Only Loves Knows...

 

 

An Old Refrain

—Poetry and Original Art by Joyce Odam, 

Sacramento, CA

KITCHEN DAY-DREAM

wrapped in music she goes deep—
goes deep

into her own
composing heart

how long ago is love—
how far away is time—

her eyes glaze
to a distant stare

someone is there,
evolving

into a familiar sadness
they embrace, the music dies away 

 

 

 

Old Secrets

 

 

LINK

It was never for loss, we flurried.
It was love, only contradiction.
It was only this—and the other.

What was never, was ever,
and the only face
that knew what it was to disappear.

Even the vanities that appear as wonder
can lead into and into the mirror—
even the vanities.

Only the center is the where and when.
Sometimes we can pick up the trace again
of clue and direction.

 

 

 

Facing You

 

 

THE LONG QUARREL

No morning kiss. Each wants the other different. He 

is verbal; she is mute—Jack Spratt and wife, at odds

—both wanting lean; both wanting fat. No com-

promise. Love is a word on a sampler—her old 

needlework. Their habits hold them together for the 

sake of the mirror, streaked with tears. No morning 

kiss. They manage to cough apart. Lukewarm cups 

of coffee warm each sullen mouth. In little scraps 

around them : the morning paper, the unfinished 

poetry, news and clues—both reading different
meanings into each, inter-merging into different 

rooms.

__________________

THE NEWLYWEDS

when they were deep in kiss
when we were invited guests

who sat awhile
and sipped some wine

while they kissed
two in one chair

so deep of love— so free of us
while they were kissing . . .

 

 

 

From Whence the Illusion

 

SKIT  

love is the fool
I am its audience
it does what makes me laugh
cry
applaud

it postures about on the stage
in mimicry

it believes in itself
it tells me I am its tender fool
its terrible person
the reason it suffers

__________________

TO LOVE

one kiss upon the brow,
a token of love,

to interrupt
the sigh

the kiss
is wine enough

this is too much
to bear

eyes close
to word or touch

a token of love—
one kiss upon the brow.

 

 

 

Notions

 

 

NOTIONS OF LOVE

She’s made of image. Glass can shatter that.
The window of love is open to regret. Why
suffer transformation in the dark. Why part
the shadows with a blade of light, become
the one who leaves you—lose your heart.

The map is hard to follow. You are lost.
Her hand is like a shadow on your face,
glass can shatter—drawing you toward
the phantom kiss. Prepare to dream.
She’s not more real than this.
 
Her eyes surrender, but you cannot claim,
she’s in the echo of your cry—she’s in a
distance—bending to a face—her own,
as if she conjures her own life—she’s
made of image—create a mirror of
yourself. Glass can shatter that.

 

 

 

 Thought Shadows

 

 

REFRAIN

Her kiss was soft against my face—
dancer-kiss,
elegant as a turn toward the next piece of music.

Her arms around me pressed and pulled away.
Mine did the same.
Our faces moved apart.

Our greeting was quick, but tender.
There was joy in our hello. Our embrace
was brief, but dancer-slow.

Our few words got scattered
in the choreography-talk of others—
that smooth camaraderie—that soft din—

that coming together of friends
on some occasion in honor of itself.
We worked the room. All evening

we would be here—mutual and warm—
part of the performance. And when
the evening ended, we would embrace again.

_____________________

TOMORROW, WITH ITS MOON TO BE

after
today’s night
long past its sunrise and hours

that will be the morrow
ever just beyond
the now

with what is curious or restless
or in need of what tomorrow
might not relive—

so many though
have passed the days that
never will become the morrow

 

 

 

Singularity

 

EACH VEILED KISS
After The Lovers by René Magritte

Veiled and forgiven, even now,
through dreams and deep imaginations,

from loves that never were—
veiled eyes and each veiled kiss.

What still vies between you
like veils of disbelief and loss?

What is the blessing—what the curse?
What is memory—what is love?


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/17/11)

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

SIGHINGS
—Joyce Odam

Song becomes song, which becomes
whisper, which becomes lament.

