Carving

 

—Poetry by Linda Klein, Playa Vista, CA

—Public Domain Photos Courtesy 

of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

OCTOBER

We took a walk one brisk afternoon,
shuffling through amber, brown,
and golden leaves falling around us.
I started collecting them and
you decided to join me.  We selected
the bright ones, still alive with shine.

Stopping at a market, we bought the
biggest, perfectly round pumpkin
they had.  At home we set to work on it.
You sliced off the top, leaving its stem on,
with cuts in it to adorn the cap as a tassel.
Then we both dug out the pulp.

The juicy pulp would be for my pies.
I hauled it off to the kitchen in a large bowl.
While you took the shell to hose off and
carve, I prepared the dough and filling.
Oven heat fused the ingredients,
releasing a sweet, spicy essence.

While waiting for the pies and breathing
their perfume, I wove a wreath from our
gathered leaves and fresh cranberries,
looping wire around a wooden frame
to hold the leaves and berries in place.
I heard you coming into the kitchen
carrying the jack-o-lantern and I
wondered what face it would reveal.

 

 

 

 

 

A SENSE OF CALM

I see myself as part of nature.
It is important to be immersed
in that which I am part of,
to find my place and participate
with all the other parts.

I know the feel of air flowing on my skin,
moving through my hair, and entering
my lungs so that I may breathe and live.

I see clouds disperse and scatter
in the sky, and waves dissolve in oceans.
They take part of me with them,
but I do not lose that part.
I am enriched by what I see and feel.

All living things with which I share the earth,
every variety and species, are my siblings.
To commune with them gives me pleasure
and a sense of calm.

 

 

 

 

 

ON SAFARI

On safari we rode in a jeep.
Our guide, Omari, advised us
not to stand up.  It would signal
to the animals that we were a threat.
He pointed to the rifle affixed to
the front of the jeep, just in case.

We took two safaris, one to see
nocturnal animals, such as
aardvarks and foxes, the other
to see diurnal animals, lions,
elephants, and giraffes, among others.

Lions can be both nocturnal and
diurnal, although they see better
at night.  Since human sight is
keener in daylight, we were fortunate
to encounter them only during the day.

One or two lions at a time,
slow-moving and sleepy-eyed,
approached our vehicle.  We sat still,
heeding Omari's warning.  Taking
photos from our seats.  They did
not seem to care about us.

We saw giraffes from a distance,
graceful, though gangly, creatures
with sweet faces.  They loped through
the tall grasses, as if in a constant dance.

There was never a need to use the rifle,
which was more ominous to us than
any of the animals, who are not
aggressive toward humans unless
we provoke them.

 

 

 

 

 

THE MARRIAGE OF MUSIC AND COLOR

When they met, they knew at once
their union was meant to be.
Music for the ears to hear,
color for the eyes to see,
a blend that pleased all living things,
a mingling that tingled the senses.
Every note brought shade and color.
Together they were ecstasy.

_______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

A kind of light spread out from her. And everything changed color. And the world opened out. And a day was good to awaken to. And there were no limits to anything. And the people of the world were good and handsome. And I was not afraid any more.

—John Steinbeck

_______________________

 

Our thanks to Linda Klein for today's poems of music and of color, and to Joe Nolan for finding us these photos of Fall!

Today (Wed., 10/26) is Sacramento Poetry Day, as proclaimed by then-mayor Anne Rudin in 1986. For Patrick Grizzell's story of how Sac. Poetry Day got started, go to http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/sacramento-poetry-day-by-patrick.html/. And today, go to UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS to see what Poet Laureate Andru Defeye has going on for us this year, including the City of Sacramento's resolution about Poetry Day!

_______________________

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

 

Doorways Full of Dreams

 

In Search Of Strange Flowers

—Poetry and Photos by Joyce Odam, 

Sacramento, CA

 

A DARK SHACK IN A WOODS

A dark shack
in a woods
edged with yellow flowers
and simple daisies
and tall green stems of
something thick and climbing.
Who lives here
among these darks and lights?
Whose little house
is huddled
in the closing shadows
that pull even deeper
into long, deep night?
No light is at the windows.
Does a face peer out?
Are we unwelcome,
passing by like this?
This seems a dream-place
of some ancient calendar
and we an unturned page
of our own travel.
Should we knock?
Should we ask
direction, or perhaps
to stay the night
now closing down upon
the last soft shining
of the flowers?


