Hidden, Unwritten Songs

 

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

—Poetry and Artwork by David Alec Knight, 

Chatham, Ontario, Canada from his book,  

Leper Mosh

(Click once to enlarge)

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such thing if one were not driven on by some demon whom one can neither resist nor understand.

—George Orwell

____________________

Welcome to the Kitchen this morning to Canadian David Knight, who received the Ted Plantos Memorial Award for Poetry 2021, and has since published two collections of poems. His second book, Leper Mosh (Cajun Mutt Press, 2022), features his own artwork on the cover, and it is available on Amazon. Again, welcome to the Kitchen, David, and don’t be a stranger!

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

David Knight and Leper Mosh

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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! 

 

 

Not Yet

 

Tybee Sunrise

—Poetry by Gary D. Grossman, PhD, Athens, GA

—Original Art and Sculptures by Gary D. Grossman

 

 

 

AMBIVALENT ABOUT CROWS

1. My heart a pendulum—crow love to crow hate—and back again—these large, dark Einsteins—bullying everyone from Carolina Chickadees to Red-Bellied Woodpeckers—despots of my yard—they guard and hoard the suet block, like a hockey goalie fronting the net.

2. Darwin said, “I get it, aggression is good—fight for survival and all that—pass on those traits” although it took Watson and Crick to figure out the trick— with a side of Mendel’s peas—back to the main path—crows.

3. The corners of my mouth turn upwards in admiration—then arc downwards—biological referee raising the head crow’s left wing in victory—eleven species now defeated in our yard.

4. Another meaningful friendship lost?—crows have great memories and I’ve shooed them repeatedly—my picture tacked onto the murder’s “unwanted” bulletin board—beware of the mean dude on Highland Avenue—yes, social transmission of knowledge—it’s a fact—they remember faces, and their parents—solve a puzzle, no problem—even tool use—much to respect.

5. I can do a great caw, and if unseen, lure them close for a corvid—“who’s the new bird”—but at first sight—I’m marked as avian fraud not friend.

6. Can amends be made—more peanuts on the porch?

 

 

 

 Angular Birds—Smiling Thrush

 

THE COUCH

The couch cools my thighs for the first time in four months given that fucking Summer has left the building, and no I don’t mean my ex, who liked to “stuff the taco” on this anti-vegan, 8-foot, cowhide-covered, living-room filler—it’s true my heart raced to her little moans and quick inhalations which complimented the squeaks her tanned ass made when it rubbed against the ten-year old leather, but that’s old news— dried-up tears and cracked heart—two years later she’s only a slightly faded image stored somewhere in my left eye—but what makes my heart race today—yes, a bit sad—is the elation I feel from the Georgia Bulldogs’ comeback win in the fourth quarter of last night’s game—having been ten points down to Mizzou in the third quarter—and deep down I do agonize over the fact that I’m conflating hot sex and football—the anticipation—the foreplay—and finally—the climax. But four quarters are about all I’m getting’ these days.  

 

 

 

Eve III

 

  

OFF-BLUE SKY

So I asked the sky, who responded in a nettlesome voice, “that’s Sky, capital S”, “what makes you special, I mean all those photos, paintings, poems and descriptive phrases?” and they replied “first of all, everyone’s got it backwards, it’s not Earth that holds us in place—we’re the glue holding that glob of rock and dirt together—Earth hates that reality. In fact, we stop her from rolling down the astral bowling lane right into the Sun—which would leave humanity twisting and popping like bacon in hot cast-iron. We secure her in endless pirouettes, like a baton twirler on the varsity squad. And those show-offs, the Oceans, they steal their color from us, okay, exaggeration—though mostly true. But is there anything that unites people more than the sight of us in a cobalt dress—I mean I’m everywhere from Tierra del Fuego to Greenland, as are our blushes—yellow to crimson sunrises and sunsets? When Earth harangues, I turn cloud-grey and tear up—when exhausted, fog arrives—but anger brings the purples and greens of tornados and typhoons.

I’m really much more sensitive than I seem.”

 

 

 

 Blue Fish 2

 

 

LESSONS FROM THE ZEN POET

Having written for years I finally
visited the Zen Poet, and asked
about his work—he said “nothing new—
been working on the same poem for
a decade; almost have the wording
right.”

