The Shadow Knows

 

—Poetry by Linda Klein, Playa Vista, CA

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

MY MUSE

If I had to name a muse,
music is the one I'd choose.
A soothing song, a sweet sonata
stimulates cortex to medulla oblongata.

My fascination swims
in wild flourishes and whims,
swaying with the rhythm and the beat,
stirring my senses and moving my feet.

Rapturous sounds of wind and rain
capture my thoughts.  I need to explain,
to describe what it is, how I feel.
The sizzle of the sun's warm kiss is so real.

Chirping bird songs bring my words home.
They all come together in a poem,
ringing, clinking, and clanging,
singing, jingling, and jangling.

The music of life's supposing,
symphonies that lead to supposing,
random sounds pulled from the air
tell of joy and dark despair.

They are the soul of my inspiration,
the impetus for my imagination.

 

 

 

Dove Affair

 

MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH SPRING

The warm wind tugs,
calls to me,
wraps me with hugs,
whispers, "Come see."

My ardent lover
urges me further
that I may discover
all of his fervor.

So this is March.
Soon will begin my sweet Spring,
the gradual arch
from Winter chill to Summer fling,

and how do I feel
when I hear the wild,
wanton song, the zeal.
I'm both restless and beguiled.

I am ready to fly
wherever the wind may lead me.
I never ask why.
I just believe my lover needs me.

 

 

 

Amber Sunset

 

AMBER SUNSET

One evening in Paris
we walked along the Seine at Lavacourt
on our way to dine at Guy Savoy
and watched the Winter mist
move across the scene.

Transported into the midst
of soft, cool sensibility,
I dreamt of an amber sunset.

 

 

 

Magic Sky on a Radio Night

 

RADIO NIGHTS

Staring at a little brown box,
serious and silent
Michael, Dad, and I sat at the kitchen table
as sounds emitted from it,
the voice, so perfect, so dramatic.
Our eyes gleamed with excitement,
as we waited for the story to be told.

All the while, Mother stood at the sink
washing dishes and feigning disinterest.
Then came breathy whispered words,
"The Shadow knows," followed by a maniacal laugh.

A plate slipped from mother's hands,
clattered into the sink, and shattered,

and we three, at the table, shivered in expectation.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Hope is a light
that emanates from you.
Concentrate and it grows bright
to show you where you need to go,
and what you need to do.

—Linda Klein

_____________________

—Medusa, thanking Linda Klein for today’s fine poems! As she says, “The Shadow Knows…” where you need to go, and what you need to do.

 

 

 

Amber Sunset in the Surf

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

LittleSnake and his bluebird pal

 

 

That Shimmering Sun

 

After Night’s Blue Rain

—Poetry, Photos, Original Art by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

MORNING SOUNDS AND COLORS

Mauve-gray
of pre-dawn
just after night’s blue rain.

Winds of no color
break through the night,
sending the dark green trees
and leaves into a flurry.

Even so,
small chirping sounds
of softest yellow
burst here and there.

A squirrel scampers
along a frail board fence
outside the listening window.

I hear all this through
a slow, reluctant waking,
gray threads of
dream-fragments tearing away.

Then comes
the soft gray blue
of morning : 6:00 a.m.
Just like the clock dial said.

                              
(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, 2017
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/9/14)

 

 

 

A Whisper of Language

 

MORNING PROCEDURE

The cat has been stroked
and has left my lap to the
lamplight in the dark morning.

Hum of early traffic begins . . .
no . . . it is only an airplane drone
—gone now.

My pencil scrapes the page with a
strange sound—whisper of language
a pen does not know . . .

A thin whine in some far background
says,   Here . . .     Now . . .
in my ear only.

Shall I rise to the dark morning
and put all this away,
unfinished?

Now that morning no longer
belongs to me,
I am distracted.

But the words still compel me with their
illegible scribble; time is going,
and they accuse me.

Where is the comfort-cat now—
that silent shadow
of casual existence?

 

 

 

Les Fleurs

 

THE SUNNY WINDOW OF
THE DARK CAFÉ

Ghosts in costume sit
at the sunny window
of the dark café.

They will not move
from the sunshine.
They are cold.

I think they want
to pray for
new beginnings.

One of them
is at the jukebox
reading the names of music.

Another hides his face
in the shadow he has brought
beneath his hat.