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/17/15)    

 

 

 

The Florist

      

        
ALTITUDE

It was not for lack of place,
there was enough of it,
posing all around us in the lack of air.

It was so thin here
for our breathlessness,
our excitement with each other—

the delirium of discovery—
love in its momentous power,
and we its brave young fools.

How shy we were
in the dissolving and blending
when we changed and were changed.

And this we took with us—
the memory that stayed faithful,
though we regressed,

grew cynical
and careful,
and never climbed that high again.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/14/15)

 

 

 

 With Poems All Around

HOMELAND                   

Come to the hawk land.
Bring bones.
Wear necklaces of teeth.
Watch for the slippery shadows.

You will become as one of those
who have always lived here.
When you hear wings,
climb stones
till you reach the nest.
Climb in.
Lie on the dreams.

The children you own
will thrive here.
They will be wild and hungry.
They will choose their own names.
They will live precariously
on the cliffs of your fear.

Whoever loves you
will never undo your power.
The shadow is your love.
The nest is your land.
The hawk is your mother.


(prev. pub. in The Bridge, 1998, and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/2/18)

___________________

WHERE SHADOWS PLAY WITH SUNBEAMS

After Wistman's Wood, Dartmoor, Devon, UK

In the woods, many shadows and
many sunbeams play through trees that
guide me in, and in, till I am deeper in.

The trees grow thicker. The shadows shift.
The sunlight flickers in and out of branches
that replicate their patterns on the moving ground.

Turning circles lead me deeper—hearing now,
the snaps and rustles—the loss of place—
the alien blend of peace mixed up with fear—

the feeling that I don’t belong : shadows turn into night,
unseen birds are closing up their songs, and I am in
the center of a center with no direction now.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/24/19)

 

 

 

 From Another Time

LOSS

Wearing the light now
you are illuminated and
your edges shine.

All around you
is a path
that winds softly under your feet.

You are turned
both toward me
and away from me.

I can see you are transparent.
The mist of your presence
is very fragile.

I want to touch you,
but you shudder.
I am afraid I might break you.

You become filled
with energy
and compress.

You enter shadows
that escort your darkness
into their hiding place.

Where
are
you?


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/26/19) 

 

 

 

As A Vision

 

                                
A PATH OF FADING SUNLIGHT

come to me
but come softly
as a vision

come to me through the
blue air and take
your place among my shadows

I will leave a path of
fading sunlight as I turn from you
even before                                                                                                                                                                                      
I know you are there

you will wait
like a perfection
I will feel you touch me
with your realness
but I will be veiled
in a longer sorrow
than you hear

do not listen
do not leave me
before I find you

oh, I do like
the trail of incense
between us…
ah, you are there
with your ancient perfume
growing faint with waiting

but I am frozen
before a cruel doorway
full of dreams
full of dreams
I must dream them
before I return
to your calmness and patience
                                   
I must not let you see my face
for it is harsh and weeping
it is scarred and old
you must wear gloves
you must wear
a blindfold


(prev. pub. in Community Endeavor, 1991, and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/8/22)                                       

___________________

PATHWAY

this yellow path through green woods
these pure surroundings not yet entered

the going
the arriving

the sky continuing
the world turning its timeless measuring

the way in

the way through

the way out

the entering and closing after—seamless

 

 

 

 A Guarded Woods

THE TURN
After Turn in the Road by Charles Burchfield, 1917

green trees
a woods
a gnarled tree
holding up a
lowering piece of sky
above a darkened building,

empty eyes staring at the turn
two white clouds (or headlights)
that grow larger and nearer
from the imposing distance
through the twisting trees,
an unnerving sound
in the breaking silence

almost a weeping (for the loneliness)
almost a cry (save me)
or something darker (find me)
from somewhere beyond
the unlit turn that keeps turning


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/26/17)

 

 

 

I Dream My Life

 

                           
THE WAY YOU LINGER

You float—as all things float—in distant thought,
no longer real or found in designed distance.
How can you not realize where you are?
                ~
You call me, weeping. I am closed to your voice,
cannot grant a solace to your tears, which pour
through the phone and burn my ear, my cruel mouth.
                ~
Somewhere in sleep, you dream my life again.
I cannot make out the dream from here. My mind
is a white line on a white page. It becomes a road.
                ~
You are walking toward me.