All has been told, and told again in silences.
There is a rage that has been tamed.

Something in the eyes commands light.
Darkness cowers.

Only love knows love,
which becomes honest. This is true.

_____________________

Joyce Odam sends us “A Kiss on the Cheek” (our recent Seed of the Week) with poems full of sighs and losses and hopes for tomorrow, “with its moon to be.” Our thanks to Joyce for her weekly submissions these many, many years—whatever the moon!

Our new Seed of the Week is “Windsong”. Send your poems, photos & artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from. And see every Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.

_____________________

—Medusa  

 

 

 

The Lovers 

—Painting by René Magritte, 1928



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For upcoming poetry events in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.

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.

 

 

Measurements and a Meaning to Life

 

—Painting by Douglas Polk

—Poetry by Douglas Polk, Michael H. Brownstein, 

Sayani Mukherjee, Stephen Kingsnorth, 

Nolcha Fox, Caschwa, Joe Nolan

—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of 

Joe Nolan and Nolcha Fox; 

Original Paintings by Douglas Polk

THE SIDEWALKS OF MANHATTAN
—Douglas Polk, Kearney, NE
 
the sidewalks of Manhattan I shall never walk,
the thought makes my stomach contract,
my legs go numb,
too congested, the air heavy,
overloaded with people’s breath,
and auras,
alone in the hills of Nebraska, by myself,
I still battle the static of others’ presence,
the air layered with their spiritual remains,
the same as the soil beneath my feet.
layer after layer,
drowning,
my essence fighting for air,
for voice,
unable to express myself.
without interruption,
my words seem crazy,
my thoughts confused,
even walking lonely paths in the Nebraska prairie...
the sidewalks of Manhattan I shall never walk.

 

 

 

 —Painting by Douglas Polk

SAFE PLACES
—Douglas Polk
 
isolated in emptiness,
valleys hid by hills of sand,
untouched by modern man,
places, a boy could ride his horse,
and believe himself safe to dream,
as his fathers before him,
it was our land,
hid by these hills of sand,
years flew by,
both fast and slow,
felt now,
the advance of the modern world,
footprints found in the mud and the sand,
presently only in the outer fringe of our land,
where civilization, and electricity light the night time sky,
an old man,
with a pain in his chest,
the panic felt,
for the valleys,
hidden by the hills of sand.

 

 

 

—Painting by Douglas Polk

 

 

MEASUREMENTS AND A MEANING TO LIFE
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO

I open the hood of my ancient truck,
pull out the broken tongue to check the transmission,
notice a pink violet glow at its end,
wipe it clean,
then replace it to see if the leak is still there.
Of course, it has to be.
Machinery does not often fix itself.
Today a soft glow is at its end,
like a shine of saliva.
I close the hood with a touch of gentry
remembering the time it closed too softly
and almost broke
and another time when it closed too hard
and almost broke.
The measurement for the transmission has value,
and I know the truck will last awhile longer
regardless of what my mechanic says.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

THE ROBINS ARRIVE HOME
—Michael H. Brownstein

The robins came too early this winter,
snow snuggling up against brush and fence
a brazen wind arrow, fist and splinter.

No matter. Thaw began in the evening,
rivulets melting across grass and stone;
the first earthworms climbed to the heaving.

Robins scattered to a landscape of trees,
found elbows and curves for nests within branches,
harvested everything to make a home that pleased.

Winter not over was over, not spring,
not yet. A sort of in-between, a breeze,
no blizzard, a soft wind, a kinder fling,

and the robins found a freshness, a ting,
a walk-around dance, flight, a need to sing.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