I will not stay.
I will go through the door
and enter the brimming day.

I will not glance
at them
as I pass their table.

                              
(prev. pub. in Poetry Depth Quarterly, 2002)

 

 

 

 Young Herdsmen with Cows  

—Painting by Aelbert Cuyp

THE STRANGE AND BEAUTIFUL COWS
After Young Herdsmen with Cows 
by Aelbert Cuyp (Dutch, 1620-1691)

The strange and beautiful cows who are so
tranquil, with their slow eyes, gazing at everything,

and nothing, lying so gracefully among each other
on the hillsides, and in the fields—watching the

busy traffic pass, or just each other—or just stand
staring—into the wide persistence of the sky.

But I am so taken by the absolute serenity of the
cows—how the sun shines on their hides, giving

them such a sheen—the absolute quiet that I feel of
their surroundings—that I want to stop my car and

walk out among them. I want to feel what they feel :
their complete, indifferent laziness, no haste or dread,

nothing to get caught up in, just watching the day’s
clouds mimic their own shadows over the ground—

that I, too, want to gaze into the uncluttered distance
and give no troubled thought to anything.

 

 

 

The Road Taken

 

SILK, DANCING
        “ . . . how sweetly flows
        that liquefaction of her clothes.”
                                              —Robert Herrick

When I look at her, shrouded in white,
writhing, not dancing,

I ache to know her,
help her pray,

help her say to herself
what she needs to say,

insensitive—sensitive—
wearing a mask of light,

forming her movements
without memory of them.  

What is that cloth
that she makes shine,

falling and falling in folds  
with such exquisite agony?

How does she make this equate
to what belongs to life?  

She is the emulation—
the abandoned—the found—

not knowing what to do but surrender
and find exhaustion as relief.

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/15/15)

 

 

 

Casual Undertone

 

SPILLING

she sits by the yellow roses
she sits by the yellow bananas
she sits leaning against the sunlit wall
her hair is pale yellow
it shines with electricity
her bracelet makes bright flashings
as she talks and gestures
her full cup with the spoon in it


(prev. pub. in The Wormwood Review
and Song for A New Beginning, 1993)

 

 

 

In Twilight

 

 

THE FADING
After Sunlight on the Road, Pontoise, 1874
by Camille Pissaro (1830-1903)

This is the hour when everything recedes, the woman
walking into dense, unmoving trees—the path dissolv-
ing into easy twilight, the blue horse turning into mist.

The rider enters his silence; the woman echoes this.
What has this to do with love, there is only the slow
obliteration of detail.

The dark will claim them—the path be empty—the
trees enclose the woman—and from a distance, the
horse will neigh.

What has this to do with night, the incidental way they
crossed paths and parted in the tremulous hour when
everything recedes with nothing to say.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE MOCKINGBIRDS, SINGING
—Joyce Odam

at night,
through the night
into morning—

to the listening
of the bothered,
the receptive—

some kind of mystery—
the birds . . . the listening . . .


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/31/13)

___________________

Joyce Odam brings us the shimmering sunshine this morning, celebrating our Seed of the Week: Sunlight. Wonderful comfort-cat, untroubled cows, ghosts in the café...

Hey—it’s two-twenty-two, twenty-two! As my husband says, “Free-KEY”. (At least it’s not 200 years from now…) There was a time when we celebrated 2/22 as George Washington’s birthday~

Anyway, Our new Seed of the Week is “Beer Cans and Paper Plates”. Are we talking about a wild party, or the garbage dump? The morning after, or the day before? A messy house or a messy planet? The following message comes from Darien Recycling Center in Darien, GA: “PLEASE DO NOT PUT IN SINGLE STREAM RECYCLING: paper plates, cups, bowls; plastic bags & other plastic film; shredded paper; nitrile gloves; shipping envelopes unless they are 100% paper; beer caps; art projects w/macaroni, candy hearts or anything edible!” See what you can do with this SOW, and then send your poems, photos & artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from.

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Sunlight on the Road, Pontoise, 1874
—Painting by Camille Pissaro 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

LittleSnake dreams of sunflowers to come...
 

 

We Do Not Seek a Life of Grey

 

Ready for another week? 

