Will I Know Them?

 

—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, 

Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

THE HOST

Angels from the realms of glory,
are you passing in the street?
God, creator and sustainer,
you’re met in the cattle shed.
In the scent of ordure birthing,
refugees in pregnant pause,
I would meet not wings or haloes,
but true messengers of God.
Will I know them if step by them—
would I know the stable God?
Do I hear the voice as speaking,
when I see the dispossessed?
Recognised by irreligious,
filthy shepherds in the fields,
met by train, tracking conjunction,
foreign, alien in this land.
Those who knew promise their birthright,
for their lore had certified,
blindness seen in those most certain,
those whose wondering at an end.
Am I ready for the holy,
recognised, unlikely shift,
or is faith, unstable, moving,
powerless baby, needing love?
Hosts, it seems, are all around us,
but we wait for glory’s shine;
realise the kingdom waiting
for those sitting in the dark.

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for today’s fine poem! Between his work and Lynn White's poetry yesterday, we've had a Welsh Christmas in the Kitchen! 

 

And Merry Christmas to you all. May we "realise the kingdom waiting for those sitting in the dark...", whatever grand kingdom that may be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Carols from the Christmas Crow

 

—Poetry by Lynn White, 

Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales

—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

FATHER CHRISTMAS


I was so excited.
It was nearly Christmas
and I was going to meet
Father Christmas himself.

I was so excited,
wearing my best coat and bonnet,
hopping from one foot to the other
in the long queue of children
waiting with their mums
to be allowed into Santa’s Grotto.

I was so excited.
We were nearly there.
I could see the grotto
with its tinsel and fairy lights
twinkling.
I was going to sit on his knee
and have my picture taken,
and that was in an age when
photographs were even rarer
than Christmases…

I was so excited.
There were the elves…
But wait…
they were cardboard.
Where were the real elves,
the magic ones,
why weren’t they there?
“They’re much too busy,”
my mum said.
“But Father Christmas will be real.”

We paid our money
and there he was.
He really was.
I couldn’t wait to climb on his knee
and examine his beard.
I’d never seen a beard before.
But he was very tetchy when I pulled at it
and told me to stop.
Then it went lop-sided
and I realised
it was a false beard
and I told him so, angrily.
He put it back.
“Stop thy wriggling,” he said.
“You’re not the real one,
I don’t want to sit on your knee.”

Flash went the camera.

And outside there was a queue of children
waiting
to be addressed.
Hands on hips.
“He’s not the real one.
He’s got a false beard.
He’s not magic at all,
they’re cheating you!”
It’s a swizz!
Then the store manager came…

I was so excited.



(prev. pub. by Silver Birch Press,
Me As A Child Series, May 2015)

 

 

 

 

 

CHRISTMAS TREE


Trimming the tree was a Christmas Eve ritual
in my family.
Each year my cousin would come to help my mum.
They would carefully take the glass baubles from the box
that used to hold her big doll called Topsy.
Then they would put them all in their special place
in my family.
“No the elephant doesn’t go there,
that’s where the peacock should be
and the Christmas pudding goes above.”
Everything had its place on the Christmas tree
in my family.

There were shiny miniature crackers never to be pulled,
and curly, coloured candles never to be lit, for economy.
No tinsel was allowed, for that was cheating.
Only baubles to cover the tree, hiding the green.
The glass baubles had belonged to my cousin,
so had the tree. And earlier, to her mother and granny,
all in my family.
The only family to fall out over trimming a tree,
my cousin’s husband used to say with some truth,
as every year the arguments as to which
bauble should go where were replayed
in my family.

So much stress over trimming a Christmas tree,
that I think they drank Santa’s sherry!
They must have needed it!
And ate his mince pies,
after trimming the tree
in my family.


(prev. pub. in Me In The Holidays Series
by Silver Birch Press, December 2015)

 

 

 

 

CHRISTMAS CROW

We watched the crow with fascination
as it tap-tapped on the window pane,
saw its black eyes gleaming,
its wet feathers shining
in the moonlight.
And we understood.

