Sexy, Yet Reserved

Ann after ARCO Concert, 2023

—Photo by Ethan Pham Aguilar

 

* * *

 

—Poetry by Ann Wehrman, Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Chris Feldman, Ann Wehrman, 

and Ethan Pham Aguilar

 

 

HAIR II
 
hair—my body’s leaves, fur
keeps my head warm
dead cells seem alive
 
hair swings, unfurls
gleams, glints in the light
slips gently through my fingers
brushes my skin, soft, sensual
 
hair drips, cold and wet
down my back after a shower
tangles, rips, knots, breaks
when I try to comb it
 
hair drops in slow motion between my fingers
silken spiderweb strands
catch fire in sun’s penetrating rays
 
hair deep brown for decades
now snowy white in my winter years
magical, mysterious, beautiful
 
 
Note:
“Hair II” is a revision of an earlier, short poem, “Hair,” which was published in Medusa’s Kitchen on July 16, 2007. 

 

 

 

 
January Afternoon Sky
—Photo by Ann Wehrman


 
JANUARY AFTERNOON IN THE CITY
 
clouds like doves’ soft breasts
sail quickly by on the wind at the horizon
above me, dark gray slabs fill the heavens
storm clouds, yet few drops fall
waiting for the bus, I grudgingly open my umbrella
 
later, I return home
bright gold sun peaks out from stubborn gray clouds
giving way to patches of baby blue
sweet, deep, cold air
good night to stay home, eat something warm,
watch TV
yet, the trees still crave rain

 

 

 

 
Tree and Berries
—Photo by Ann Wehrman

 
I WAS WRONG
 
watch the birds play in the tree
that shaded me, comforted me
talked with me as I waited for the bus
 
now, as the year ends in frigid nights
naked, leafless branches
bloom with berries, red-orange seed pearls
 
birds flutter from branch to branch
bite, drink sustaining nectar
cock their tiny heads at me, friendly yet wild
 
for years I’d thought the winter berries
parasitic, maybe mistletoe
sorrowed for the tree being slowly killed
 
but today I see winter’s berries
grow naturally on this tree
birds play hide and seek, then rise and fly away

 

 

 

 Green Peach
—Photo by Chris Feldman

SEXY, YET RESERVED
 
blouse was Chinese silk, burnt yellow
like late afternoon sunshine
with a rippled texture
like the wrinkled cheek
of an Empress Dowager
wearing it, I felt glamorous
sexy, yet reserved
 
wore it on a date with my first real love
to Zeffirelli’s entrancing Romeo and Juliet
afterward, we pledged steady
exchanged class rings
while Jim Morrison snarled at our generation,
“Light my Fire”
but my steady slept around
I survived, barely
moved on, hesitantly
 
a year later, I wore the yellow silk blouse
to the movies again
this time, Fantasia with Carolyn
two friends out together
shared a joint in her beat-up car
giggled at Disney’s dancing pink elephants

 

 

 

The Fire Within
—Photo by Chris Feldman


 
IN THE CENTER OF NIGHT’S EMBRACE
 
warm darkness surrounds
I nestle deep within your arms
you stir, awaken me with your desire
 
in a dream, half-seen
I move with you, open to your deep kisses
welcome your need with my own
we dance as one being
in the center of night’s embrace

 

 

 

Love Birds
—Photo by Chris Feldman

tantra
 
ecstasy of heart
our spirits unite
in a kaleidoscope
your eyes hold me
your caresses ignite my core
all colors bloom
as your embrace opens
my inner spine—
forest-green heart flowers
indigo song
amethyst in my brow
rises, offering white, pure
light of consummation


 

Love Mural
—Photo by Chris Feldman

“It’s a Joni Mitchell Kind of Day”
(For Carolyn)

...you’d say,
your impish spectacled grin
blinding me to the blue tinge of your thin lips
the dark circles under your eyes
I never quite knew what you meant
part of your charm, I guess
 
was it a day in which
the tinkling, lilting soprano
would dance over all our troubles
or one ruled by Blue
the dark sadness in Joni’s atonal, wordless wails?
 