(Tie Knot by Origami Master)

—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan
—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Caschwa (Carl Schwartz), 

Michael Ceraolo, and Joe Nolan

 

 

 

SUNLIGHT
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales, UK

How vital dark, to show the light,
the glow of distant snow-capped heights
to give perspective here, below,
to know seeds, dead and buried, sown
both out of mind and beyond sight,
but guarantee, though future stowed,
through their slow growth, high winnow thrown,
blown since the globe first spun free,
despite the groan of human greed,
tomorrow’s promise owed we fools,
both crows and clowns unfit, yet need.

 

 

 

 

 

SPATIAL INTERPLAY
—Stephen Kingsnorth

To one laid shade, some bright delight,
a ghostly wight from dark arts plays,
unsafe breaking, in burglar light—
dust soup revealed by gold shaft rays,
but blinding of night owls, cave bats,
with migraine, photophobia,   
flap open for nocturnal cats,
wise feline sagas, sophia.

We do not seek a life of grey;
sharp silhouettes or shadows crisp
tell us the sunrise set halfway,
and not yet hints, willow-the-wisp.
The time creeps near, hour come to pass
when burning parchment, baking clay,
will curse the earth, as icepack glass
turns land to see, shelves flooded prey.

Helios, welcome traveller,
a journeyman, apprentice star,
from hibernating sleep, a spur,
exemplar, heavens to globe desire;
but when we draw world’s curtains back,
let in from height more solar streams
as stewardship, creation, slack,
like mares on moon, our wealth, bad dreams.

 

 

 

 

RÉGIME
—Stephen Kingsnorth

It’s odd that summer sunlight glare
spreads sharpest shadows, outline cut;
though winter shades may not appear
our minds so often darker brood.
Sidereal and solar power,
clock change in turn can generate
such swings, conjure our roundabouts
as if astrology our plot.
Then what of serendipity
that charts our chances unprepared,
of minor and the major scales
blind justice, trifles, tragedies.
Both place and time, earth’s tilt in space
season the taste our buds discern
with sprinkles like god’s fairy dust
that damage growth or fruit appears.
This fragile fate, frightful or fête
lapped by those gods, bags shaken bones,
a jungle code that overrules;
can this be régime that obtains?

 

LIFE IS SUNLIGHT
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

from the moment we
emerge from the womb
we are nourished by
sunlight: the warmth of
touch, brilliance of smiles,
nothing artificial…..yet

as we age we seek light
from any source, some
of it steering us to paths
we’d do better to avoid;
the radiance of diamonds
reduced to Kaching!

I was told I was born on
a rainy Friday; that’s a
start, but after I die maybe
I’ll track down those long
deceased physicians who
signed off on my birth

certificate and see if the
whole event of my debut
was just time at work for
them, or if they felt any rays
of sunlight on that rainy,
winter day

 

 

 

 

 

COMING OFF
—Caschwa

there I am driving home and
on the right side of me is a
freeway off-ramp looping
around like a backwards
letter “C” ascending to the
level of the overpass where

there I am driving home and
right alongside me is what my
daddy used to refer to as the
deceleration ramp, welcoming
drivers who never embraced
that concept in any shape or form

there I am driving home and
all the sudden several cars
had already come off the freeway
and are now whizzing along the
curving off ramp like it is still part
of the freeway proper

there I am driving home and
I’ve been there and done that
enough to be trained to just
slow down and yield right away
to any and all blind drag racers
who may not know that I’m there 

 

 

 

 

THEY CAME AND GIGGLED
—Caschwa

I worked in downtown Sacramento and
enjoyed taking daily walks into Old
Sacramento, surely older than I was

but not as much as Stockholm, which is
800 years old, quite the senior to the
entire United States of America

and not as old as Jericho, for which
artifacts found go back 11,000 years
now we’re talking old, really old

maybe it is the waterway that flows
alongside Old Sacramento’s buildings
that qualifies it as being called “old”

in full sunlight we hear the old water’s
snarky giggles as mere, innocent gurgles,
while they laugh out loud right back at us 

 

 

 

We're all just along for the Ride...