 
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/17/14 [rev.])                                                          

________________________

Today’s LittleNip:

WORD-FOREST
—Joyce Odam

what is written down the trees
flares
in last sunlight
blurs words
into messages
for
no readers
but
the
trees
that stand
in revelation
and awe
to be
so holy
the
trees
so innocent of this
to feel the light
read
and
revise
and bring
new comprehensions,
the eternal sunlight
flowing down the trees
and into the ground
there are such languages

_______________________

Fortunately for us, Joyce Odam is not lost in the woods (our Seed of the Week), but she does see them clearly and tells us all about them. Thank you, Joyce, for the woodsy poems and photos!

Our new Seed of the Week is “Ghosts”. 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

 

 

 

 —Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For upcoming poetry happenings 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.

 

 

 

Sui Generis

 

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth, 

Michael Ceraolo, Sayani Mukherjee, Joe Nolan

—Public Domain Photos Found by

Joe Nolan and Nolcha Fox

Too early

to try on a slipper,
a shoe too small
for my foot.

The early bird
may get the worm,
but miss out on the prince.

—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox

 

 

This isn’t what you hoped for

when the slipper fit.
You wanted love,
you longed to be
what everybody wanted.

The prince is with
his mistress now,
and you are all alone,
except for news reporters
who watch your every move.

If you don’t speak, you’re stupid,
and when you talk, they sigh.
If you sneeze, the word gets out.
Some worry you are dying,
some want you to be dead.

You hear the king and queen
bemoan your lack of lineage.
They say their son
must have been ill
to marry such an idiot.

Do you ever miss the days
when you were no one special?
Do you long to run away,
to be plain
Cinderella?

—Nolcha Fox

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox

 

 

I was tired

of waiting for a prince
to climb up my golden tresses.
I cut off my hair,
jumped out the window,
and learned to fly.

—Nolcha Fox

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox

 

 

HIDDEN
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth,
Wrexham, Wales

As always Sunday afternoons,
we took our walk in ‘Mummy’s Park’,
but I, scamp, thought to lighten mile,
catch unawares the sisterhood.
Running ahead I masked myself,
a bole of beech, best hiding place,
by bark of tree my leap-out scare,
to prove my presence, make aware.
But clock passed round without a sign,
so peeping, spied the other route,
where fork had offered byway choice,
that path not taken, but their way.
And then I knew that I unmissed,
this cambium but poor defence,
for I became, in Greenman sense,
one in the wood unseen for trees.
I clambered roots which slipped like scree,
knee grazed on lichen, northern face,
and panicked, retraced where might be,
still running, found the dappled glade.
Their conversation, casual,
tree creepers, nuthatch, squirrel leap,
my reappearance unremarked;
how could I tell of fears aroused?

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

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

Arthur Goldberg

It was my first at-bat there since leaving the Team,
and I whiffed in oral argument
before my former brethren
I don't know if my poor performance played into
the Court's deciding against Mr. Flood,
but I want to apologize to him
and the rest of the players for failing
We could have, and should have, won

* * *

Curt Flood

I had been traded early in my career,
and if the trade had happened a few year earlier
I probably would have accepted it
and reported to Philadelphia
But at that point in my career
I had earned the right to play where I chose,
and I was willing to fight for it
I thought I was prepared for the abuse
I knew would be hurled at me,
but I underestimated it
And I knew there was a good chance
that even if I won in court,
it would be too late for me personally
But I would do it again
because it was the right thing

* * *

Johnny Sain

I was the better pitcher at the time:
the newspaper guy put my name second
because it rhymed with rain;
Warren was far better for the whole of his career
When my playing days were done
I became a pitching coach
for a number of teams,
helping enough pitchers improve
so that three different managers
were named Manager of the Year
with me as their pitching coach
And each of them subsequently fired me
Well, ego comes before gratitude,
and not only in the dictionary

