A Poet & Her Quilled Lines

 

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

 

 

 

MEMOIRS OF A LONELY EAR

A house cast in shadows
A stuck door
A cold doorknob
A sad dove song

Molded memories linger
in my inner ear
Your voice whispers
through satin cobwebs

I long for your
mournful embrace
And fall inward toward
a mantel of dusty bricks


(prev. pub. in Poetry Now, 2008)

 

 

 

 

 

LUCK-OF-WELSH BLUE

I wonder how a painted sky
remains a see-through mist
reflecting luck-of-Welsh blue.

And pillow clouds that seem
to bob in crystal porcelain.
I wonder how a painted sky

does not explode in daystars,
with splash of periwinkle down
and luck-of-Welsh blue

retaining such a vibrant tone.
Looking up past woodland trees
I wonder how a painted sky

recoils into nighttime black,
to be reborn in morning light
with luck-of-Welsh blue—

to welcome birds and scores
of Cardiff rainbow kites.
No wonder the painted sky
reflects a luck-of-Welsh blue. 

 

 

 

 

 

HERBAL SYMBOLISM

Bright poppy is a note of consolation.
Hollyhock inspires us to ambition.

For me, chamomile speaks of patience,
Rosemary gives me some remembrance.

Goldenrod I’ll share for bonds to strengthen,
while green mint tea is given to enliven.

Violet is, of course, for loyalty.
Valerian says I’m ready and alert.

Aloe for my healing and protection.
Angelica, alas, for inspiration.   

 

 

 

 

TIMELINE

The calendar date, red-inked into alpine
white vellum, a blood-letting, a quilled line.

Old ducks (politically incorrect) featherless,
waddling like myself, fall neatly into line.

It is time, I say to my left-brain, my right-
hand, to auto-write in couplet line.

In my excitement I look toward newborn
paper, and begin reworking a new line.

My face softens, my fingers relax. Another
deception blotted off the eternal timeline.

Time marches on… or, onward and upward!
Upward? the poet asks. Oh, what a line.  

 

 

 

 

 

BLUEBIRD BLUE

I will not mention a bird
although you know I have
just mentioned a bird, but not
a blue jay—until now.
It’s a lighter shade of blue,
but I’ll leave that up to
your imagination
which is a very odd
sort of light,
not unlike a bluebird
in flight.


(prev. pub. in Brevities and Medusa’s Kitchen)

 

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

BEYOND
—Carol Louise Moon

Blood-red as if the ears from
Barn owl eyes. These large onyx
Black eyes are penetrating—
Beyond—through your soul. Best not
Beseech him, this owl with his
Blank stare. A barn owl perching
Beside you, snow white, round-faced.

 
(prev. pub. in Brevities, Vol. 97)

_______________________

On Fridays we feature poetry forms, but Carol Louise Moon is well-versed in such things, also, and today she sends us a Ghazal/Ars Poetica (“Timeline”); a Free-Style (also known as Unrhymed) Villanelle (“Luck-of-Welsh Blue”); some Trochaic Couplets (“Herbal Symbolism”); and a Pleides (“Beyond”). On tomorrow’s post, you’ll see two of her Tankas. Thank you, Carol Louise, for your poetry and photos!

_______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

—Public Domain 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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 

 

 

As Timeless As Tiffany

 

—Poetry by Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA

—Photos of Tiffany Lamps Courtesy of Public Domain

IRONIES YOUNG AND OLD
For James Lee Jobe
 
Dear James, your poem on ironies of strength
And youthful ignorance, versus a savvy weakness,
Hits home. How is it we only after great length
Of years more fully realize what sickness,
Not health, can do to nourish the wise mind?
Both shriveled and wise but dizzy—is this “wizened?”—
What richer taste our tongues catch: the white rind,
Not the sweet melon apex, life at this end,
Pleases just slipping past jaded faint taste buds.
The heldentenor Albert Niemann sang,
Young and old, the Wagner heroes all.
Among the sensitives, not with the studs,
He felt his knowledge of Tristan firmly rang
Late, late. It was the old voicebox he heard pall.