We understood that it wanted to join us,
to perch amongst the baubles
on our shining tree
to share our fireside warmth
on Christmas Eve
and escape
the cold winter rain.

We heard it promise
to sing for us
We opened the window
and let it in.
It crowed a Christmas carol.


(prev. pub. in Third Wednesday Magazine,
Winter 2021)

 

 

 

 

 

TALKING TURKEY

There is a rumour going around
as rumours do
in this community.
It is said
that a celebration is being planned
by humans.
Specifically
by those humans who feed and pet us.
It is being said
that we will be invited
to join them,
that we will be a part,
an important part
of the celebration.
So now we are waiting
wondering
what role we shall play,
wondering
if we will get drunk,
wondering
if we will enjoy it all
as much as our humans will enjoy
our presence.


(prev. pub. in The Drabble, October 2022)

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

I stopped believing in Santa Claus when I was six. Mother took me to see him in a department store and he asked for my autograph.

—Shirley Temple

____________________

Lynn White brings us tales of Christmas today, and our thanks to her for those! Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/. May Santa find all of you tonight, because of course he is not a fraud, as we children everywhere know…

____________________

—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!

 

 

 

 

Striking A Match—Lighting Up The Darkness

 

—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham, 

Placerville, CA

—And then scroll down for

Form Fiddlers’ Friday!!

 

 

 

DIMINISHING OCTAVE

Spotlight on the white dog leaping
thru an ever-moving hoop,
vine-twining a walking
lady’s legs; dancing
on its hind paws—
almost makes me
forget there’s
a
dark world
beyond this
bright enchanted
circle of circus.
Out there where my own dog
waits to guide me thru unlit
spaces of peril and wonder.

 

 

 

 

 

WOODSTOVE MORNING

Every day of this December
it seems the household lights grow
dimmer even as the sun climbs
announcing a shortened morning.

It seems the household lights grow
feeble in this home that feels
its age in subfloor, stud and socket;

dimmer even as the sun climbs,
sparkling frost on field and pasture,
and the first birds seek our feeder,

announcing a shortened morning.
Scoop ashes. Tinder, kindling.
Strike a match, light up the darkness.

 

 

 

 

THOUGHTS FOR A WOODSTOVE
Golden Shovel on a line from Esther Popel’s “Theft”

A flame red-purple in the woodstove is forever begging.

Hours breaking oak branches over the knee, sawing, heaping them.

After flame, embers red among ash—where are trees going to?

Quaint ways of speech, a remembered farmhouse, so the phrases go.

House so cold around its edges, shut-off rooms, the hearth is home.

“Make it do or go without,” words to live by, without or with.

She sewed her own, plain not flashy, no flaming colors for her.

 

 

 

 

WHOLE-HEARTED
     for Caleb

six hours he worked—axe
hefting into dead oak left
lying as useless

strokes rhythmic as days
months years of drought or downpour
splitting rings of time

heaps of golden wood-
flesh fallen as from heaven
from untiring arms

kneeling at woodstove
in the cold, dark hearth-corner
I crumple old news—

tinder, kindling—light the match
split oak holds a warming flame

 

 

 

 

 

OLD-TIMER KERF
Kerf: 1. a slit made by cutting with a saw.  2. the cut end of a felled tree.
 
Blade’s edge shows us a life—
old log house that wasn’t thatched
but sturdy so a growing heart could thrive.
 
Handy with axe and knife,
broken things fixed not just patched.
The fields around were humming like a hive.
 
Trips to town in his truck
but long-time hours on a horse,
mending fences, just doing to survive,
 
at peace. What bountied luck
(if weather is luck) life’s course.
Count the tree rings, measure a man alive.