THE DAY LABORERS, CHICAGO, WILSON AVE.
—Michael H. Brownstein

the rust of sky
not dust, not lust
a ridge of stars
no smidge, a bridge
the lotion of sky
an ocean, slow motion

we wake in the darkness to go to work
too tired to get up and go to work

white-black emotive
a clack, off-track
the false dawn of hype
a waltz of weakness and faults

and join the line of odors, offending smells,
the perfume of sex, sleep, sweat, cheap wine

a strain of monotony
ugly reign, a thick stain,

and we work and labor, end our day
board the bus of anger, can't see a way

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

Every city has its rhythm,
Drape-like it coils
Midnight rush, a single bush
Cemetery playing abound
Journey to a new path
Forged with sanctuaries
A bidden palm
Dropped my hope within
A paperback material
An exchange, a mere triviality
Or a seed too deep
To see in naked eye?
Just to keep on check
Where do i lie?
What is my necklace for?
Q and A and an self image
Losing root that made me
My two sun and moon
Will it cost too much
For this necklace to wear?
A bishop and a different relation
My religion cannot keep on shallow prayers.
For my necklace is made
Of my roots.

—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India

 

 

 

Let us return to simpler times...
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

A KISS ON THE CHEEK
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

It’s quite enough, when cue is due,
to peck the cheek on carpet baize,
kissing the ball, as making pass.

It is a cheek, the custom now,
to forfeit kiss, burst lips in air
just under ear—no stick repair.

What is the pecking order sign—
as kid old aunts faced in a line—
from mothball hints, rosewater, gin.

Their clucking—true, as mother hens,
would note where cuddles offered too,
unwilling, driven, bosom rest.

A sign of class, the double side,
and fun to watch retreating face
as second plant is left mid-air.

Turn the other, taught at knee—
though rarely seen, as wars obtain—
is this a slip of Freudian?

I do admire the nonchalance,
when upper crust knows match is lost,
but let it pass, in full control.

It’s breeding, feelings under wraps,
though sting in tail, both birds and bees,
where breeding needs another choice.

But round the world old men embrace,
both heads of state by state of heads,
their meeting, greeting, beards entwined.

I notice as curl whiskers brush,
those hands hold shoulders firm in grip,
as if clear private space maintained.

I’m not a player, snooker, pool,
for cool with neither aim nor foil,
but better that than risking cheek. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox

STICKY KISSES
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

We share some chocolate,
and then a sticky kiss.
Your lips
a sweet delight.

The dog jumps
between us,
covers our faces
with sticky kisses.

I think she got into the chocolate.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox

 

 

ALL MY GHOSTS
—Nolcha Fox

The leaves that shatter
to dust
beneath my feet
are the ghosts
of my lost loves,
the loves who wanted
what I wasn’t,
the loves who died
too early.

Warm, sudsy bubbles
that shake my hands
in greeting
while I wash dishes
are the ghosts
of my grandparents
my father, my brother,
each bright pearl
a kiss.

All my ghosts
are with me.
I find them
in the smallest things.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy 

of Nolcha Fox

PASS IT ON
—Nolcha Fox

She makes him
a martini, it’s
ready at the door.
He takes it
from her hands
for a kiss.
But the space
between their
bodies speaks
louder than
“I love you.”
The frost
in their eyes
reveals the truth.
The tension
in the room
is strangulating.
But battle
is too awful
for the kids

And so
I learned
to never trust
my instincts,
to hide my feelings,
even from myself.
I played out
the drama
of my parents.
But I can only
really blame myself.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

FATAL KISS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

after we die,
they will rake us
away like fallen

leaves

beyond the
reach of
modern
science
to repair

nothing to
recycle, not
nearly meeting
the needs of
compostable
organic

waste

a noisy
stinky truck
will come
along, apply
a gentle kiss
on the cheek
of the can
that holds
our several
fallen

parts

lift them up
and away
and drive
off down
the street

 

 

 

HIPAA

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

COMPETING WITH CLOUDS
—Caschwa

barely a hint of sun is visible, like
squinting at the gas furnace peek
hole to confirm the pilot light is lit

and then that aggressive vacuum
cleaner salesman empties a full bag
of ashes onto everyone’s windshield

not to be outdone, the full moon
gives our atmosphere a litmus test
to betray all the junk we’ve rocketed

into the clouds, including everything
we’ve always wanted to know about
HIPAA compliance and violations

in case you’re wondering, HIPAA is
Health Insurance Portability Aardvark,
as clear as the light of day

 

 

 

Watch out for the monkey pox...