Five years later I returned and he
replied “wording finally right,
working now on line structure”.

Five years later I returned
to find him rearranging stanzas
and whispering “not yet”.

An additional five years
yielded “punctuation
still isn’t quite right.” And
I exclaimed, but Sensei,
no one will know your
work, your perfect poem.

He replied “it doesn’t matter”.

 

 

 

 

 Hourglass

 

 

COLONOSCOPY

In politics, it ain’t the crime, it’s the cover-up—but in digestive medicine, it ain’t the procedure, it’s the prep—Go-Lyte, sarcasm?—because nothing about this is lyte, and somewhere there’s a research pharmacist meaner than a hung-over preacher on Monday morning. It’s three o’clock on a mid-July afternoon—two tablets of bisacodyl—the pre-game warm up. Sadly my GI doc has denied my request for an early start—“research shows…”—I drink my first quart of Go-Lyte at six PM—now, my three-hour reign on the commode—a second fucking quart at two AM—begetting an additional reign from two-fifteen to four AM—all of this, after one day with just white rice and unseasoned chicken, the next just clear broth and jello—no red or purple, mind you—right now my stomach begs for the Chinese buffet, but I lay on the couch, waiting for the next bathroom sprint, limp as a garden string bean left out in the July 17th sun, watching old Andy Griffith reruns, but fuck it, it’s worth it—colon cancer, ooops, colorectal cancer to be precise—mortality cause number three for non-smoking males.

Afterwards, I learn three polyps were knocking on the door of my colonic epithelium, despite the no solicitors sign. They had no inkling, they were headed for the reaper via cold snare—twisted little fuckers that they were—modern medicine is great—as is the sausage biscuit and black coffee from Momma’s Boy, I’ll eat in the Volvo—wife driving, while I mumble, “wasn’t bad, but that prep”.

 

 

 

 Cubist Mammals—Surfing Dolphin

 

CLICKING ON THE HEART

Fifteen years on Facebook—my ropes
well worked and burnished—yet I
find myself clicking the heart
emoji all day long—it’s not
love welling up for every
cat post, yoga selfie, or
pumpkin pie, redolent with
clove and allspice, but in a
life of masking and quarantine,
the thumbs-up seems wanting—even
its color is blue-cold—although
surveys teach, blue is everyone’s
favorite shade.

It’s Pandemic year three, new
strains pushing up like daffodils  
in March, and the Reaper
ringing every door bell—sliding
through every unlocked window—
but I will click each heart
possible—telling the truth—
love isn’t exhaustible—  
not a commodity that
can be devalued through stock
buy-backs—and though here in
year three I am withered like
a crushed paper bag—clicking
the heart emoji is a
contribution I can still make. 

 

 

 

Geometric Fishes—Coral Reef

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

I think... if it is true that
there are as many minds as there
are heads, then there are as many
kinds of love as there are hearts.
 
—Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina 

 

 

 

Cubit Mammals—Waving Whale

__________________

Many thanks to Gary Grossman for today’s fine poetry and artwork! Gary is Professor Emeritus of Animal Ecology at University of Georgia. His poetry has been published in 30+ literary reviews, as well as short fiction in MacQueen’s Quinterly and creative non-fiction in Tamarind Literary Magazine. Gary’s micro-fiction piece, “Mindfulness”, was just nominated by MacQueen’s Quinterly for inclusion in The Best Small Fictions Anthology 2022. For ten years he wrote the “Ask Dr. Trout” column for American Angler. Gary’s first book of poems, Lyrical Years, is forthcoming in 2023 from Kelsay Press, and his graphic novel, My Life in Fish: One Scientist’s Journey is available from todaysecologicalsolutions@gmail.com. Welcome to the Kitchen, Gary, and don’t be a stranger! Here’s some more from Gary:

Website: https://www.garygrossman.net/Writing
Blog: https://garydavidgrossman.medium.com
Sculpture Site: http://www.garygrossman.net/g-grossman-fine-art/sculpture-by-gary-grossman

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Gary D. Grossman

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Everness of Time

 

Midnight Reading

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,

Sacramento, CA

—Photos by Robin Gale Odam

 

 