 

 

 

INFAMOUS, AND WORKING ON IT
—Caschwa

among the many exhibits at
the Chicago Sports Museum
is a pulverized baseball, kindly
referred to as the “Infamous
Foul Ball”

maybe also someone has kept
a collection of the chips and bits
of stone left on the floor by master
sculptors

or the fishing gear employed to
catch all those promising next meals
that “got away”

now sure, an unfinished symphony
won’t earn you any merit badges, but
it could find a home with someone
who likes those sorts of things

 

 

 

 

TAXONOMY
—Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH

The Committee has classified
the seven types of Congressional Dwarfs;
some can embody multiple types,
and all embody number five

The list:

Trumpy

Dopey

Schlock

Yappy

Cashful

Sleazy

Creepy

There is no prince

There is no Snow White

 

 

 

MY DIFFICULT MOUSE
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

My mouse
Is having issues
Today.

It wiggles
On the screen
And slips away.

I cannot call it back
At times.
It defies me
With insouciance,
Like ancient texts
That rhyme.

We cannot control
What we can’t understand.
There’s a wire between
My cursor and my hand.

 

 

 

 

THE CAPISTRANO CENTIPEDES
—Joe Nolan

The Capistrano centipedes
Strolled on branches
Searching for what
They would need,

Hoping to not
Be swallowed,
By Capistrano swallows.

Probably,
You’ve only heard
Of the swallows
And not the centipedes,

But swallows have their needs
And one of them
Is to swallow
Centipedes.
You should know that, too! 

 

 

 

 

SEIZING THE MEANS OF OBSTRUCTION
 —Joe Nolan                                                   
 
Seizing the means of obstruction
Against the will of “The Vanguard,”
Saying, “Enough is enough,”
Just like Tian An Man Square.

Thousands of “tank-men”
Armed with big-rigs in snow,
Blocking roadways and bridges
Saying, “The mandates must go!”

There is a rock and a hard place
Between Chaos and Control
Where is Agent 99?
Do we need to call Get Smart?

It’s a bounce back like a Super-Ball
And the truckers are in between
Encroaching tendrils of tyranny
And the ways of freedom we need.

 

 

 

 

SEEKING REFUGE IN CUBAN MOJITOS
—Joe Nolan

“Well, thank you,
But I’m not interested in that.”
That is the comment
Most folks make
In response to
Most modern poetry.

What can we say
That’s not been written?

As writers,
We try to make our way
Through gauntlets of indifference,
Affronted, vague ambivalence
And ways that meanings fade,

As we make our way into the shade,
Like Hemingway,
To suck on rum mojitos,
Bought for us
By admirers,
Who succor up to us,
Since they know,
Hemingway is friends with
“El Barbado”
Who is the primo jefe of
This Cuban Island.

 

 

 

 

MUSIC AND CONTRITION
—Joe Nolan

Sheet-music
Floats across the skies,
Unbridled and unbound,
Carrying its sound,
Yet to be unwound,

Into flutes, lutes,
Strings and any other things,
Capable of rhythmic repetition,
Like sinners in contrition,
Breathing penance in the
Incense vapors,
Who promise not to sin again,
But know they always will,
Since it’s in their nature.
 
Thus, will rhythms ring again
And thus will lovers love again
And dancers dance their afternoons, away,
Since such is nature’s play.

__________________________

Today’s LittleNip:

HITTING THE BOOKS
—Caschwa

beware where the lye lie
when lain upon the lane
precious lode too much a load

weighty lead cargo lade by
workers led to be laid, so each
one lays down a ray of lase

____________________________

Plenty of sunlight in today’s poems, as SnakePals have contributed responses to our Seed of the Week, Sunlight. Tune in tomorrow for a new Seed of the Week, but there are no deadlines on current or past SOW subjects. Click on Calliope’s Closet at the top of this column for our cornucopia of ideas, past and present,

Did I say last Monday was Presidents’ Day? Must’ve been those Gorgon snakes, fiddling with the keyboard—and maybe with Joe Nolan’s difficult mouse… Anyway, Happy Presidents’ Day today—or whatever cheery greeting one uses for such occasions.

About his poem, “Seeking the Means of Obstruction”, Joe Nolan writes:  “I read this poem last Sunday [2/13] on Rattlecast [www.rattle.com/rattlecast], at 2:32 into the show. With the invocation of the Emergency Powers Act in Canada, they are in a state of near martial law. So, this is very topical right now.” Keep our Canadian friends and poets in your thoughts, as they try to deal with what’s going on in their country these days.

