to hubpages.com/literature/Barack-Obamas-Pop/.

Today from 1-3pm in Diamond Springs (just southeast of Placerville), Poetry of the Sierra Foothils will present Kelly Grace Thomas and Linda Scheller, plus open mic, at Caffe Santoro, 493 Pleasant Valley Rd., Diamond Springs. 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

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.

Embrace Me

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

I live in the Sacramento Valley, it is tremendous; it goes on and on. Each of us here walks through the valley the same way, and yet each of us is different. A life is a life, yet no two are truly the same. And my life? In summer, I trust the morning dew, and in winter I trust the tule fog. I put my faith in the deer grass and manzanita, in the blue oak and the grey pine. I live in this valley, a part of it.


 

The air is low tonight, pressed down to the ground, and it welcomes me like I am a victorious soldier just home from some distant war.

The ground kisses the low air, and caresses it, whispering sweet love words that I cannot make out, even though I listen closely.


There is moonlight, star light, the street lights, headlights from passing traffic, and a sort of blue light from television sets filtering through the windows of the sad houses.

Even with this light I cannot make out the tops of the trees or the roofs of the taller houses.

Walking in this world brings me a loneliness, a melancholy that lingers long after the night is over.

A new days begins, so what can I do but begin again as well.

So I do.

Hanshan, the old monk, on Cold Mountain.
Meditation, poems, and laughter.
The winter wind howling
Across the surface of the frozen snow.

____________________

Embrace me on the tip of a blue flame, a campfire

Embrace me of the swirl of a dance floor, those drums

Embrace me with the truth, I have heard too many lies

Embrace me until sunrise, the darkness, the darkness

Embrace me in friendship, mi amigo, mon ami


Embrace me on the sharp edge of passion, the stars

Embrace me while the world spins, it never stops

Embrace me, embrace me now, embrace me tomorrow

Embrace me and I will embrace you, our blood together

This life

The music of autumn, the sound of birds, the sound of trees moved by wind. This music is a tall blessing, tall and wide. This life is everywhere. At once. 


_____________________


When the earth herself
Comes asking for help,
How will we hear her?
Friend, we often fail
To even hear each other.

With hope there is life.


With life there is hope.


Live. Hold on to your hope.


Keep the faith, always.


____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

After dinner, standing outside in a light rain, I am connected to all creation. A perfect imperfection.

—James Lee Jobe

___________________

Thank you, James Lee Jobe, for your contributions to the Kitchen this morning, as we hover between seasons.

For up-coming poetry events in our area, scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

___________________

—Medusa, listening closely to the trees moved by the wind ~

 —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.

Valentines to Warm Those Chilly Hearts

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

EVER-LIVING GREEN

Sun-shimmer morning after rain—time for oracles in the mossy woods, green-folk performing secret ballet rites-of-spring then stealing away at human footfall. Forest duff absorbed my steps into the matrix of earth. One heavyset stump blossomed with fungus, the oaks’ idea of afterlife among a windfall of acorns. My reverie broken by that street-singer, Scrub Jay, and roar of a jet swallowed by thunderclouds building over the hills,

chill north wind bringing
its news of changes to our
ever-living green 

OUT OF LOSS, CORDWOOD
                 (for Verl)

O Bolens diesel tractor small but wise,
you forged a path to where they felled our trees;
now turn my heartache into our hearth’s ease.

Each oak and pine I mourn, each friend that lies
on battlefield of severed heartwood knees.
O Bolens diesel tractor, small but wise,
you forged a path to where they felled our trees.

An ample woodpile grows before my eyes
so we’ll be cozy, come a northwind freeze.
You clear a whimsy-way for April breeze.
O Bolens diesel tractor small but wise,
you forged a path to where they felled our trees.
Now, turn my heartache into our hearth’s ease. 

BLACKBIRD PIE

The Muse’s chair sits out in all weathers
gathering wisps of cloud-thoughts passing by
and some iridescent shades of feathers
she’s caught with glimpses of birds on the fly.
You’ve been inside pondering which-where-why
her chair is empty, waiting for a word.
She’s left her post, she’s musing on the sly—
your Muse is practicing dawn-song of a bird?

Could this be her sport of all-togethers?
the baited hook on line, a verse to fry?
iridescent fish with scales, not feathers.
What can that empty Muse’s chair belie?
It’s almost spring, a Muse’s alibi.
And what’s that wildwood warble you just heard?
From canopies of oak—oh way up high—
your Muse is practicing dawn-song of a bird.

All around her chair, blossom-rot gathers
a shining ring of toadstools (eat-and-die)—
all iridescent in the way of fungi feathers.
Lovely lethal Nature—she winks an eye.
Art is where you find it; she wouldn’t lie.
You wonder if this Muse has gone absurd
or eaten metaphor like blackbird pie.
Your Muse is practicing dawn-song of a bird.

Her chair’s up-lifting as if set to fly
on inspiration’s whim. A single word
might set it wingless soaring into sky.
Your Muse is practicing dawn-song of a bird. 

SEASONS OF ASH

A subtle north wind plays
with ashes I toss on ash-heap—
ashes smothered in cast-iron, quite
cold. Ashes that kept us woodstove-
warm with embers recalling frigid
dawns-ago, dead now. Winter sun
plays on ice an inch thick
on the bucket, still unmelted
into afternoon. Ash drifts on north
wind, remembering its fire
of dreaming summer’s tinder
flaming into fall. Does ash ever
die? Trust a north wind to raise
remains that rise to cloudless sky. 