IT'S WINTER STILL
—Joyce Odam

a little cold
a little sunshine in the air

a scent of rain
a promise of more

windows blur
and puddles rise

and cars swish by
too fast we say

and watch the door
and city lights go off

and we alarm
and lights go on again

and I still like the sound
and color of the rain

 

 

 

 In Circulars 

                               

FALLING ROAD
—Robin Gale Odam

I am plunging down the falling road.
I cannot fall fast enough.
There are slow things in my way.
The minutes race ahead of me.
I scream profanities no one will hear.
My lips are cool rose.
I grip tightly.
My nails are luscious lilac.
My stop is far ahead.
Someone waits impatiently.
When I arrive I will be invisible.
Someone will look through me
at the swift hands of the clock
spinning the circle
that will not let me go. 

 

 

 

The Everness

 

THE SUBTLENESS
—Joyce Odam

fly to the sky, you have wings,
you have need, you have fear,

fear has need and you have
certainty, but the sky is high

and you want to touch the colors
that blend and bleed when changes

change in all their subtlety, and you
belong to the everness of time . . .

but now is now and blood is true,
to belong to all the reasons, to swim

through all the reasons again with all  
the ways to be worthy of existence . . .

___________________

STRANDED IN THE
DEARTH OF A FABRICATION
—Robin Gale Odam

the page of phrases all scribbled over
and tossed in a wad to the corner of the
room not one apathetic idiom discernible
underneath the graphite applied in circulars
of varying dimensions so as to conceal the
origin.

the page with no worth no compass not one
potent stanza or even one truly true periphery
only the very tag end of the last line was all
that was visible it was a punctuation.

 

 

 

 The Air Rests

CONVEY
—Robin Gale Odam

count back ten
fluorescent eclipse

someone said yellow letters
high ceiling all risk

the long white coat and the
dark hair

corner window four straight
trees

home is over there beyond
winter solstice


(prev. pub. in Brevities, March 2014)

 

 

 

 The Rounding of Time

STRANDED AT
A MOMENT IN TIME
—Robin Gale Odam

and then there's that—the
one moment in time, trite as it
is, but the imprint on a life

for something such as a
quandary or grief—a dire
event for an enfolding,

an event preceding the
rounding of time within the
territory of a life that finds one

forsaken—an event of disquiet,
some bygone or even earlier pock over
something seemingly futile to shake

 

 

 

 Song to Dusk

 

 

GO WITH ME TO THE MOUNTAINS
—Robin Gale Odam

I will paint them here, at dusk.
At bleed of sunset I will dip the brush
and sweep the hills with the gray of dust.

I will sweep the trail with ashen grasses,
dry from the parch of arid devotion.

We were young—you said we would go—
you said you loved me—now I am old.

Now I paint them here at dusk—
here at the fracture above the foothills.
I lick the brush and paint with saliva—
the rock is thirsty. The slate is black.

I am old and the summit is silver.
Come to the mountains. I paint with starlight.
At bleed of sunset, I dip the brush
and sweep the hills with the gray of dust.

The summit is silver. I paint with starlight
and I am old—come to the mountains.
                              

(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, Fall 2021)

 

 

 

 The Next Day

Today’s LittleNip:

SHADOWS IN SUNLIGHT
—Joyce Odam

All afternoon the sun
lowers into the afternoon
and the warmth of the shadows
and the timings of the day, and the
world slows, and the air rests itself
and soon enough, the city streetlights
go on—and the next day is tomorrow.

_________________

Many thanks to Joyce Odam and her trusty daughter, Robin Gale Odam, for today’s thoughts about our Seed of the Week, Stranded.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Aggravation”. I’m guessing you have plenty to write about on that subject. 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.

Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

Tonight, a new reading series, Twin Lotus Thai Fourth Tuesday Poetry, debuts in Sacramento and will feature Mary Zeppa, Kathryn Hohlwein, Victoria Dalkey, Tom Meschery and Kathleen Lynch plus open mic. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.  

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

“…fly to the sky, you have wings…”

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Year of the Rabbit

 

—Poetry by Joe Nolan, Caschwa,
Roe Brown, Nolcha Fox,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Sayani Mukherjee
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan and Nolcha Fox
—Original Photos by Caschwa
and Roe Brown

 

 

 

DRYING AQUIFERS
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Too many adverse,
Drying winds
Have swept across
The drought-crossed plains,
Leaving the land in spasms.