 

 

 

 

•••Tonight (Mon. (2/21), 7:30pm, Sac. Poetry Center Socially Distant Verse features Neil Creighton and Chen Chen, plus open mic. Zoom at us02web.zoom.us/j/7638733462/. (Meeting ID: 763 873 3462 / pass: r3trnofsdv/.) Info: www.facebook.com/sacpoetrycenter/.

 

 

 

 

Dave Boles

 

•••Sat. (2/26), 2pm: Poetry of the Sierra Foothills features Dave Boles of Cold River Press, plus open mic, Love Birds Coffee & Tea Co., 4181 Hwy 49 (where Hwy 49 meets Pleasant Valley Rd.), Diamond Springs, CA. Host: Lara Gularte.

•••For more about El Dorado County poetry events, check Western Slope El Dorado poetry on Facebook: www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry/.

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

We Do Not Seek a Life of Grey

(Monet's Garden Today—Click once for a moment

of astounding beauty.)

 

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—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Let This Gestate

 

Billie Holiday

—Public Domain Photo

you can say that again, billie
—Evie Shockley
 
southern women serve strife     keep lines of pride open
trees are not taller than these broad vessels    femmes who
bear fully armored knights   clinking from the womb     but
a night in whining ardor    means black woman compelled     how
strange     brown vassal on a bed of green needles     ingests the
fruit of georgia     let that gestate     but be-gets no child of the south
 
blood tells the story     do you salute old gory    were you born
on a white horse or a black ass    everything depends upon
the way your rusty lifeflow writes     sutpenmanship   if it
leaves blond scribbled across your scalp    hurray
and blue inscribed in your eyes      praise the cause    your literary
blood wins the gene pool     it’s a prize     hide your mama     baby
at worst you’re a breast-seller     compelling octorune     but
the best cellars are dark and earthy     humid places where fears take
root     and grow up to be cowboys    yee-haw

______________________

Today’s poem by Evie Shockley is in celebration of Black History Month. For episodes of NPR’s "Poetry in America", including an exploration of this poem, go to video.wgcu.org/video/you-can-say-that-again-billie-by-evie-shockley-jpvgu9/. Note that Shockley’s poem is an acrostic (read the first word of each line, going down) built on the first two lines of the Billie Holiday song, “Strange Fruit” (www.history.com/news/billie-holiday-strange-fruit-lynchings AND/OR www.biography.com/musician/billie-holiday?li_source=LI&li_medium=m2m-rcw-history/).

Today (2/20), 3pm, Poets Club of Lincoln presents James Shuman, poet and current chair of the editorial board of Song of the San Joaquin, and author of the chapbook, Family Album (2018). Open mic will follow. Zoom: us02web.zoom.us/j/87466015982 (Meeting ID: 874 6601 5982; Passcode: 766105). Host: David Anderson.

_______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Evie Shockley

—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.

 

 

 

Searching

 

—Poetry and Photos by Cynthia Linville, Rocklin, CA

WHAT WE’RE SEARCHING FOR (2)
(A Google Poem)

why are ferrets illegal in california
why are people so angry right now
why can’t I sleep
why are interest rates going up
why does russia want to invade ukraine
why do dogs eat grass
why can’t I tag people on facebook
why can’t we print more money
why does god allow suffering
why does quinoa need to be rinsed
why does covid cause loss of smell
why can’t people hear me on my iPhone
why does nobody want to work
why does dna replicate
why does wikipedia need money
why does frodo leave
why does ophelia kill herself
why does the grinch hate christmas
why does the government spy on us
why does a compass point north
why does bitcoin have value
why does the moon shine
why does saturn have rings
why does gravity exist
why can’t congress pass a budget
why can’t I remember my childhood
why does love hurt so much
why does my eye keep twitching
why does zoom echo
why does déjà vu happen
why does nothing feel real

* * *

“What We’re Searching For” (1) was published on Medusa’s Kitchen on March 22, 2011 (medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2011/03/volti-subito.html)

 

 

 

 

 

DROWNED

Desire waits
in the middle of
its own ocean

overflowing
into our trembling
hands

pulling us into
the gravity
of a tide

that rips away
our best intentions
dissolves our fragile objections

until we are
plunged
onto rocks unseen

mercilessly
entangling us
in our own boneless dreams

 

 

 

 

 

WANTED

She hesitates on the threshold of a room
she’s never been in before.