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

MASS
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India

The scaffolding zeros down.
Ruins alleys scratches
Red-alleyed moss flower beam.
Under one roof,
Tiny bit of an anthology
Holds tiny parts of a whole.
A sudden jostling down
Up to the spines
Mirror-stricken ego dissolution drive
Knowing thyself holding grudges
Pent-up energies
Fluids and cosmos
Energies sunbaths corners
Earth dimmed alleyed noon
A Salty pebbled mass. 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

SUI GENERIS
—Sayani Mukherjee

Openings, droplets, simmered cans.
Flask of last day's coffee
Liquidated glassed, a wasted potential
Fractured skin under the unicorn roof
Nomadic prehistoric, an escapist sip.
Turn and swirl around
Ocean's high floor
Games of trapeze and
Youths of have-been, could have been.

Country house
Burnt cottages, ragged doll
A great ruin before time’s scalpel
Drooling over greatness
The brightest star shadowed in isolation
Perky whistle around
Little threats
Falling asleep
Liquidated coffee.

Morning stockings
The light still slips on
Cottaged cages armored whales tipsy soldiers.
Kings’ men crossroads great wars
Lonely maidens Ruth's cry modern haiku
The blunted hell-fire epic and episodes
Borns out of sudden sodden movements
Words wear crowns, it is ruthlessly kingly.

The brightest stars burn.
Liquidated coffee-wasted minds
Still, Words have wings to crowns.
High-altared religious freedom
Question inquiry unlearn traditional music
Still writing cosplay drum telekinesis
psychic abilities
A hinge of long time
Many facets it holds, mountains and oceans
within its spree
A giant cosmic rundown
Five elements intergalactic forces within
Who said it was a wasted flow?
It holds life force.
Makes time out of space
An authored crown, words kingly kinetic
Claims her own
Sui generis. 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

JOY OF SURFING
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

One more little ride,
Over the mountains,
Down to the tide,
To dip my surfboard in
And let the ocean
Kiss my skin.

To ride upon the waves,
Sunlight bright,
Rhythm pulsing,
Delight me, thus,
This feeling, save.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

VIRTUE SIGNALERS
—Joe Nolan

We’re gonna try
To be clever
And discrete.

We’re gonna signal virtue
To everyone we meet.

We’ll discretely criticize
Anyone with two eyes
Who isn’t too blind to see
What it is
We’re up to—
Dividing this one from that,
Acting like
We’re God’s gift from Heaven,
Though we don’t
Believe
In that. 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

LOVE IS LIKE STARLIGHT
—Joe Nolan

Maybe love is like starlight
That reaches in light-years
From distances
Too far to fathom,
From other stars,
Suspended in darkness,
Part of some galactic whirl.

You need to cry on my shoulder?
My darling, emotional girl!
I’m here for you as long as I last.

Darkness is the predicate
Of light that travels so far.
Otherwise,
No one would notice
Such a beautiful, distant star,
Shining bright in blackness.

Light, distant, beckons, we hope.

We wonder if we are a daydream,
In turmoil, attempting to cope.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

AT THE CROSSROADS
—Nolcha Fox

When I get to the crossroads, I’ll still be lost.
The trees hide the moon, my steps are uncertain.
Each way leads to nowhere that I want to be.
The road is a snake that twists back to bite me.
I look for an opening out of this darkness.
Never again will I run from what’s boring,
My own myth, this story, is better at home.

________________________

Another Monday moves us further into Fall, hopefully not lost in the woods (our Seed of the Week). Our thanks to our contributors, as they spread their words and photos in a warm blanket like the leaves in the yard… Just a reminder that these public domain photos are ones that have been found on the Internet by Joe and Nolcha (and sometimes Medusa). I’ve mentioned it before, but I think it bears repeating.

Wednesday is Sacramento Poetry Day! Click on the UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS link at the top of this column to see what Sacramento Poet Laureate Andru Defeye has up his sleeve to celebrate this annual auspiciousness.

While you’re there, look to see what other poetry events will be taking place this week. Sac. Poetry Center meets tonight, as does the virtual Colossus: Freedom reading and open mic. Frank’s Halloween Costume Poetry Party at Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento takes place on Thursday. On Saturday, Sac. Poetry Alliance features Yuyutsu Sharma, Katy Brown and Allegra Silberstein plus open mic, also in Sacramento, and on Sunday, Yuyutsu Sharma will read at Poetry of the Sierra Foothills in Camino.