Aquifers
Are running out.
Wells run dry,
One-by-one,
Across a farmer’s
Holdings.

These days,
We cry and
Pray for rain—
Rain-a-plenty,
Since only surfeit
Can ease
Our farmers’ pain.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

SUNLIGHT TO GLISTEN
—Joe Nolan

We are
Waiting for morning,
For sunlight to glisten,
When light 
Pushes darkness out.

How humble
We are,
Searching for the
Light of a star,
In our hearts
Of darkness.

I love you.
You love me.
We wash our feet
In waves
Of eternity,
On the beach
We walk,
Along which
We hold hands
And talk,
Hoping
For the joys that
Love can bring.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

BEAUTY WILL PLEASE
—Joe Nolan

Let your poet
Trim your trees.
He’ll cut a cute shape
Into branches and leaves.

Let your flowers dance,
Down on your knees.

Tend to your own garden.
Beauty, grown, will please.

Happenstance
Becomes sweet memory--
A bright month spent in France.

Returning
From vacation,
Find an easy way
To slip back into place.

Remember your dreams
On the morning.
Daydreams’ reverie
Can trace.

 

 

 

—Photo by Caschwa

 

BOYZ WITH THEIR TOYZ
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

the night before was gusty winds
claps of thunder and falling debris
next morning I peeked out to see
if the usual daily paper was in the
driveway, ready to pick up

what I saw instead was a horizontal
image of a palm tree, wedged on
one side in a cluster of Pineapple
Guava trees, extending clear across
our driveway, and onto the front lawn

a closer inspection revealed that the
tree had not come out by the roots, but
had broken off just above ground level

I alerted our neighbor, who contacted
his landlord, and reported that a crew
would be out to remove the palm tree
the next day; no grievous damage had
been done, and no human was to blame
for this predicament, but we felt the urge
to give it a go and attempt to cut the tree
into segments we could roll onto the lawn
to keep the driveway clear

and so grew a microcosm of community
bonding, with me, my neighbor, and another
fellow from down the street, standing ready
with 2 small chain saws, and a miniscule
amount of muscle

working together, all wearing smiles, we
managed to complete a couple good cuts
and roll the heavy debris onto the lawn,
leaving the driveway clear

the next day, while our household was
sleeping, the crew came and removed the
palm tree pieces from our lawn and also
removed the other segment still wedged
across the Pineapple Guava trees 

 

 

 

 Empty Lockers
—Photo by Roe Brown

 

VALENTINE’S REMODELING
—Roe Brown
 
The surgeon will fashion a pouch for me;
a little hidden pocket to keep my keys
or change or four-leaf clovers.
 
She is taking down the erector-set
of female plumbing woven
in my belly since I was born.
 
She’s leaving the basement:
the body’s rumpus room.  There won’t be
enough room for a jukebox, though.
 
My house was never known as a party house.
I kept my walls impenetrable.  Never inviting
strangers to enter, kept the yard unappealing.
 
So, what I’ll do with this new-found place
is frankly a mystery to me.  It’s just
another room to keep clean.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Nolcha Fox

 

Stranded at the corner

of here and there,
buildings sunbaked sand,
no breeze, no bustle, no bus.
A rusted stop sign tilts
past flowered weeds
and hope that wilt
beneath the heat.

—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

 

 

 

Giant’s Causeway, County Antrim,
Northern Ireland

—Public Domain Photo

CERTAIN SHORE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

The best of Ulster holidays,
clear widespread space, our children’s choice,
was barren beaches, furlongs sand,
sprawl spanned days spent North Antrim coast,
Portstewart Strand—we sail next week.
That all was thirty years ago—
see all the aunties in one go,
while we built castles in the air
and kids used spades to dig the grains—
so soon we ferry back again
to meet aunts’ offspring, old as us.
Back then we paced in larger place,
the Giant’s Causeway, footsteps marked
by Finn MacCool through channel leap,
while grandad tasted Bushmills malt,
the samples tested time again.
That was our early morning tour,
before we headed for the shore,
and he in charge of kids, while aunts
was call of duty, we adults.
Still, was it whisky, his downfall,
the drams that damned him, fall asleep,
forget that he was charged to keep
his eyes wide open for the tide?
We choose recall, dunes, marram grass,
but close our minds to stretching reach,
the children stranded, left alone
until we found them, grandad’s doze.
They never knew they were alone,
stranded on Portstewart Strand. 