You shared your art, your music with me
got me stoned—too stoned
stood by fiercely loyal, stood over me
 
rebel to the core, you opened your heart to me
when my sensitive teenage soul was ready to break
on that fast, college-prep track
when my passionate heart
suffered first love’s betrayal
 
a friend, an inspiration to me then
decades later I wonder if you wanted more from me
but held back, kept it to yourself
at seventeen, you knew what love is
thank you for being my friend
 
____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

I am glad it cannot happen twice, the fever of first love. For it is a fever, and a burden, too, whatever the poets may say.

―Daphne duMaurier, Rebecca

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to today’s collaborators for fine poetry and photos!

 

 

 

 Street Art, Atlantic City
—Public Domain Photo

A reminder that
Susan Kelly-DeWitt and Mary Mackey
will read at MoSt Poetry on Saturday
in Modesto this afternoon, 2pm; then
in Sacramento at 4pm,
Frank Gioia and Beverly Parayno
will read at Sacramento Poetry Alliance.
For info about these and other
 future 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—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!

 

 

 

Almost-Spring

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down to
Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry by
Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Claire J. Baker, Vandana Kumar,
Joyce Odam, Caschwa, and
Joshua C. Frank

 

 

LEFT AT SCHOOL

on playing field fence
a black jacket whipped by wind—
some child’s pirate flag

 

 

 

 

IN ALMOST-SPRING

One day at school might be worth a walk along the railroad track, asking what is this? trail dissolved in rainfall puddles, pond that wasn’t there last week, two wild ducks floating dreams of spring, winter-dead vines bursting with question-buds, colors in a dialect he hasn’t learned. And who is that? girl on the far side of barbwire fence between dark woods and pasture oozing grass from underground, not a house in sight. Is she a vision or for real? the way she looks across space, a wordless tongue he wants to learn.

I happen by—two
together staring silence
at me: Go your way!

 

 

 

BINAL VIEW   

Here’s an old wrecked car off the track
entwined in berry-bramble green.
The car is rust in midst of green,
hidden when I was on the track.
I can’t keep track in so much green.

 

 

 

OFF-TRAIL DISCOVERIES

Last Tuesday I saw that old wreck resting
all these years on its roof, as if lasso’d and hogtied
by thorn-vines, just off the RR track. Today
in an undeveloped field beyond subdivision, I find
a rubble pile—winter grasses and young wild radish
rooting at its edges. Rubble takes me back
decades—disaster dog training over broken slabs
of concrete laced with rusty rebar, what was
a building. But that was years ago, and
Loki never learned the careful paw-by-paw agility
for earthquake work, nor sniffing rifts
and crevices for live human scent.
Now she’s rummaging a critter hole
while I search for signs of renewed green life
in a vacant field.

 

 

 

Wild Radish

FOR AN OLD MAN
On the Paved Walking Trail

May your walker glide like thread on loom
all the way down to the Upper Room.
May the fare be nourishing, ever free
as wildland fruit fallen off the tree.
May your walker take you back up the hill,
its basket provisioned your needs to fill.

 

 

 

 

WALKER’S BENISON

May rain not spoil your journey
nor worry turn you back.
Surprises be your rations
enlightening your pack.

Let air be sweet with birdsong—
the bluebird’s egg just laid.
May sun be bright for shadow,
and oaks lean down for shade.

And how the trek may wander,
and what discoveries seen,
may you have much to ponder
in dreams of peregrine.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

CAMELLIA
—Taylor Graham

One perfect rosette
blush of a cheek before storm—
and now comes the wind
tearing at pink petal-cheeks,
and a rain like falling tears.

__________________

Welcome to Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with thanks to Taylor Graham for kicking us off with her fine poetry! The Upper Room she's referring to in her poem, "For An Old Man", is a service in Placerville that provides food for the homeless.

 

TG has talked about her walks today using forms: a Waka (“Camellia”); a Senryu (“Left at School”); a Haibun (“In Almost-Spring”); two responses to our Ekphrastic photo of last week (“Binal” and “Off-Trail Discoveries”); “Binal” is also a Bina; and two Benisons (“Walkers Benison”; “For an Old Man”). The Bina and the Benison were last week’s Triple-F Challenges, and “Left at School” and “Off-Trail Discoveries” were responses to our recent Tuesday Seed of the Week, One Day At School.