 

 

 

 

 

PINK HYDRANGEAS
 
Of all the flowers in your mother’s garden,
These summon our most diligent attentions,
These warm green saw-edged leaves must never darken
With scorch marks from the sun. My obligation
Is to indulge these water-needy leaves
And stems with sprays from the hose that saturate,
From slurping roots to umbels, plants like thieves
Who cheat even bamboo runners. Satiate
Self-staining, self-fading petals whose pink turns
June-hot, the stronger pink the more they’re wet.
To keep them alive and pampered so none burns,
My lot: good trust to have and not forget,
Trust delegated by you, my many-faceted
Lady of arts and abilities, indulgent
Toward me: what many moods and quirks you’ve cossetted.
Our union, hydrangeas at height, pink flares refulgent. 

 

 

 

 

SOME TIFFANY FOR BREAKFAST
For Nora on our anniversary
 
The delicate-hued skies of a Tiffany lamp
—The many-pieced jigsaw-designs, all those milk-fed
Evanescences, emulate the lit damp
Of dusk when fireflies lift their stars to the silken
Heavens—to fit together, are laced with lead,
Lead tracery (cames) that should be awkward thick
But bind with ebony evenness unbled
To ambient layers that gauze and glaze, no click,
No seam that frays glass, no snap or pop from place,
That is us, that is our marital design,
Strong girdering, yet no such corset lace
As wrenched my mom’s bad back into ruler-straight line.
Are your thoughts layered like plies that shade the depths
In Tiffany’s Da Vinci-sunset sfumato?
Are mine the dense black borderlines whose lengths
No Tiffany girl lets overlap their bounds?
Can anyone tell who composed the solid ground
Bass against which the whole glow plays obbligato?
Goffered lamp-edges billow like window valances.
Those curious globs downside called prunts,
Eccentric ornaments, can’t seem stuck-on stunts.
Time-fashion, Time-scorning form, twin scales that balance.

 

 

 

 

 

COUNTING THE WAYS
 
Uncanny how terse tags will long outlive
The vastest spans of work by their creator.
A letter-writer to the Times* must give,
With “Let me count the ways,” an active-crater-
Puffed whiff of snark with which to plume her say
On our poor health care system. And she counts:
Three types of inadequate on stark display
In her adroit summation. Which amounts
To cliché repurposed from raptures by Browning,
Elizabeth Barrett, who uttered utter love
In her famed “Portuguese” sonnet, never-frowning
Ardor, desire’s hand-shaped, buttery glove
To shuck as lovers discard whole skins in death.
Decrepit words, malice-shocked, recoup their breath.

 
*Felicia Nimue Ackerman, “Ailing Aid,” in
The New York Times Book Review Letters section,
6/11/21

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

An archeologist is the best husband a woman can have. The older she gets, the more interested he is in her.

—Agatha Christie

_____________________

Tom Goff and Nora Staklis’s silver wedding anniversary was Tuesday, June 15. Congratulations to this creative power couple! And thanks, also, to Tom for his fine poetry today, including three smooth Sonnets (can you tell which kinds?) and something a bit longer, but just as smoothly rhymed. A fine minstrel of sound, Tom is.

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

How can you ever forget this pretty face?
—Public Domain 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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 

Dreams of Our Llives

 

Only This Desire

—Poetry and Original Artwork by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

FIRE DREAM

Do you thirst,
said the spectre—swimming before me—

my dream stretched out like a blanket afire,
the sky foreboding at the edge of the question.

I tried to answer, but the cup I held
kept spilling, and I could only watch the pouring.