Yet she is drawn in by the reckless light,
by a stillness that has no color.

She feels bleached out, overexposed.
It feels good.

She wants to unmake herself,
become naked, evaporate her past.

She wants to become this photograph,
be this impervious.

    *    *    *

A bright, glossy photograph,
impervious to time

an artful nude, lacking scars,
floating pristine above the shadows

all real identifiers bleached out—
she becomes unclaimed territory.

She becomes reckless, still,
devoid of color.

 

 

 

 

 

NOLA
        Please take me in your scented arms

        
New Orleans, I'm coming for more


        Oh, New Orleans I'm coming for more
                             —Dayna Kurtz   

Not even the sky seems right
in this insomniac’s city
impoverished and doomed
a glitter that rubs off—

a borrowed dress
that makes her look more beautiful
than she actually is
that makes you say yes

to the smoking heart of
this godforsaken city—
spattered with light
and out of focus

a neon kaleidoscope you can taste
jazzy and fizzing
too sharp
too sweet

When you go inside her embrace
her addictive darkness
enters you,
never leaves

 

 

 

 

DIAGNOSIS

She assumed there’d be so much more time

Like a pilgrim, she walks all the way to the water
She stands on the shore, outmatched by hope

The sky shines with moonless rain
with fog, the color of temple smoke

She knows the horizon is bigger than her life—
a life she’s about to slip into her pocket

Some people survive their stories

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

 

There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.

—Maya Angelou, I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings

___________________

It’s been a while since songbird Cynthia Linville visited the Kitchen, and we’re glad to have her here with her fine poems and her lovely seascapes! Remember that 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.

Tonight (Sat., 2/19), from 6-7:30pm: Placerville’s Poetry Art Walk celebrates Hearts and Flowers Month with an open mic themed “Kissing the Bee”. TooGood Cellars, 304 Main St., Placerville. Host: Lara Gularte.

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Tippi, Bodega, CA
—Photo by Cynthia Linville

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 

 

Realm of Living Green

 

—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

—And then scroll down to FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!!

CAMP WITH ORGAN PIPES

We stopped under a flank of cinder cone,
desert sand wind-scraped for a two-night camp.
Two of us, and shells of an ancient sea;
lost to magnetic north, no connection
with the outer world. Our voices gave no
echo. Sky revolved its timeless colors
sunset and rise—flamingo, aubergine,
rose, amber, flame and wine. Organ pipe-birds
after the fading of uncounted stars.

 

 

 

 

THROUGH MOSQUITO NETTING
           remembering Kroto Creek

No escape from bugs, boggy and buzzing
in a great land without fences,
under cloud-crown mountain; black-spruce
country split by Grizzly’s salmon stream.
And those mosquitos!
For decades it abides in bug-net dreams,
though the permafrost is melting
under fairy forests of lichens and moss,
and dogs who led us through alder thickets
are long dead, and we’re getting
too old to remember the snows of yesteryear.

 

 

 

 

WHAT’S GIVEN

On the counter, one
bowl of peeled potatoes. Gift
of this chill morning,
its prospects. Carry peelings
to the compost pile.
Look. Something sets blue shadows
running among oaks.
Bird or beast—a mystery
to unravel, or
for wondering long after
the peeled potatoes
are gone, peelings returning
to earth, realm of living green.

 

 

 

 

 

THE SHOT I DIDN’T GET

In a scene of fencepost verticals, one
moving S-curve. Observe the flattened
crest—no regal crown but worth a quest:
a photo. I aim through sliding door-
screen that proves which of us is inmate.
I sneak out, walk the backside of green hill.
Heron knows, before I’m in aiming-
sight. He flies—camera clicks on low-
hanging branches. I stoop, pick up dead-
fall—reward for ungraceful stalking.
On great free wings blue heron is gone.

 

 

 

 

 

WAITING IN THE VESTIBULE
             Sandro Miller’s portraits
             in Crowns: My Hair, My Soul, My Freedom

Waiting at the library, I leaf through these portraits of women—the power of their faces, their amazing hair. Rainy cold outside. Hood pulled close against weather, a woman pushes through the outer door. Sudden widespread closed-lip smile as if sun could pry it open from within. How low the snow today, how high the smile as she presses under the security arch that has no choice but greet her.