 

 

 

 

THE MUSE’S COUCH

Not that I’ve ever caught her there—where
have I ever caught her? She’s always
on the move. But there it is, boulder-
couch all plush with moss and lustrous green
in praise of latest rain and this day’s
illuminating sun. A place for
Muse to lay herself at ease, free as
verse, a personal meditation
space to contemplate the heavens framed
by boughs of oak all lush with leaf or
bare to weather which becomes the Muse.

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

DECEMBER GIFT
—Taylor Graham

This frigid morning
frost-flowers by the doorstep
silver in sunlight.

__________________

Taylor Graham has lit up the darkness for us today with her poetry and photos, and many thanks to her for that! The varied selection of forms she has used include a Trimeric (“Woodstove Morning”); a Mirror Octet (“Diminishing Octave”); Normative Syllabics (“The Muse's Couch”); a Haiku Sonnet (“Whole-Hearted”); a Haiku (“December Gift”); a Monoku / Golden Shovel (“Thoughts for a Woodstove”), and a Kerf (“Old-Timer Kerf”). The Kerf and the Monoku were two of last week’s Triple-F Challenges, and “Lighting Up The Darkness” was our Tuesday Seed of the Week.

I’ve tidied up our “Hot Links” section in the lower box on the right of this column, and have begun to add links of interest again. This week, I stumbled upon The Japan Society’s Haiku Corner at www.japansociety.org.uk/?pg=haiku-corner&fbclid=IwAR1STcdx7gTnUlIoHxYWdg3m8lR8ZcEfv6NEAIaWbn4E7RYl55x-kVOX4RY#a/. Check it out!

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 challenges. Whaddaya got to lose… If you send ‘em, I’ll post ‘em! (See Medusa’s Form Finder at the end of this post for resources and for links to poetry terms used in today’s post.)

There’s also a newly dusted-off page at the top of Medusa’s Kitchen called, “FORMS! OMG!!!” which expresses some of my (take ‘em or leave 'em) opinions about the use of forms in poetry writing, as well as listing some more resources to help you navigate through Form Quicksand. Got any more resources to add to our list? Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com for the benefit of all man/woman/poetkind!

 

 

 

 Last Week’s Ekphrastic Challenge

Here are some poems written about last week’s Ekphrastic Challenge:


He was captivated

by her fruit blue eyes,
the sunlight squeezing
juicy orange sweet
from her red hair.
Before they finished
their blueberry vodka
lemonades, he was
punch drunk in love.

—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

* * *

SUNNY SIDE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Blue, orange, complementary,
if that’s your taste from colour wheel;
is that why many eateries
have chosen words for logo, name?

From Tangiers, a Moroccan crop,
the tangerines reach season’s peak,
yet first drop, Christmas stocking hose,
though who ate fruit when sugar mouse?

Best marmalade yet thick-cut jar,
from Orangery, child at Kew,
tinned mandarin for Sunday tea,
satsumas, then, fresh, fruit bowl ware.

Easy peelers from Jaffa’s rôle
may speak of coppers, fast-food chain,
segments or slices, squashed or crushed,
once pith, pips, stripped, a drink with bits.

For blueberries a recent guest
outpricing Clements, swingeing rhymes
of lemons, and the city chimes,
a fruitful guide to London’s bells.

Those berries, boys in blue again,
by vibrant orange, dodger hue,
a superfood, told magic too,
so nibble antioxidants.

Dusted with bloom, they feel untouched,
which largely true till pond influx;
while all so good, and welcome break,
give me a plate of ham and eggs.