 

 

 

Portstewart Strand, Portstewart,
County Londonderry, Northern Ireland

 —Public Domain Photo

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

Kernel of a misty lake
The flakes keep pouring
My overcoat, a snowline asphalt
Touchy with subjective glance
Peering away with formless arguments
Movies made of unfazed paintbrushes
Papers flowers hibiscus jinx fairies’ ode
Cups keep going home
Sitting home knitting the sweater for winters
Sipping musk poured into my poem
Making rainbows and greenery smudged
Marking the watery lake house
Snowflakes fine with my life-line brush. 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy 

of Joe Nolan

 

 

BE
—Sayani Mukherjee

Sycamore pendants laden with
Bubbles of tornadoes
Cherry Hill and fresh air
A heaven outside conditioning
A small map of the bridge
Cottaged cared nascent ivory glides
Paper stroked varicose numbered wits
Wheelbarrow and molten vase
Growing rapidly in the new earth bliss
Verify the wayward stream
The white shadows in the morning world
Cuckoos and swallowed nights
Leaden white swan-laked songs
Petite angelic fairy brush
Realms untold mythical
Mona Lisa paintings and mystic River
Simply be blue skies above
A little stream of outside cottage.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

 

 

 

 

 _____________________

Many thanks to today’s contributors for poems in words and photos, riffing on our Seed of the Week, Stranded. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

A couple of notes gleaned from yesterday’s Sacramento Bee: The home of Mimi Miller (widow of ex-Sacramento Mayor Burnett Miller) in Sacramento took a hit from a falling tree during the storms. She wasn’t hurt, and the home is being repaired. The Millers have been strong supporters of Sacramento poetry, hosting the annual Sacramento Poetry Center fundraiser every year at Christmastime. And some of you may remember Peggy Ellis-Hill, a poet from Wilton who was active in Sacramento poetry for a few years. Peggy passed away recently; our condolences to her extensive family.

Tonight, Sac. Poetry Center presents Jennifer O’Neill Pickering and Estela Victoria-Cordero plus open mic. Tomorrow, a new reading series, Twin Lotus Thai Fourth Tuesday Poetry, will feature Mary Zeppa, Kathryn Hohlwein, Victoria Dalkey, Tom Meschery and Kathleen Lynch plus open mic. Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento takes place on Thursday night, then El Gigante online features An Evening with Tim Kahl reading from his new book, California Sijo (Bald Trickster Press). And Dave Boles reads on Sunday afternoon at Poetry of the Sierra Foothills in Camino. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.

While you’re looking at Upcoming NorCal Events, check out some submission deadlines: Sac. Poetry Center’s Tule Review; their new Poet News; and Cold River Press’s Voices 2023. Also: Poetry Out Loud, the national poetry recitation contest for high school students, is coming up. See UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS for info about that, whether you have a teenager or not. Watching them perform is inspiring!
 
____________________

—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!

 

 Every year should be
Year of the Snake!

Taking It All In

—Poems and Photos by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA 

 

 

 

California’s Central Valley is a giant,
twenty thousand square miles.
Long ago there was a sea here.
Today, looking up from this flat land,
I saw an egret flying past.
It was a lonely sight.

___________________

This rickety old boat drifts on a wide and slow river,
a river that bends into the blue sky.
The boat floats past the village on the far bank,
with the people and the little marketplace.
Time is nothing. The boat drifts on,
past the evergreen trees of the pine woods
and on into the white and fluffy clouds. 

 

 
 

 Local Rooster Speaks to Poet

 

 

The sunrise and the sunset don’t need us,
a fact that eludes most people.
Night comes and goes with or without us.
Life is short, and don’t kid yourself;
this life is all there is.
So take it all in; the rain, the stars, the moon.
The wind in the trees of the graveyard.