________________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

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!

 

 

 

Snow Angels of Experience

 

Remembering

—Poetry by JD DeHart, Chattanooga, TN

—Photos by Katy Brown, Davis, CA

These words mean me
 
But they are not me,
They are the sum total of letters
Added to reflect something that is
Somewhat true.
 
I am what I seem, depending on what I may
seem to you.
 
I aim for truth, even in these
Broken lines, and typed-out sentences,
I aim to share
 
Fragments of myself.                          Why?
Because the writer who lives inside me will not
stop talking.
 
I’m from the mountains, with
Small town in my blood. I’ve learned
How to talk without dropping my Gs.
 
(Sometimes I add them back like seasoning,
just for fun and flavor.)
 
I know the one red light, or no red
Light at all.
            I love green lights.
 
I haven’t always gotten them, sometimes
rolling up to red.
 
                That’s when we back up and try again.
 
I love when life works out
With a twist no one saw coming, when
A kid from the country
 
Shows some mountain intellect.
Like a down-to-earth Christopher Nolan movie.

Is the top still spinning?
            Nope. It fluttered.
 
Don’t put me in a box, don’t pretend
You know the shape I make.
 
I’m going to tell you about all that,
The snow angels of experience
I would fish out of the air,
 
And growing up the mountains, rooted
In rocky soil, I reached.
I love those mountains still, and
 
There is a mountain in me
That won’t go away. Try to break it down,
 
                                You can’t.

 

 

 

One Blue Stone

 

 

A DECORATION OF WHAT WAS
 
A spider has woven a constellation of fabrics
in the backyard.
 
They hang in the air,
a stack of unseen bones, seen
best only through a microscope,
 
wrapped
as a decoration of what was. 
 
I tuck away,
listening to the rush of wind,
so ready for the winding path.
 
Next day, there is
no time for tissue-rattling, preparing
to shake some clay from my feet.
 
I’ve got wounds to ignore.
 
While others lie quietly in the ground,
waiting for the current age to join them,
I try to be a stone that slides,
making sense of the earth’s moves.
 
An earthquake tries to wake me up,
and I spend the day uselessly planning
until night falls again.
 
All of the trees are now decorated
with the blinking torch of insects and I hope
they navigate away from the webs,
 
I hope they do not find themselves
entombed by morning, like so many of us do.

 

 

 

Stones on Stone

 

 

COINS IN THE RIVER
 
Our thin stream will not carry
the wares of a full-blown boatman.
 
No Chiron here, just a few fish swimming,
thin shadows that are easy to miss.
Almost time for the turtles again.
 
The hard-shelled creatures roll,
mating with each other in the barely-
there current, locked in a battle that must be
like love. But isn’t.
 
Two times the creek has overflowed,
both of these instances in the middle of night
while we slumbered to the dull sound of rain.
 
Thankfully, the rage has swept past,
the water itself digging a trench around us,
then moving on to the next destination.
 
Perhaps then, in the night, we might have
taken an unsteady walk in the dark
to toss a coin of gratitude into the mud-tide.

 

 

 

Stone With Rose

 

PROMISES
 
This is the Bible
 
my mother said did not burn,
even though the rest of the house
was consumed.
 
The corner of the book still bears
a mark of memory.

It’s strange how such sentiments
of faith will never be sediments, instead
caking the bottom of the cup,
 
everlasting flavor for each sip,
or at least so long as I’m doing the drinking.
 
It is communal wine of heritage-
keeping, even if the story is altered, even
if person changes place.
 
Even then.
 
Call me what you will, I cannot not be where
I’m from, rooted though wandering.
 
Abraham still tried to slay Isaac until
a ram appeared in a thicket, a voice of narrative
saying, Time for more than sacrifice, lay
your sword down.
 
The story may be retold, recast the characters,
throw the manuscript pages into outer space,
supplant the major elements.
 
The core is still the stitched fabric of a yarn
that, yes, kept us, and carries us on,
passages read around a fire.

____________________

 

Today's LittleNip:

 

You can't wait for inspiration. You have to go after it with a club.