* * *

THINK ABOUT IT
—Caschwa (Carl Schwartz), Sacramento, CA

all of life is choices
and all your choices
amount to this:

whole or sliced

food, news, speech
everything else

hand on Bible — whole
detail-oriented — sliced
wedding vows — whole
prenuptial agreement — sliced
new car smell — whole
on-time payments — sliced
rule of law — whole
enforcement strategies — sliced
favorite team — whole
stadium seating — sliced

* * *

Carl has also sent us a Monoku, another one of last Friday’s challenges. The Monoku is astonishingly similar to the Golden Shovel, as Taylor Graham has demonstrated with her "Thoughts for a Woodstove" [see above]:

 

 

 

 

BEFORE BREAKFAST
—Caschwa

indiscernible sounds and vibrations bookend sleep

*** 

two feet, eroded by pumice and age, gently touch the floor

*** 

random pots and pans and dishware fall into place

*** 

aroma of fresh coffee brewing carves out an agenda

*** 

the TV news is a cow, unabashedly chewing cud while we gather ‘round to watch

* * *

Here is a kool Kerf from Kaschwa:

 

 

 

GARDEN GIFTS
—Caschwa

some of our memories
savor moments of extreme
satisfaction and rewarding outcome

these will make good stories
rising up to be the crème
of the crop, things we’ll share as a twosome

when others leave the room
and we can spark joy with our
happy happenstances, even if dumb

no hint at all of doom
just a magical flower
frozen in awe by a hummingbird’s hum

* * *

Claire Baker used one of her forms, a Stepping Stones, to write about our Tuesday Seed of the Week, “Lighting Up The Darkness”:

 

 

 

 

LIGHTNING IN THE DARK
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

Forked
lightning
jolts night sky,
five bare maples,
slow sap electric—
magnetized silhouettes.

* * *

And here is an Ars Poetica from Stephen Kingsnorth. Poetry books are, after all, bound sound:

 

 

 

 BOUND SOUND
—Stephen Kingsnorth

The words out there, secret poets,
not deceit, just never shared;
almost a journal, personal page,
self-exposure, searchlight scared.
Sometimes textbook wired for sound,
sometimes noises written down,
read and hear to understand,
play the fool and maybe clown.
I watch the film composer talk—
so much involved, though never trace;
I hear, recall, but know not whence
it came or which its home, its place.
Wrapper round the printed sheet,
few leather-bound in other age,
or perhaps rapper follow beat,
wisest words can sound from sage.

___________________

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!

___________________


TRIPLE-F CHALLENGES

 

See what you can make of this week’s poetry forms, and send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com! (No deadline.) How about a Duodora:

•••Duodora: from Viola Berg’s book, Pathways for the Poet: www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1882-syllabic-forms-found-in-pathways-for-the-poet/#veltanelle

AND/OR in the same resource, scroll down to a form with a lovely name that has just seven lines, the Lyrette. (By “strong word”, I think they just mean, e.g., no ifs, ands, or buts):

•••Lyrette: www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1882-syllabic-forms-found-in-pathways-for-the-poet/#veltanelle

AND/OR the wee Marianne, even smaller, with just five lines:

•••Marianne: www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1882-syllabic-forms-found-in-pathways-for-the-poet/#veltanelle

•••See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic photo.

•••And don’t forget each Tuesday’s Seed of the Week! This week it’s “Bells”. 


____________________

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

•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Duodora: from Viola Berg’s book, Pathways for the Poet: www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1882-syllabic-forms-found-in-pathways-for-the-poet/#veltanelle
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry   
•••Golden Shovel: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/golden-shovel-poetic-form
•••Haiku: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Haiku Sonnet (four Haiku followed by two lines of seven syllables each): www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/haiku-sonnet-poetic-form
•••Kerf: www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1882-syllabic-forms-found-in-pathways-for-the-poet/#veltanelle
•••Lyrette: www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1882-syllabic-forms-found-in-pathways-for-the-poet/#veltanelle
•••Marianne: www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1882-syllabic-forms-found-in-pathways-for-the-poet/#veltanelle
•••Monoku: https://www.waleshaikujournal.com/post/monoku
•••Normative Syllabics: hellopoetry.com/collection/108/normative-syllabic-free-verse AND/OR lewisturco.typepad.com/poetics/normative-syllabic-verse
•••Stepping Stones (Claire J. Baker): Syllables 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6
•••Trimeric: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/trimeric-poetic-form


For more about meter, see:

•••www.studiobinder.com/blog/what-is-iambic-pentameter-definition-literature
•••www.pandorapost.com/2021/05/examples-of-iambic-pentameter-tetrameter-and-trimeter-in-poetry.html 
•••nosweatshakespeare.com/sonnets/iambic-pentameter
•••www.thoughtco.com/introducing-iambic-pentameter-2985082
•••www.nfi.edu/iambic-pentameter

____________________


—Medusa

 

 

 

 Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!
 