____________________

I hoard silence to use in the passing years.
I love the emptiness of this quiet room,
and I love my grief for its power.
In the shadows and in the dark corners of night
I see the face of my dead son.
His beautiful face.
Just that. 

 

 

 

Poet and Pooch

 

  

More than thirty years living
     in this wide valley and now
I have nothing left to ask of it.
     No questions. And the valley
goes on and on.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

As sweet as blueberries, as light as bees; sunrise loves the quiet.

 

—James Lee Jobe

__________________

Our thanks to James Lee Jobe for visiting the Kitchen today on this, the beginning of Chinese New Year, the Year of the Rabbit. See more of James at The Poetry Zendo (https://poetryzendo.blogspot.com/).

 

Note also that 350 Sacramento’s annual Ode to Earth Environmental Variety Show fundraiser happens this afternoon at the Colonial Theater in Sacramento. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
 
__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Poet and Pal

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

Gung Hay Fat Choy!

 

 

 

 

Pup Cars and Doggy Treats

 

—Prose Poetry by Laura Stamps, Columbia, SC

—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan, 

Stockton, CA

PONY CARS

A new day. A new postcard. “Dear Elaine,” she writes. “Okay. First thing. These sirens. Outside my window. Sirens. More than one. Screaming, screaming. For 30 minutes now. No kidding. Continuous. They are. No break in their wail. And it makes me wonder, wonder. What is it? Maybe an accident. With a pony car. You know the ones. On Tucker Road. The cars that zoom up behind you. At 90 mph. At least. Maybe faster. Probably. Faster. I mean. Suddenly. There they are. Filling my rearview mirror. Like bad news. Like demons. That’s what they are. Coming to devour my car. Or me. As I drive the speed limit. Always. On Tucker Road. And then, and then. They’re gone. Racing past me. To fill the rearview mirror of someone else. To give them a chill. Or worse. And those sirens. Still wailing. So many. What’s happening? I wonder, wonder. Who knows? But this I do know. Pony cars. Not my thing. Not me. No ponies for me. No. Not my car. Not with Holly. A pup car. That’s my car. Holly next to me. Buckled in her doggie car seat. Singing. Yes, we do. Often. Driving the speed limit. Down Tucker Road. And those sirens. Still wailing. Outside my window. Screaming, screaming. But not for us.”    

 

 

 

LITTLE

“Dear Elaine,” she writes. “Saturday morning. Blue skies. Freezing temps. Bright sunshine. It’s grocery shopping day. And oh how I love. The little shopping carts. At Food Lion. So easy to maneuver. Yes. Easy is good. Down one aisle. I go. And then another. Apples, pears, bananas. Salad greens. Canned vegetables. Potato chips. All of that. I toss in my cart. And then, and then. I stop. At the pet food aisle. Dog treats. That’s what I need. But look at them. Look! So many. Too many. No way to choose. Even if I linger, linger. To study them. To read each label. Even then. I can’t decide. So I grab the prettiest package. And run. Thank goodness for Holly. Have mercy on me, I tell her. Have mercy. And she does. She eats them all. Every time. Such a good dog. She is. Yes. And little too. Like my shopping bags. The ones I bring from home. My little bags. Colorful. Decorative. Perfect for little shopping carts. The cashier rings up my groceries. And we chat. I know him. Nice guy. But then, but then. The lady behind me in line. She asks about my bags. Are they gift bags? No. They aren’t. She thinks my little bags are weird. No. They aren’t. But then, but then. She turns. To the man behind her. What does he think? About my bags. (Seriously?) Poor woman. What can you say? Some people really need a dog.”  
 
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Our thanks to Laura Stamps for her puppy prose-poems today, with more postcards from her loquacious friend to the fictitious “Elaine”.  

A reminder that Dave Boles and other poets will be reading at Childhood Stories, presented by Sacramento Storytellers Guild this afternoon, Sac. Poetry Center, 2pm. Dave Boles has sent out a call for submissions for the 2023 edition of the Sacramento anthology, VOICES, so check that out while you’re looking at UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS.

Then at 4pm, Gary Kruse and Brad Buchanan (plus open mic) will be reading for Sacramento Poetry Alliance at 1160 Perkins Way, Sacramento, CA. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.

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—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.

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