 FOREST PEACE

You’ve longed to get away from city streets,
to the mountains’ cathedral of tall pines—
a place to meditate on nature’s peace,

its silence brooding with reflective thought,
incense cedar and manzanita bells.
You’ve longed to get away from city streets
to the mountains’ cathedral of tall pines—

A soundless footfall, shadow moving slow
and tawny, circling where you stand against
a tree. Cougar breathing as you breathe.
You’ve longed to get away from city streets,
to the mountains’ cathedral of tall pines—
a place to meditate on nature’s peace. 

SILENCE FOR PIANO AND TRAIN WHISTLE

Burke Junction

Here’s the Old West in a fog. Rows of storefronts; shops and restaurants mostly closed, this early on a February Sunday. No more staged train robberies and gunfights—the little vintage train station’s closed till further notice. No Wanted posters, but we’re here to catch a missing man—Hatch, old search dog trainer, who left his car in front of the Nail Salon to wander among buildings for our dogs to trail. The little water-tank floats, silent, above its tower lost in fog. Larry the resident white rooster saunters by as if to tease my dog, antsy to “go find!” Down the boardwalk, spinet against store wall, chair for pianist and bench for audience.

raw morning, footsteps
and breath muffled, fog plays the
ivories—silence 

Today’s LittleNip:

FEBRUARY GUEST
—Taylor Graham

North Wind’s come to call
through door-lock and chimney flue—
don’t you love its song? 
 
_____________________

Listening to the sounds of the wind in Taylor Graham’s poems today, echoing our recent Seed of the Week, North Wind. Thanks to her for such music! Her poems today are in the forms of Haibun, Haiku, a rhymed Madrigal and an unrhymed one, plus a Ballade. For more about the Ballade, as well as some examples, go to poets.org/glossary/ballade/.

For up-coming poetry events in our area, scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

_____________________

FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!

It’s time for more contributions from Form Fiddlers! Each Friday for awhile, there will be poems posted here from some of our readers using forms—either ones which were mentioned on 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 forms and get them posted in the Kitchen. 


Kelley White is new to the Kitchen; she stumbled across Joyce Odam’s poems last Tuesday and was very surprised, since she has appeared in Joyce’s Brevities. Small world! Also surprising: she sent me a Tuanortsa, which we talked about here a few weeks ago (astronaut spelled backwards, don’t ask me why). More from Kelley in a couple of weeks, but for now, here is her astronaut-spelled-backwards:
 

FORWARD AND BACK
—Kelley Jean White, Philadelphia, PA

I start out walking
one booted foot
ready to step
on your back
your pretty little shoulders
oh darling your eyes gleam
love or anger
and I’ve been alone so long
it’s hard to remember
what brought us
together in that night
how we waited
in that busy little town
we knew so little then
now we know even less

now we know even less
we knew so little then
in that busy little town
how we waited
together in that night
what brought us together
it’s hard to remember
and I’ve been alone so long
love or anger
oh darling your eyes gleam
your pretty little shoulders
on your back
one booted foot
I start out walking

________________________

Here is a Rispetto from Carl Schwartz (Caschwa):


KISS MY RED RASPBERRY
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

put on a pair of gloves to gather this fruit
it’s a bit thorny, your tender skin knows well
the imprint you leave with your big, heavy boot
may publish a story you don’t want to tell
have a bowl ready to collect what you pick
set it down handy, clear of weeds that are thick
stifle the sound of the phone ringing loudly
what really counts is the fruit you pick proudly

________________________

Carl says he “looked up the Chueh-chu [a form Taylor Graham sent us last week] and came up with this trilogy, each using a slightly different rhyme scheme”:

HEREINAFTER
—Caschwa

my heart becomes alive at the beach
it is here that true life is in reach
all the senses filled to the limit
just inhaling, no need to beseech

hidden feelings will show their colors
waves break like the first bite of a peach
hot sun, crisp air, no timecards to punch
ask Nature, she has so much to teach!

* * *

WHIRLWIND
—Caschwa

secure all the animals inside
make sure to close the windows and doors
put emergency supplies handy
clear a good pathway along the floors

okay, we are now safely in place
rehearsed like marching band groups of fours
it is too soon yet to test the sky
my bones aren’t broken, how about yours?

* * *

AFTERGLOW
—Caschwa

light of my life, nothing will dim it
all the senses filled to the limit
a honeymoon of togetherness
puzzle pieces no problem to fit

memories etched of this and that bit
high and low times to sharpen our wit
okay, now we are safely in place
anniversaries always a hit

___________________

Today is Valentine’s Day! In addition to Carl’s sweet poem above, we have another love tribute from Joseph Nolan:


MANY LAYERS OF LUCKINESS
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
 
My lover has many
Layers of luckiness:
It begins
With her silky skin,
Continues with her
Brilliant eyes
And ability
To disguise
The way she
Loves me so!

I’ll never
Let her go;
I couldn’t
Live
Without her!

She’s lucky to have
A lovely body,
A mind that’s
Quick and clear,
Nimbleness,
A sensitive ear,
A way to be
As clear
As she wants to;

But ever
A mystery
To me!

__________________

—Medusa, wishing candy and flowers to all those who visit the Kitchen— and thanks to all our contributors today for some right-lively fiddling!

 Love (and write!) like a tiger!
—Anonymous Photo

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