See what you can make of the above
photo, and send your poetic results to

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

***

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain



















For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
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.

 

 

 

 

I Am the Sky and the Ocean

 

—Poetry by Linda Klein, Playa Vista, CA

—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

CONSPIRATORS

We would sneak away
in the middle of the night
telling no one we were leaving
or where we were going.

You would drive from your house
to pick me up on the furthest side
from where my parents sleep.
Off we would go into the night.

In the morning mom would call me
to come down for breakfast.
When I didn't come down,
she would angrily march upstairs.

Seeing my bed still made,
She would scream to my dad.
"Phil, she's gone!"  The two of them
would stand together staring.

She would cry and say,
"What should we do?"
Dad's face would become
berry-red, "That boy!  I'll kill him!"

Jerry and I knew we would never
do that, but we laughed because
it was fun to think about.
We had a plan, just in case.

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

 

A PLACE

I went to a place last night
where memories linger, shadows creep,
and dark mingles with light,
a place called sleep.

I lay on a bed of moss,
alone in a forest of loss.

I listened as the rain came in,
beads of water splattered,
glistening on my skin.
I slept on.  It didn't seem to matter.

 

 

 

 

 

A SENSE OF CALM

I know that I am part of nature.
I immerse myself in it all,
find my place and participate.

I feel air flowing on my skin,
and through my hair, breathe it in
under the warmth of the sun.

Clouds melt in the sky.
Waves dissolve in oceans.
I am the sky and the ocean.

I share our Earth with other forms.
They are all familiar siblings.
I love and commune with them

and feel a sense of calm.

 

 

 

 

 

BONZAI, A BATTLE CRY

A small old man rose
from the ground
with a fearless ram
clinging to his torso.

Leaves held in his hands
were stars to grant wishes.
His only wish was
to stand on both legs.

When he finally did so,
with his feet planted firmly,
he shouted out to heaven,
"Bonzai!"

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The clearest way into the Universe is through a forest wilderness.

—John Muir

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Linda Klein for today’s fine poetry! And a reminder that tonight, Anthony Robles will host the final open mic of 2022 at Joe Montoya’s Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento, 8pm.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

You Got Electricity!

 

—Poetry by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozabal,

West Covina, CA

—Original Photos and Art by Luis Berriozabal

 

 

 

YOU GOT ELECTRICITY
After David Bowie

Alligator tears,
you turn them on when the moment strikes.
Invader of space,
you show up at the most inopportune times.

Shut the front door.
Bird is trying to fly inside, that’s bad luck.
Words get lost as I translate your thoughts.

Babe, you got electricity from
head to toe, and promise me if I ever
love you, that you will be kind,
yeah, that you will be so ever kind.

Me, myself, and I
love, are one and the same, you know.
Be that as it may,
care to take a little stroll with me. An
air of indifference only makes it harder.

Babe, you got electricity from
head to toe, and I promise you if you ever
love me, that I will be kind,
yeah, that I will be ever so kind.

Out in space is where our stars align.

____________________

GREETED BY MARIACHIS

Greeted by Mariachis
on the way
inside Petco Park
in San Diego,
California for Dia
de Los Deftones.
It seemed like
I was one of the only
ones who stopped
to listen as other
concert goers
walked by briskly
with their faces
in their phones.

 

 

 

 

CRICKET SONGS

Open the door
let all the crickets in.
You can go outside
and walk in the fields.