 

 

 

Sleeping Inwardly

 

 

 

CONCERNS

swimming into the mouth
          of locked water
                   a young whale

                            finding the
                                 shallow beach
                            at the end

                   and rocking itself
          to death
against our helplessness

(prev. pub. in Parting Gifts, 1997)

 

 

 

Secret Meanings

 

 

 

NEGLECT

Whatever it was, it was.
No use lamenting.
It grew large with neglect,
flattened like a shadow
and bulged like a light.
It flung itself everywhere
and crashed into emptiness.
We had no use for it.
It was pathetic.
Did not fit anything.
It starved on purpose,
carried its awful eye
in its mouth
with an awful meaning.
It choked on our love,
so we quit loving.
We did not want guilt
to be a part of this.
We carried water to it
so it would drown,
but it just lay there
gasping, then swimming.
What we did not know
was what its hold on us
had become, how we
wore it like a secret
to secret meetings
where we talked about it
in secret whispers.
Always it welcomed us back
and wrapped itself around us
with shaking shoulders
for us to weep against.

                        
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2012)

___________________

YOUR FAMOUS REGRETS

Of your regrettings
     there are two
that keep their hauntings:
     one, frail blue,

and one as silent
     as a clue
you re-examine
     through and through

but all its details
     hide from you . . .
it won’t remember
     what it knew.

 

 

 

Inward Thought

 

                  
SKY PUDDLE: A PERSPECTIVE

In a puddle of water—the sky—
clouds confined to this small rain lake,

the brief flight of gulls
that do not stir the surface,

that do not seem displaced or strange
though they fly upside down;

and vertigo is not the point of this—
that such a shifting vastness

can be caught—fragmentary
and deep—if one looks down to see—

and does not break
the image with their own reflected feet.

                                         
(In slight revision from publication in
Poets' Forum Magazine, 1996)

 

 

 

Inside the Illusion

 

 

 

THE SUBLIMITY

                                              swimming underwater into
                         the dimension of green
                 into the world of no time but that of held breath
           a whole length of effort continuing
       beyond possibility
  freed now from the difficult world of air
from the heaviness
. . . of . . . mortality . . .
swimming delirious
and . . . deep . . .
  into the arms of hallucinated ones
      who have drowned
           who are there now beckoning . . . guiding . . .
                  and gesturing with the easiest of movements . . .
                            to . . . how far . . . and where . . .
                                             the palaces are . . .

 

 

 

This Poem

 

 

THIS POEM, NOT MY OWN

Again I steal
words stolen by another—
recreate,   rewrite,   re-say.

Who will know,
recognize,
or challenge

this poem—
in all
its incarnations . . . . ?

 

 

 

The Transferred Dream

 

 

 

TRANSFORMATIONS

As I write this, you are treading the far cold light with
your patient body. You are in a golden sea that you
have dreamed. You have lit the whole dream of your
life with this swimming.
                           ________________

I am sitting here, huddled in a long, dark winter. I am
reading the sea of words that you have spoken, but
they break as I read them—turning as brittle as my
drowning, uncomprehending eyes.
                           ________________

Now you are huddled by a small fire you have made.
You are in a mountainous terrain where you love to be.
Your face is full of firelight. You feel the dark presence
of animals around you, but you are no longer a hunter.
                          ________________

I am walking by the sea again. The sand is a soft blue
with little sparkles of gold. I am being gathered up by
the sound and reverberation until I feel I am turned into
shadow and realize this is how it was meant to be.


              I sit down beside you—
              breathing your emptiness.
              Sea waves surge and surge

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

STORY
—Joyce Odam

You in your caves of light
and dark, swimming under-
water, holding your breath . . .

How deeply you entered
the breathing-holes of the sea
and, time-deprived, swam back . . .

_______________________

Joyce Odam has written to our Seed of the Week: “Taking the Plunge”, sending us poetic thoughts in various shapes and sizes, and always textures—water, fire, light, dark.

Our new Seed of the Week is "My Friend, the Darkness". 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.