I have no photo
but just this passing moment,
no choice but write her.

 

 

 

 

ELEGY FOR SAX

We poets mourn, this winter morn,
the Sax-a-Sillion cat
who stalked our words, instead of birds—
how wondersome is that?

A dapper tom, fit for a prom
or table centerpiece
while we’d recite, inspired or trite,
our poems without cease.

At last his beat, his feline feet
arrived at journey’s end.
He’ll not critique, though verse we speak
in memory of our friend.

 

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

PHOTO
—Taylor Graham

golden blur is bee
in mid-winter aiming for
sweet blue rosemary

______________________

Welcome and thanks to Taylor Graham today for her daffodil and for her graceful, form-full poems and photos! About the Seed of the Week in Medusa’s Kitchen (Wrath), she writes, “No wrath here. But forms: Blank Verse (“Camp with Organ Pipes”); an Ekphrastic Haibun (“Waiting in the Vestibule”); a Word-Can Poem (“Through Mosquito Netting”); a Choka (“What's Given”); a Haiku (“Photo”); Normative Syllabics (“The Shot I Didn't Get”); and a Triquatrain [one of our Fiddler’s Challenges for last week] (“Elegy for Sax”).”

And now it’s time for…


FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY! 

 

It’s time for more contributions from Form Fiddlers, in addition to those sent to us by Taylor Graham! Each Friday, there will be poems posted here from our readers using forms—either ones which were sent to Medusa during the previous week, or whatever else floats through the Kitchen and the perpetually stoned mind of Medusa. If these instructions are vague, it's because they're meant to be. Just fiddle around with some forms and get them posted in the Kitchen, by golly! (See Medusa’s Form Finder at the end of this post for resources and for links to poetry terms used today.

 

Last Friday’s Ekphrastic Challenge was this huge pile of money (probably my tax bill), and we received  some responses to it, including this one from Stephen Kingsnorth:

 

 

 

Last week's Ekphrastic Challenge

 

FRANKLY GREEN
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales, UK

It’s more than a fistful laid out; there’s a spread.
Here do you know the notes, loud sounding through the air,
whose theme is like a ballad, where our love’s laid bare,
songs, where our heart lies, the nations duly snared?

It’s not worth slavery, drugs not bought to heel,
what of welfare, child abuse, those bad habits fed?
When real alms are needed, what use those cheques for arms?
Does it peak interest, money under bed?

It’s clear we see part, a story episode,
serial, consecutive, numbers onward flow,
but hint of hinterland that brought the cache just so,
armaments, shipped before, reward for this lode.

A barrow load required, in thirties Berlin,
just to buy a single matchbox, so strike a light.
For chilling bills, price piling up, thrills’ cost not cheap,
yet sterling work leaves a little, exchange rate.

We know layout not normal—unless prize pic.
Can this be a T.V. show, the envy of dreams—
see bright-eyed crowd by the screen, gather round the Bens,
but maybe, frankly, there’s too much, where to spend?

Our standards once defined in gold, awe for ore,
As jingle bell rings, bulls and bears set great store by
sum market rise or crypto fall, suits, turn-up braced,
but now refined—have you watched the trading floor?

With eco-managed stocks, shared stewards, or death,
on creation banking, the treasury, earth’s wealth,
that currency of politics, investment where,
Green-backed future makes demands, more dollars dealt? 

 

 

 

 

 

Here is another response, this one from Joe Nolan:

 

RANDOM STACKS OF MONEY
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

God bless the random
Stacks of money
That arrive on pallets
To grease the wheels
Of black-market commerce
In conquered countries,
Where necessities of life
Require money to obtain.
Like manna from Heaven—
It feeds the chosen ones
Who kill and maim
In America’s name.

 

 

 

(Does it really grow on trees?)