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

MADNESS IN TIANJIN
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

I need a pizza
With anchovies,
So I can make the scene.

I need a
Bed-bug-annihilating
Psychiatrist,
To help me
Come clean.

Nothing’s ever
What it seems.
It’s hard to
Get to the bottom.

When it’s time
To yell out loud,
The streets are empty.
It’s all locked down.

The color-code
On your cell-phone,
Tells you
To stay home.
It’s gone from green
To yellow
And soon it will turn red,

When the men
In white hazard-suits,
Will come and
Grab you down.

Didn’t you know they’re
Doing testing,
On everyone in town?

Bend over
For a butt-swab,
So they can see
If you should be
Allowed to be free
Or subject to
A quarantine,
In the City of Tianjin.

 

 

 

—Illustration Courtesy of Public Domain 

 

 

AIR-HEADS
—Joe Nolan

It’s not that I think they’re not
Or that I think they are—
“Air-heads,” I mean.

I can see
How you
Might go there,
But I don’t
Go there,
Myself.

No explanation
For your defamation—
You kept that
To yourself.

Drop a bomb
And move on.

That’s the way
Of shock and awe
And awful revelations—

Like how you feel
After all these years,
About your former friends. 

 

 

 

Rocket Man

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

SHINY WINGS
—Joe Nolan

A jet plane
Stretches my caffeine-jitters
All across the sky
On shiny wings,
Brilliant in the atmosphere,
Without a chance to fly,
But only yearn, burn and spurn,

Offending offers
From arrogant
Door-to-door solicitors,
Who defer
When you say, “No!”
And need at least three-tellings
To go away
And leave me alone,
So I can get back to watching hummingbirds
That come in morning.

How bright they are!
How they float!
There’s really nothing like them.
From which planet
Were they imported?
Are there shiny wings
Could take me there? 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

WATCHING SUNSETS
—Joe Nolan

Each sunset
Is just as beautiful
As any other.

Observers,
Single out bright colors
In the distance,
To emphasize,
With brilliant exclamations.
Emphaticize, and sigh!

The sun goes down.
The sky grows gray.
People get up
From their blankets
And drift away.

It might be like this
On any evening
Of any other day,
If it is not raining.

___________________________

Today’s LittleNip(s):

Possibilities

into a mirage of ghosts.

mood lit
ice cracks over frozen crests

white owl sighs


—Michael H. Brownstein

* * *

VALUED
—Douglas Polk
 
the soul calm,
my spirit not alone,
knowing I am valued,
eases my mind,
and makes life a little less difficult.

___________________

Monday is with us again, in this last week of July. Our contributors have sent many fine poems and visuals in their various voices, and Medusa is very grateful. Our Seed of the Week was “A Kiss on the Cheek”, so we have poems about that and about other faces of the world. Be sure to check out every Tuesday’s post for new Seeds of the Week.

Among our other poets, it’s good to hear from Douglas Polk, with his poetry and paintings—it’s been a long time since we’ve heard from him. See—our prodigals are truly missed!

And don’t forget to click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this week’s NorCal poetry events. Sac. Poetry Center will be both online and in person tonight, with readers Genoa Barrow and Tamer Said Mostafa. There will be many readings beyond that this week, so check ‘em out. Plus—Wednesday is the deadline for the Davis Art & Ag Poetry Contest, so don’t miss out on that. Details are also in the UPCOMING link.

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

—Painting by Douglas Polk

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

What Is Remembered

 

—Photo by Jeanine Stevens

—Poetry by Jeanine Stevens, 

Sacramento, CA

—Photos by Jeanine Stevens 

and Public Domain

SANCTUARY

The linden’s branches form a dense canopy.
Low sun illuminates the small Buddha,

once bright verdigris, now peeling from frost
and rain. Patches of amber light shimmer,

outline a young face. The blotchy surface,
like a relic from a forgotten Cambodian temple,

a camouflage in this miniature jungle of dark
mint, wild garlic and variegated ivy. Mottled,

he remains slim, serene with plaited hair, no
pot belly, not bald but much as he first appeared

on a tidal wave with no wind. I recognize my
own wiry hair, thinner bones. Sitting on the deck,

a sprig of sweet woodruff floats in May wine,
sun edges toward solstice and summer thunder.