Check out the Summer Solstice 2021 issue of Canary Magazine at canarylitmag.org/.

_______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Summer's Here!

—Public Domain Illustration

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

Here and Gone

—Poetry by Joseph Nolan, Michael Ceraolo and 

Caschwa (Carl Schwartz)
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

POST-TRAUMATIC DREAMS
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

We always slumber
In the aftermath
Of the last war.

Who won?
Who lost?
Measuring the cost.
What if it
Happens, again?

Who, then,
Would win?

Can we afford
The random gamble?

What of
New weapons?

Are we
Past the curve?

Would we be
Rudely surprised,
Were we to press
Our apparent
Advantage?

Best that we sleep.
And dream our
Dreams
Continue through
‘til morning!

 

 

 

 

 

BROKEN VINYL LP’s
—Joseph Nolan

Oh, dear!
Unfortunately,
Nothing sings
When it is broken.

Old LP’s,
Shattered,
Separated from their covers,
Broken glass,
Vinyl detritis.

Symbiotically,
We hope to feed
Upon each other’s dreams
And not to leech.

When wishes are
Remembered,
Fulfilled or unfulfilled,
Vibrato will encumber
Every feeling
We’ve ever had
Or never will.

Gazing
Across a windowsill,
Inside your home,
I notice all your neighbors
Feel so alone—
Their skies,
All painted gray.
There’s nothing I can say
To warm them up.
It’s cold December.

Spring is months away.
There’s nothing I can say
To speed up seasons’ warming.
They’ll have to bear
The loneliness of cold
Throughout the winter.

 

 

 

 

THREE POEMS FROM DUGOUT ANTHOLOGY
A Poetry Collection by Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH

            Bonesetter Reese

Bonesetter is a misnomer
The term came over from the old country with me
and referred to someone who
manipulated muscles and ligaments
That's what I did:
I never set a bone or treated an illness
I started my work while working in the mill
and eventually quit the mill
to devote myself full-time to healing
You could form an unbeatable team
from the ballplayers I treated
(though you won't get their names from me),
but they never got any better treatment
than I gave my fellow mill workers

* * *

             Pete Gray

All my life, all I ever wanted
was the chance to be judged on my merits
Such a chance didn't happen very often:
most of the time people saw what was missing
and made the snap judgment I couldn't cut it,
though whenever I got a chance
I showed them I could play
I wanted to serve during the war,
feeling that if I could play baseball
I could cut it as a soldier,
but the Army didn't see it that way,
so I continued to play ball
Some writers called me courageous,
but I didn't accept such praise:
courage was on the battlefield, not the ball field
Some at the time, and later, denigrated my career,
but that says more about them than it does about me

* * *

           Rube Waddell

I wasn't cut out to be an adult,
as my many managers and wives would attest
But since I could pitch a baseball
as well as anyone ever had,
the people who ran baseball teams
put up with what were politely called
my eccentricities, until one of those,
my consumption of alcohol,
took away my talent as a pitcher,
and my life ended sadly soon after

 

 

 

 

 

THE GREATER POWER
—Caschwa

(thoughts drawn from Smith’s
“before” image, Medusa’s Kitchen,
June 17, 2021)


the first cars I ever owned did not yet
include the benefit of power steering,
so I, along with countless others, bought
an after-market steering wheel knob to
afford me better leverage when turning
the vehicle

I am reminded of this convenience when
recalling the news of a motorist who was
attempting to negotiate the exit ramp of
a local freeway when his engine quit,
robbing him of his power steering—
ultimately he lost control of the
car and suffered a
crash that
took his
life

we don’t see very many steering wheel
knobs any more, guess they have been
replaced by the blind faith that, of course,
our engines would never fail us when we
need them the most 

 

 

 

 

 