 

 

One of our Fiddlers’ Challenges for last week was the Triquatrain, and Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) whipped up an example, as did Taylor Graham (see above for hers). Carl’s poem is also an Ekphrastic poem about that dandy pile of money:


JUST A LITTLE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

trim a little off the top, at the local barber shop
didn’t want to stay too long
they handed me a mirror, to evaluate the shear
WTF, they got it wrong!

wanted it cut thick to thin, not to look like Ben Franklin
now it shows more scalp than hair
I like hundred-dollar bills, all stacked up in little hills
you can see whatever’s there

now I’ll have to wait more years, suffer chiding by my peers
will it ever grow back right?
I know I can wear a hat, damned if it has come to that
how did I deserve this plight?

get me out of this darned place, hostile foe to human race
never can’t come soon enough
harken back to good old days, haircuts cheap, merit praise
getting trimmed was not so rough 

 

 

 

 

* * *

Carl also sent a response to our other Fiddlers’ Challenge for last week, the Alliterisen:


THEY WERE GOOD
—Caschwa

ever savor something too cheap to keep?
praise yesterday’s rich orbit of exorbitant
(one stick won’t get you sick, but twelve, help!)
lonesome chewing gum cries out for allies to
perpetuate and consummate
the tongue orgasm, taste bud smorgasbord
now spit them out, olive pits, all of them 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

Another poem from Carl this week is in the form of Concrete Poetry. He says it mimics both a dune and a dunce cap:

IRRELEVANT
—Caschwa

four
vowels,
and some
consonants
to get doubled
or not, for dozens of
opportunities to misspell
the word; no, do not picture
me standing center stage in a
spelling bee reciting all the letters
in perfect order, winning some kind
of medal, when in fact I merely put my
fingers on the keyboard and started typing
something that would be close to correct, and
then, don’t ‘ya know, the brains of the computer
interceded, intervened, and gave me a nice preview
of all the proper letters in the proper order, so I’ll have to
trade the medal for a dunce cap and go sit in the dark corner 

 

* * *

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth

 

In the Kitchen, there are no deadlines. Who knows when the Muse will show up and hand over a poem? Or paperwork will get confused and hide one under the bed for a while? Several weeks ago, the Seed of the Week in Medusa’s Kitchen was  “Always Chasing Buses”. Here is Stephen Kingsnorth’s response:


‘A THIN PLACE’
—Stephen Kingsnorth

Some chase the dragon, in a den,
some chase choice silver, repoussé,
for others, cut to, paper, tails,
but what of wild goose, wasting time?
See here, Iona, Scottish isle,
revival of lost Celtic charm,
that bird its symbol, Spirit’s flight,
in counterpoint, Book fruitful Hours.

That’s where rainbows, crocks, promised, gold,
have been uncovered, pilgrim soles;
and still today they travel far,
by train, ship, ferry, island’s bus.
Stepping stones hop The Hebrides,
hidden toe tip, west of Mull,
with all dependent on that coach—
they held the ferry, when broke down.

Achieve connections, travel plan,
discipline, disciple route,
I chased that bus to reach the quay,
journey onward, underway.
First abbey built of heavy rock
of ages, era, thousand years,
raised silhouette in thinnest place,
of weighting, resting, never chase.

____________________

Many thanks to our SnakePals for their brave fiddling! Would you like to be a SnakePal? All you have to do is send poetry—forms or not—and/or photos and artwork to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post work from all over the world, including that which was previously-published. Just remember: the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

____________________

FIDDLERS’ CHALLENGES!  

See what you can make of this week’s poetry form, and send it to kathykieth@hotmail.com! (No deadline.) This week's challenge:

•••The Monchielle (moan-SHELL): www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/monchielle.html

And/Or…

… tackle the Concrete poem, like Carl’s above (poemanalysis.com/poetic-form/concrete-poem)

And see the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic one!

____________________

MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:  

•••Alliterisen: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/alliterisen.html
•••Blank Verse: literarydevices.net/blank-verse AND/OR www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-the-difference-between-blank-verse-and-free-verse#quiz-0
•••Choka: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/choka AND/OR poetscollective.org/poetryforms/choka
•••Concrete Poetry: poemanalysis.com/poetic-form/concrete-poem
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Haibun: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form
•••Haiku: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••The Monchielle (moan-SHELL): www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/monchielle.html
•••Normative Syllabics: hellopoetry.com/collection/108/normative-syllabic-free-verse AND/OR lewisturco.typepad.com/poetics/normative-syllabic-verse
•••Triquatrain: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/triquatrain.html
•••Word-Can Poem: putting random words on slips of paper into a can, then drawing out a few and making a poem out of them.

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!


—Public Domain Photo  

 

* * *
 
See what you can make of the above


photo, and send your poetic results to 


kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)

 

 





 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.