Let an hour pass.
Come back inside with
the crickets all around
and their songs in the air.

I will not sleep.
The crickets won’t let me.
You are welcome to
come in for the show.

__________________

LOOKING FOR WORDS

Looking for words
that do not exist.
Digging the earth,
scraping the sky,
and going deep
under the sea.
Is there something
that is hidden
in plain sight that
no one can see?
Are there words so
invisible,
so rare, so strange
that no one knows?
Alien words from
other worlds? I
will go into
my dreams and mine
them like precious
gold, priceless words
nobody knows.

 

 

 

 

STEP OUT OF THE SHADOWS
          For David O’Nan

If I could only step
inside one of your shoes,
I might at last step out
of the shadows, and
not fall down more often
than standing up straight.

If only the rain fell
through my window and splashed
on my face, I would come
out of my comfort zone
a little more, and put
an end to this apathy.

____________________

DARK THOUGHTS

When night enters your mind
the darkness follows while
the sun falls into the sea.

You yield to the dark thoughts
that fill your heart and mind.
These dark thoughts rise to the stars.

You push the day away,
striking a blow to the
blue sky, as it darkens
until you cannot see.

Despair enters your mind.
You bend over gasping.
Bad fortune comes knocking.
Your dark thoughts consume you.

 

 

 

 

 

YESTERDAY, TOMORROW, AND TODAY

There goes yesterday
like a bird in flames
just another Phoenix
that will fall and rise again.

There goes tomorrow
so near and so far
just another promise
that will turn to compromise.

Here comes today with
dirty boots and words
to make you scratch your head
as you hit your stride.

Yesterday, tomorrow, and
today, each come with its
own surprises, and which
do your prefer?

Live in the past and you
will never see tomorrow.
Live in the future and
the present is ignored.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

That is all I want in life: for this pain to seem purposeful.

―Elizabeth Wurtzel, Prozac Nation

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Luis Berriozabal for his fine poetry and artwork today, and to Joe Nolan for Rudolph here on this Winter Solstice, 2022!

And a note that James Lee Jobe has a new blog, called the poetry zendo, at https://poetryzendo.blogspot.com/.

 

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

Greeted by Mariachis!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Old Rag of Time

 

Long-Awaited January

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam, 

Sacramento, CA

—Photos by Robin Gale Odam

 

 

ABOUT DECEMBER
—Joyce Odam

December comes and goes,
an old switch of time that flows
and flows down winter hills, abrupt

and seasonal—and changes change
again, the sky already rousing wind

and rain, for pleasure or the wish
for the long-awaited January—for its
new beginnings.

__________________

THE EARLY DAWN IN WINTER
—Joyce Odam

The darkness spins.
Breaks on a sound. Nothing to fear.
The sound is near—continuous.

There's nothing in the way,
the way is clear. If silence owns
the dark, the dark must disappear.

The dream is lost in turbulence.
There's danger in the dream.
Nothing is clear.

The sound must die,
there's only room for dawn.
Sleep tries to interfere. The night

is everywhere—in some call—
some silent ear—all in a moment
time pulls away—into another now.

The sleeper turns to light,
a whirl of sound
echoes away.

 

 

 

 Peace Be My Region

LIVING WITH LIFE
—Joyce Odam

There is many a darkness. Woe is woe.
Hate and love, and what a show, woe after
woe. The world is wanting, innocent and free.

Gullible, no truth to praise—follow
me, I am the warner—self and you, in
your own care, you and we—the first fall.

There is only midnight—how you love and
fear the dark—dark is only the old rag of
time, distance only, mind is timeless—

free against the innocence. Much is burden
—all disconnection—connection and fall,
nowhere the lesson, hell is for heaven—

blame is for blame—all is for all—situation,
no conclusion, fight the fighter, be the fall.
Every test is testable, life is the song,

yours only, mine only, love is clue,
futile as hope, hope forever—it's only
here—it's only gone—tantrum of prayer,

lamentable . . .  peace be my region . . .
the sections . . . love is true . . .
the measure of God . . .