IT IS TIME TO CHANGE THE ARGUMENT
—Caschwa

throughout history, the victims of
egregious abuses have bared
their wounds for all to view, as if
that might sway people to invoke
the highest authority to remedy
such wrong doings

sadly, it has been pretty easy to
see that this approach is as futile
as telling the king of the jungle
not to tear his food apart

and then we get swarms and
swarms of white supremacists,
some of whom swear a badge,
who erase the lives of people
of color like an editor-in-chief
sitting at a word processor,
nonchalantly making liberal
use of the backspace key

this scenario will repeat itself
ad infinitum until we finally
change the argument, because
the sum of white supremacists
appears to have become immune
to our arrows of discontent,
criticism, and correction, to the
point where they merrily deflect
them and then double down to
be as hurtful as possible

let us join our hands
uniting all the colors
for the common good 

 

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

HERE AND GONE
—Joseph Nolan

Just a passing movement
In the rhythm of a wave,
Part of every moment
With nothing there to save,
Full and empty,
Here and gone,
Where do disappearing things
Go when they are gone?

____________________

Our thanks to today’s contributors for helping us start off the last week of June with fine poetry and photos!

Tonight (6/21), 7:15pm: Sac. Poetry Center’s Socially Distant Verse features Tanya (Hyonhye) Ko Hong and Derrick Austin on Zoom at us04web.zoom.us/j/7638733462/; password: r3trnofsdv. Facebook: www.facebook.com/events/236323057946561?ref=newsfeed/.

This coming Sat. (6/26), 11am-1pm: Writers on the Air presents Sue Daly’s book launch (Language of the Tea Leaves from Cold River Press) and poetry reading at the Sac. Poetry Center, 25th & R Sts., Sac. This is an open air venue which will have social distanced seating, and vaccinations and/or masks are appropriate. For those not comfortable with social contact yet, the reading and follow-up open mic will be Zoomed at us02web.zoom.us/j/358106078?pwd=Z05TMEFJdmJyUGN1NTRPWnFva3Z5Zz09/; meeting ID: 358 106 078; passcode: 419778. Host: Todd Boyd.

Also this Sat. (6/26), 2pm, Poetry of the Sierra Foothills returns with Lara Gularte and Taylor Graham plus open mic at Love Birds Coffee & Tea Co. (patio), 411 Hwy 49 at Pleasant Valley Rd., Diamond Springs. Host: Lara Gularte.

And this Saturday night (6/26), 7:30pm, Sac. Poetry Alliance (www.sacramentopoetryalliance.com) presents Bill Pieper’s book release of his Borders & Boundaries from Cold River Press (coldriverpress.org/HTML/borders.htm). 1169 Perkins Way, Sacramento. Host: Tim Kahl.

On Sun. (6/27), 3-4:30pm, Poets Club of Lincoln features Judy Rollings plus open mic at Zoom: 837 0247 9851. The meeting ID will be 837 0247 9851; Passcode: 792265. Go to Zoom.us, click on join a meeting and use the above ID and passcode to join.

And this Fall, Oct. 1-3: Manzanita Writers Press presents its 16th Annual Gold Rush Writers Conference, 8304 Main St., Mokelumne Hill, CA. Info: www.goldrushwriters.com/.

____________________

—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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 

 

Family Tree

 

—Poetry by Linda Klein, Los Angeles, CA, 

with a LittleNip by Caschwa (Carl Schwartz), Sacramento, CA

—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

THE LONG WAY HOME
—Linda Klein

Pain from slipping and falling on an icy sidewalk, months before, was back again, like a sword stabbing me through the length of my left leg, sudden and unexpected, as I stepped down from the bus.  I grabbed the sign pole at the bus stop and swung over to the bench meant for waiting passengers.  I contemplated my five-block walk home, knowing the only way I could make it would be to crawl on my hands and knees, and I couldn't do that either.

I don't know how long I sat there.  It was a deserted area with no homes or stores.  I had no phone to call my father, who was waiting for me to return from work.  He'd be worried and wondering what had happened to me.  He'd call my work number.  By then no one would be there.