A terra cotta St. Francis holds a flimsy dove’s nest.
A peaceful sanctuary: one tree, one god, one saint.


(prev. pub. in Evening Street Review, 2022)

 

 

 

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

 

CHANT                   
   Sutra Scroll. Itsukushima Shrine         
   (1118-1181) Hiroshima Prefecture               
                           
A wood platform cantilevers over
a lush juniper forest resembling overlarge bonsai—
ornate embroidery, fanciful shrubbery.

The priest rests bony elbows; his veiny hand
supports a wrinkled head tilted toward heaven.

Not a relaxed monotone but with lips curled,
mouth opens like a baby bird. White fungi
quiver at the vibrations.

The heavy scroll flops apart—pages flounce
like colossal petals of creamy magnolia.

Only halfway through, how can he go on?
Who is he talking to: blue flycatcher, wood pigeon?
Perhaps rehearsing for some grander event?

No pasturage at this high elevation.
Such ancient vegetation, one can
only think of deep green.

On a jagged ledge, wet maple leaves
plaster earth with black stars.

To the side, walking stick for vertigo,
clay jug for thirst,
wood sandals for tender feet.

 

 

 

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

 

POET ON A MOUNTAIN TOP                   
    Shen Chou
    Ink and color on handscroll

A long trek to the splintered edge.
         Green foam crests off shore, vast distance
to other continents

yet he locates the vanishing point,
what converges, the first line and the last.

Retreating from the precipice, his walking stick
angles with the mountain,  
         sandals slapping
                         on the old footbridge.

He pauses on a stone bench, considers
writing about trees, remembers
that young sapling,
         blazing phoenix perched on tender limbs.

With clear eyes, he even scribbled words
by galactic light.
       Now in opaque sun,
its gnarled trunk, lichen splotched,
low branches clogging with debris.

       Our poet squints.
       This was his tree!

At the shoreline, generous stands
of new pines, hook fast in boulders

      —spring green and dew wet.

Today, not the last poem, but another, today.             

Back bent, walking stick straight,
he moves down the path swept clean.

 

 

 

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

 

DORM ROOM IN SUMMER
    University of the Pacific
    Folk Dance Camp.

I’ve spent all day in my room’s silence
its thick texts, jittery scatter rugs.

Next door a saxophone catches
a riff of neon, mercurial. Windows
stuck shut with old paint crack open.

Memory pulses like a low wattage bulb,
just a snippet carried by a lost spider
climbing the casement,
the scaly earwig flattened in crevices
looking for shelter from valley heat.

As I walk around campus, what is more lilting
than a practice piano from a fourth-floor window,
curtains flowing outward
to catch the greenest delta breeze?

What is remembered hovers,
deep breathing keeps me
awake in the anonymous hours
    before twilight.

 

 

 

 —Photo by Jeanine Stevens

 

 

CLEARING
    After Tu Fu

Milkweed’s gossamer fluff catches
the brass dragonfly.
Many decades gone, yet I’m hopeful,
keep company with the locals:
squirrel, jay, hawk, raccoon.
Dew clears from velvet morning glories,
tough vines in a frenzy
climb the last sunflower.    

Crystal goblet on the silver tray.
Domaine Carneros bubbly unopened.
Early crickets speak in whispers.
The first buttery birch leaf
falls, the vast crescendo of autumn.
Thank you for your colorful postcard.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

“Sometimes, my head is just like this storm", said the Tiny Dragon. "If you listen carefully", said the Great Panda, "you will hear the raindrops hitting the rock. Even in a storm it is possible to find a little peace.”

― James Norbury, Big Panda & Tiny Dragon - Special Edition

____________________

Jeanine Stevens’ poems have brought us to stillness this Sunday, and we thank her very much for that in this topsy-turvy world. Much to be thankful for…

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For upcoming poetry events in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.

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!