 

—Jack London

 

____________________

Welcome back to another Prodigal Poet, JD DeHart, who first appeared in the Kitchen almost exactly seven years ago, on 10/7/15—but we haven’t heard from him for awhile. Thanks for the poetry today, JD, and don’t be such a stranger in the future!

if you’re down in Livermore on Sunday, Verse on the Vine begins its new series: Livermore Poets Laureate, Past and Present (3pm). Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area.

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

JD DeHart

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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 takes a powder~

 

Lucky

 

—Poetry by Evan Myquest, 

Sacramento, CA

—Photos by Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

ALIEN SHAPESHIFTER BLUES

It is not easy being human
Allow me to repeat
It is not easy being human
I have to keep track of my lies and fictions
And to whom I told them
There is this money and job thing
No one told me about the money and job thing
Then the car dies and, well, where is that money
Then the grown-up chores and household maintenance
When you are a people
You hurtle in those deathtrap cars inches away from
Deathtrap cars hurtling in the opposite direction
When all I want is to be my own lack of shape again
There is the cat and dog staring at me
Of course the cat is a shapeshifter
With all the brains, because I am taking care of it
While it laughs at my juggling act
I am not sure but I think the dog likes me
But the doggo cling has the cat shaper in stitches
I do my best not to vaporize the neighbors
But the keeping up with Joneses had to go
Or was it just the Joneses who had to go
And that is the thing with being a people
Once you start vaporizing, well, it just snowballs
There is no mailman who brings the bills
Parking valets snooty wine stewards survey takers
Door-to-door political canvassers and other missionaries
And that needy Santa thing with that obnoxious bell
So being a person is not the fun sold in the brochures
—Go to Earth be a human have some fun on a beach
And how fun is it to go to a restaurant and see
What happened to your friend the wannabe frog 

 

 

 

 Pinwheel Galaxy

ARE WE JUST THAT LUCKY

Our weathering the bad times by pooling 

resources was lucky


Considering our major differences were never 

major


How lucky was all that cooperation


All those cliffs we jumped off and the ones 

we stepped back from


Our chance meeting hundreds of miles from our 

homes was pretty lucky


Wasn’t it?
You were not even on your own continent


Imagine all the comfort zones we abandoned


I can never tell the difference between fate 

and luck


So how about we look ahead a day at a time


Instead of looking back like some provident 

debt exists


Because my favorite time with you


Is always going to be now.

 

 

 

 

 

DOVES IN FLIGHT

 



I will fight the clock


Lawn and laundry


With my heart


To stay with you


No exhaustion


No quit


When I finish with the mundane


You will see


How the world falls


Away under our feet and


We soar on our own music


As dishes and spoons tremble


Dusted with the trailing glitter


Of our flight path
People will shout 


There they are


They are aurora


They are communion


They are love itself 


Aren’t they just


Too goddamn much


And of course


We will be

 

 

 

Chicago

 

 


LOVE AS A TIMEPIECE

How do I pick which half of the clockface to love


Why run with the pendulum from swing to turn


I am not immune to the ratchet ticks of moments lost


While my love wants no half measures


Should I prefer the hour hand or the minute hand to love


Perhaps the silent floodwater of the calendar


Knows love best as deepest currents smooth the 


Hidden crevices and contour the oldest bedrock


I will love as I please and let the falls send me over


As I appreciate time’s heartbeats within me


Chasing the second hand I will never catch


And avoiding the sundial’s advancing shadow

 

 

 

 

KEEP THE CHANGE

Change is going to come
The more I look at my watch
It seems the progress slows down

My pockets have a couple nickels
The parking meters laugh at

The vending machines sneer
The fast-food joint lines get impatient
A purse of coins gets eyerolls

You cannot even stop on a dime anymore
Maybe not even say quarter to three

And so my two cents stops here
Where bitcoin is a bit or two beyond any change 

I know

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

OLD IS BOLD
—Evan Myquest

Are our very dreams and thoughts next to naked


Or do we grow the common nudist attitude


Of less than nothing to hide

__________________

Welcome back to the Kitchen to Prodigal Poet Evan Myquest (Eva ’n’ Mike West, power poetry couple), who first appeared in the Kitchen ‘way back on 3/7/13! More of EM can be found at www.mmw50.com, as well as on Facebook.

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For upcoming poetry happenings 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!

 

Eva and Mikey