I looked to my left anxiously, down the road I walked each day when coming home.  In the soft, dimming light, I saw a bobbing figure, but wasn't able to judge whether it was coming toward me or walking away, a man, yes, coming closer, a familiar shape.  This was definitely my dear dad with his slight gouty limp.  I began crying.  I had never felt so thrilled to see him.  In my excitement, I tried to get up and go to him, but slid back down, screeching as that merciless sword thrust through my leg.

Dad came over and put his arms around me.  Then with my left arm over his right shoulder and around his neck, his right arm around my waist, we slowly made our way through the shadows, dad limping and me hopping.

 

 

 

 

 

FILLING THE VOID
—Linda Klein

At a time when Dad and I
were both still working,
shortly after my mother had passed away,
I heard him at the door, turning his key in the lock.

He walked into the kitchen and exclaimed,
"Ah, that smells so good!  I could smell them
through the door."  It was odd to hear this
from a critical man.  Such a surprise.

I piled the potato latkes on a plate for him,
exactly ten, and watched him sink his teeth into them.
I was happy to be appreciated.  It rarely happened.

The remaining five were for me,
the same way my mother apportioned them.
The last time he had latkes were those mom made.
We ate silently together, with our own thoughts,
although it was uncomfortable.
I remembered Mom standing and grating potatoes,
so many potatoes, and onions, sniffing,
wiping tears from her eyes.

We never talked about her.
I tried to at the beginning,
but I couldn't bear the things he would say.
I don't know how he could say them.
Was meanness a way to salve his conscience?
Better silence, each of us filling the void with food.

 

 

 

 

WALKING ON HIS SOLES
—Linda Klein

An old wive's tale that circulated among European Jewish women in my grandmother's time warned that if anyone wore the shoes of a deceased individual, he walked on the soul of that person.

My father never owned more than two pairs of shoes at a time, a black pair and a brown pair.  His shoes got a lot of wear, for he was a great walker.

He polished them every evening for work the next day, using his collection of polishes and brushes while I watched, as he buffed them to the rhythm of his whistling "You Are My Sunshine".  I loved to breathe in the scent of the pungent wax.

During the forties and the fifties in Manhattan, there were shoeshine stands everywhere, where a shoeshine boy would polish your shoes to a gleaming finish right on your feet for a dollar.

Some weekends, Dad and I took the subway to 42nd Street.  He'd step up onto a wooden platform, sit on a leather upholstered chair, and the boy, often an elderly man, would snap out a rough, buffing rag.  "Sit here, Missy," he'd say to me, pointing to the edge of the platform.

When Father's shoes were nearly as bright as my patent leather Mary Janes, he'd hand the shoeshine boy a dollar plus a two-bit tip, and off we'd walk to Radio City Music Hall to see a movie and a stage show.

Many years later, we moved to Los Angeles.  When Dad died, I gave his clothing to various thrift shops, all but for his prized shoes.  Those I gave to his friend, Mr. Rubinfeld, who promised to give them, in turn, to their synagogue to be burned.

Father had walked on those leather soles until they were worn thin, but no one would walk on his soul, just in case those old wives were right.

 

 

 

 

 

FAMILY TREE
—Linda Klein

Firmly planted many years ago,
Its branches reach far and wide.
Over an enormous space it grows,
carrying a tradition of pride.

Its leaves, through the years, remained green.
When time and seasons made each age and fall,
new life could once again be seen
budding and blooming over all.

May distance never sever the bond
that exists between common roots.
Strength and love within a sturdy tree is found.
Its origins affirm its truths.

________________

 

Today's LittleNip:

IT’S A DAD SORT OF THING
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

any excuse to
shop at a hardware store put
a smile on his face

_________________

Our thanks to Linda Klein and Carl Schwartz—and yesterday, Michael H. Brownstein and Nguyenvan Luat—for helping us celebrate Father’s Day (as well as the Summer Solstice!) with so much fine poetry! 