 

 

 

Writers in Metamorphosis

 

—Poetry by Sarah B. Culp, 

Missouri

and

Gerald Friedman,

Española, New Mexico

—Photos Courtesy of 

Public Domain

BELOVED BERNICE
—Sarah B. Culp

I see you in the old ivory keys
As my fingers glide from note to note

I hear you between melodies and harmonies
The sound of your voice outperforming them all

I see you in the wood finish of my violin
Shining brighter than the glare the light creates

I hear you in the vibrations of my strings
Humming along with the slightly out-of-tune notes

If only I could see you in the audience
Smiling with great love and admiration

If only I could hear your applause
And feel your arms squeeze me tight
For I can only feel you through the melodies  

 

 

 

 

RUBBLE
—Sarah B. Culp

I stand on the rubble of six-year-old poetry
Words written by an extinct me
They paved the way for the me of today
Falling so that I may stand tall

Poetic blocks of text lay at my feet
Building a sturdy foundation
Its platform raises me up into the clouds
Mighty yet tragically forgotten

Metaphorical concepts float about
Wedging between the old and new
Some grow old yet some remain immortal
Regardless they are like gorilla glue

Scattered papers define who I am
A writer in metamorphosis
Using what remains of the past
To create a breathtaking future 

 

 

 

 

 

ORIGIN MYTH

—Gerald Friedman
 
The first person to throw a rock
created a bird,
just as the first to eat created a worm.
The first to remember something
delivered a baby out of the fecund past,
and the first to make a graveyard
was the first to write science fiction.

 

 

 

 

 

THE POETS’ DUEL
—Gerald Friedman
 
Don’t you feel you should take more risks?
    Here’s one: Give me a palinode, or else.
I aim higher than Palin odes.
    You’re challenged, Poe taster.  You get first ups.
Kiss me, O Muse!
    O animate my musings!
The fog burns off.  A gull slices the breeze.
    Pigeons clatter before us down the street
Unaware of the gold behind their necks
    The wino’s cement stare
Can’t scare the designer girls tripping by
    Or the preacher whose bellow is like hair tonic
Gale of spite
    Scatters withered leaves
The trunk standing
    Sweats lumpily
Like futile foreplay
    Sweeter than husks of lust
Carp strain the mud
    Ticks revel in blood
Deer bury the golden seed at midnight
    When the ghost of Louise Glück walks
She’s still… while her garden rings to a cloud
    Be careful where you stolch
Track my sun-gazing tropes
    Your purple anti-paralypsis
Stichomythia
    Words’ point
Steel line
    With holes for linking
In football weather
two squirrels chase each other
neither one farther.
    Running the round direction
    they get their satisfaction.

 

 

 

 

 

DISSATISFACTION
—Gerald Friedman
 
Take me to willows, wake me with birds
when tree-trunks are yellow and dawn dies a-borning.
Lap me with woven wraps and soft words
when dark grows from ravens that croak a late warning.
 
Find fear so I’ll walk under fir-trees warily.
Reach me a stalk with a rage-red berry.
Come, hungry hawk, and thirsty hare,
scrub my talk off the deaf air.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE EARTHWORM’S SONG
—Gerald Friedman

The dirt comes in my face.
The dirt goes out my ass.
For comfort, in a tricky place,
I say, "This too shall pass."

___________________

 

 

 

Sarah Culp

 

 

Sarah Culp is a poet in her early 20s out of mid-Missouri. Although she is no stranger to writing poetry, she is just beginning to put herself and her work out there. She can be reached at sarahbeepoetry@gmail.com for any further correspondence regarding poetry. 

 

 

 

Gerald Friedman

 

 

Work by Gerald Friedman has appeared in El Fogón, (the now-defunct literary magazine of Northern New Mexico Community College, now Northern New Mexico College), and on Recursive Angel, a long-defunct poetry Web site. He posted "Dissatisfaction" on Usenet at one point, and “The Earthworm's Song" was his profile on a BBS in an earlier period of history.

Welcome to the Kitchen, Sarah and Gerald, and don’t be strangers!

______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

For upcoming poetry events in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.

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!