____________________

REM-SLEEP

i saw the pastor at the market,
i’m sure it was him, he was in line
looking forward    empty    as though
he hadn’t noticed me standing nearby.

otherwise he would have had to say hello
and ask, how is your daughter, and did
you and your husband ever marry?
and then did he die?

i’m sure it was him.

 

 

 

Rem-Sleep

 

RUSH
—Robin Gale Odam

I've lit a cigarette
and placed it
in that
crystal ash tray.

I've decided to
kill myself.

With second-hand
smoke.

What's the rush?

_____________________

SELF HELP
—Robin Gale Odam

If I could only balance
on a tightrope, or write this
on parchment and burn it to ash,
maybe then.

____________________

DAIS
—Robin Gale Odam

not on a pedestal of religion,
written to persuade,
and yet to place love into the

cumbrous vehicle of words
—like blowing bubbles onto a
freight car for delivery,

in hush and whisper,
barely audible as prayer,
transparent as water

     
(prev. pub. in Brevities, 2014)

___________________

DRAFT
—Robin Gale Odam

he awoke in the
dark and reached for his
pencil and notebook—

the soft whispering and the
sound of graphite over the dry
page, something like a shiver of  

cold outside or grey fishes
sipping at the sheen on the frozen
pond or birds preening their feathers

or the flurry just ahead of sunrise—
the draft pouring in around the door

 

 

 

Down Winter Hills

 

WHITE FLOWERS 

—Robin Gale Odam

She rose into the dark morning
and gave her candle its flame.
She placed it behind the stained glass
hummingbird of lavender
with green wing-feathers
and a soft yellow sky.

She dropped a lemon peel
and three ice cubes
into a glass of water.
She dusted her body
with the scent of white flowers
and put on her tiny diamonds
set in white gold.
She sipped the bitter lemon
and stared at the translucent bird
in its yellow sky.
It looked as beautiful as a sunrise.

She knew the day would steal her away.
She would cook oatmeal with raisins
and count lunch money
and remind them all to please 
hang up their wet towels.
She would navigate traffic
and wait for every red light
and her secret would be
that her music was turned up full blast.
She would cling with all her life
to the fullness of the drums and the bass
and her heart would pour itself out again.

She would be nine minutes late.
She would accept every task
and turn every way
and do many things at once
and eat crackers for lunch
and forget to breathe
and not stop once until the end.
She would fall through a dream
of traffic and red lights
and a stop at the store
for something she would not remember
and children in the schoolyard
and the five steps to her front door.

She would say she loves them
and remind them to please
pick up their shoes and socks.
She would slide into her old soft gown
and place her diamonds into the red silk box.
She would lean into her feather pillow
and close her eyes for just a moment.
Her sons would blow Pachelbel’s Canon
through their flutes.
Her daughter would draw her a picture
of a wolf with long eyelashes
wearing a saddle and bracelets.
She would not be able to open her eyes.
She would smell the faint scent
of white flowers. 

 

 

 

 A World-Wide Pall of Change

Today’s LittleNip:

FOR THE BETTER WORLD
—Joyce Odam

This year we seem to share
a world-wide pall of change        
for the better world—
not as an ending but the end,

not the old cliché,
for better or for worse,

and yet, will we, won't we,
still cry out our love, saying
the same old Happy New Year
with the same old life and heart.

___________________

Joyce Odam continues to dance down the road to recovery from her fractured hip, courageously launching four new poems this week, while caretaker-daughter Robin Odam fills in with some poetry and photos of her own. Our thanks and holiday greetings to them as they write about Lighting Up The Darkness, our Seed of the Week.

Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week. Our new one is “Bells”. Church bells? School bells? Wedding bells? Who belled the cat—or stretch it to Belle of the Ball. 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.