Due to Father’s Day, there will be no open mic or reading at Lincoln Poets Club today.

_________________

—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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 

 

 

Cutting the Grass

 

—Poetry by Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO 

and Nguyenvan Luat

—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

I CUT THE GRASS WITH MY SON
 
My son, no longer a boy, tall and taller
Leans into the lawn mower on the hill,
The last quarter-acre of land, the grass
Tall, too, lanky like him, allows itself
To shape-shift, the first days of September,
The sun on fire, the air on fire, I am melting,
My hair loose over my face like a wet mop,
My shirt discolored with everything pouring
From me, but there is shade and somehow
A light breeze. My son is as composed as can be,
Pushing the mower up the hill for another pass.
When he is done, he asks what’s next.
The silk trees, I point, growing everywhere.
And the vinca vines leaching into tree trunks
We wish to keep healthy. There’s a strand
Of poison ivy. The evergreen needs a trim.
So we work and the weight of the work
Grows heavy within me, but he is not wet,
His hands are not dirty, and yet the silk trees
Fall, the vinca vines disrupted at their roots,
The poison ivy cut at its source. Next?
He asks, but I need a break, our gallon jugs
Humid in the heat, and I am hungry, too,
So we enter the house where his baby girl
Leans into her mother, already knowing strength,
And my son who is no longer a boy
Lifts his child carefully in his large hands,
Kisses her gently on the forehead once, twice, twice more.
We have to do more, he tells her. When we finish,
We’ll take a walk downtown, visit the library,
And maybe get a bite to eat. What do you think?
And he kisses her again, on the top of her head,
Rubs his hand through the soft silk of her hair,
His strong hands containing all of her, his baby girl
Making baby sounds, and my son blue-skies happy.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, June 21, 2020)

 

 

 

 

I THINK ABOUT MY SON WHILE I CUT A QUARTER-ACRE OF LAWN

The father trims trees; his son trims trees—
they stand together before a mosaic of large bark,
new blossoms, a glitter of leaf, each one
holds a clipboard and a small golf-scoring pencil,
their heads bent towards each other discussing
length and circumference, distance and height,
dry rot, the mulberry growing out of the maple,
the small tree forming in the elbow of dogwood
and I cut the grass in long rows, thinking of my son,
the flea market twenty-dollar mower grunting
one line after another, steep hills, roots,
the remnant of an old wall now revealing itself,
rock and brick, tree debris, clumps of earth,
the sun warming me to sweat and brine,
knowing he is cool in his lab researching herbs
and a multitude of plants, degrees in botany,
grants to travel to Vancouver, Scotland,
the north of Viet Nam near the Chinese border,
to Missouri and his farm of figwort and moss,
then Chicago to his office, a portrait of his son and wife
on the wall above his desk, a photo of his mother,
the air conditioner blasting, his equipment singing
soft hymns, his computers opening pages of notes.
He will be coming to visit in late August, the grass
not as tall, the rocks and debris gone,
and he will wake after his first night in his old bed,
come down for breakfast, his family still recovering
from their long trip, and say to me,
"Let's cut the grass?" and I will answer, "Yes."

 

 

 

 

 

A POEM BY NGUYENVAN LUAT

Capella Evelyn, Nick name Bao La 

Bao La!

Cháu gái bé Bao La


Từ bên kia trái đất


Chào đời! Chào cả nhà!


Chúc An khang Thịnh vượng!
Bao La tình nghĩa Mẹ - Cha!


Bao La bông lúa củ khoai tình ngườii!


Bao La bừng sáng bầu trời:


CHÂN - THIÊN - VIỆT-Mỹ đời đời Bao La!
Grand Father's Bao La


28/07/2018   


Capella Evelyn, Nick name Bao La
Immense!


Baby girl Bao La


From the other side of the earth


Born! Hi all!


Chúc An Khang Prosperity!
Loving Mother Love - Father!


Bao La cotton rice yam yams love!


Bao La bright sky:


CHAN - THIEN - VIETNAM - USA forever Bao La!
Grand Father's Bao La

 

* * *

A POEM BY MICHAEL H. BROWNSTEIN

Anh Sáng Ban Ngày
Tôi đánh thức sấm sét từ bên trong,


một cuộc đụng độ khác,


ngân hàng khóc vì thiếu,


công ty điện thoại sủa,


hàng rào xuống cấp và sau đó


một trong những con chó của chúng tôi nhảy qua


và tôi không thể tìm thấy cô ấy ở đâu cả.


Tôi phải đi làm, tôi có


việc vặt và việc làm và giấy tờ,


nhưng điều này sẽ cần phải được giữ,


Con chó được tìm thấy, an toàn. Một kiểm tra


với hàng hóa, tôi sửa hàng rào, kéo


một vài cỏ dại, một cây bắt đầu,


và tăng cường nghiêng.


Đã có hàng trăm người ở bên ngoài,


ánh sáng mặt trời đằng sau độ ẩm của mây,


và rồi tin tức đến qua—


một cháu gái, sinh ra bốn giờ sáng,


sáu cân, khỏe mạnh, đã đẹp—


và mặt trời xuyên qua lớp mây,


những bông hoa rực rỡ bởi bức tường phía xa


mở khuôn mặt vàng xinh đẹp của họ,


bụi hoa hồng mở miệng đỏ,


những bông hoa nhỏ màu trắng, hoa tử đinh hương,


bồ công anh, mulberries chín


và tất cả đều đúng với thế giới của tôi.

 

 

 

DAYLIGHT

I wake to a thunder from inside,


another clash of infection,


the bank crying about a lacking,


the phone company barking,


the fence degrading and then


one of our dogs jumps over


and I cannot find her anywhere.


I’ve got to go to work, I have


errands and deeds and paperwork,


but this will need to be put on hold.


The dog is found, safe. One check


to the good, I fix the fence, pull


a few weeds, a beginning tree,


and reinforce the leaning.


It’s already a hundred outside,


sunlight behind a humidity of clouds,


and then the news comes through—


a granddaughter, born four AM,


six pounds, healthy, already beautiful—


and sun breaks through the cloud cover,


the sunlit blossoms by the far wall


open their beautiful yellow faces,


the rose bush opens its red mouths,


the tiny white flowers, the lilacs,

the dandelions, the ripening mulberries


and all is right with my world.


So fresh and so clean.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Somehow a rainbow
harvests the sky,
and a dragonfly over
murky black waters wears
a rainbow on its wings.

—Michael H. Brownstein

_______________________

Our Father’s Day (tomorrow) and Juneteenth thanks to Michael Brownstein and Nguyenvan Luat for today’s poetry! Michael has been a SnakePal for a long time, and we’re always glad to see him pop up. (For an extensive 2019 interview of him, go to www.chollaneedles.com/2019/09/interview-poet-michael-h-brownstein.html/.)

Today (6/19), from 5-8pm: a new monthly program will premiere in Placerville on Main Street: the Third Saturday Art Walk, featuring art, music, poetry (at the Belltower), $5-7 specials at some restaurants, and other fun stuff at local merchants. Notify new El Dorado Poet Laureate Lara Gularte (larag@aol.com) if you’d like to read a poem.

Tonight (6/19), 7:30pm: Sac. Poetry Alliance features D.R. Wagner reading from his new quartet, Distant Lights (Cold River Press), at 1169 Perkins Way, Sacramento—plus open mic. Please bring a mask if you are not vaccinated. Facebook info: www.facebook.com/events/946413116191632/?acontext=%7B%22event_action_history%22%3A[%7B%22mechanism%22%3A%22surface%22%2C%22surface%22%3A%22create_dialog%22%7D]%7D/.

________________________

—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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!