This coming Sunday, Feb. 25, Taylor Graham and Steve Talbert will read at Poets and Writers of the Sierra Foothills in Camino, 2pm. For news about this and other El Dorado County poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry or see Lara Gularte’s Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077/. (Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!) And of course you can always click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about future poetry events in the NorCal area.

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 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!

* * *

 

When You Flip Your Flivver
Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo

This week we received responses to last week’s Ekphrastic photo from Nolcha Fox and Stephen Kingsnorth:

 

DITCHED
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

He left me stuck in soggy sludge,
our romance a dead fish.
He left me for a
high-heeled dame
that he could ditch
again.

* * *

PLAID AND LOST
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

So, overall with plaid flat cap,
why would a man think scratched head helps?
Do thoughts seep out beside said swamp,
where muddy track led buckled scrap,
to take its toll in telling ways,
with tireless straining, spoken wheels,
in spin and slosh on sloppy swirls
of rims whose trim for farm machine?

But slim, the dream a team will haul
this wreck which rolls again at whim,
as wash invades the axle joints,
and slush corrodes established rust.
It’s vacuum packed, this iron horse,
a heavy metal suction pad;
pig in a poke, as puddled, wrought,
bogged down in mire, morass, moss turf.

If marsh were planted, paddy field,
would swelling rice give rise to hope?
Or should that muddled quag be drained,
assumption being, sump in sump.
A crane required—some wetland bird,
a turnstone, stilt—or godwit need—
or lever, distant fulcrum based,
for, far enough, can move the world.

What steers how we will see this view?
Await post mortem for this weight
as engineer, photographer—
for why have we this record so;
poor maintenance, ill-matched terrain,
a farmer checking trespass noise,
or rescue service at a loss
that one would pay now flivver’s flipped?

For would-be driver, bone crusher,
some puddle jumper, failed the test,
tin Lizzie, though can opened here
or bouncing Betty, now found out?
So, cheap but not so cheerful steer,
nor flats of Bonneville endeared,
an off site write-off, sight concludes
for pond smelt, playground, paddlefish.

* * *

Claire Baker sent us a poem based on a recent MK Ekphrastic photo:

 

 

 

AFTER STILETTO HEELS PHOTO
first steps of my ballerina sister
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

As we, her family, gathered around
our roasting turkey,
on tippety-tip bare toes, foot pads
not touching the kitchen floor
for balance, child Lucy walked in.
How did she learn or think
to walk that way?
But she did, with surprising ease.

At her joining us that day,
the kitchen entrance her stage,
we were statuary frozen in surprise
and admiration.
Finally our mother spoke,
as our eyes tried to hold on to
the tricky image. Lucy, you need
ballet slippers and professional lessons.

* * *

Vandana Kumar has sent us an Ekphrastic poem based on Monet’s Water Lilies, Setting Sun:

 

 

 

I SHALL CHOOSE YOU
—Vandana Kumar, N. Delhi, India

After Water-Lilies, Setting Sun by Claude Monet

I shall choose you today
From the 250 that belong
To Giverny

It’s an average day
About to lose its averageness
At mere glimpse
Of you
Oh water lilies!

Leaves that tremble
As they float
Grace to the skies
For the bounty

Someone calls you Nymphéas
Will your flowers turn to react?
I wonder
How many other names you go by
 
They say you also signify fertility
I shall see you in a reflection
In my lover’s eyes
 
The fishermen must imagine bigger seas
On which to sprawl their nets
The waters here aren’t that dense

Just little pond
The sun going down
On Monet’s sleepy hometown

Flowers cover the waters
On a thin carpet
Thick enough
To lay my restless dreams on

* * *

Joyce Odam sent us a Rhyme/Rime Royal:

 

 

 

A BREAK IN THE WEATHER
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
                        
The rain has lessened. Everything subsides.
The winds.The sirens. All the dreary news
the day began with. All that’s whole divides.
The silences stay silent to confuse.
We don’t know how to read each other’s clues
or all these pendings—not just if but when.
It rained. It stopped. And it will rain again.
 
 
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/19/11; 6/23/20)

* * *

Here is a List Poem from Caschwa (Carl Schwartz):

 

 

 
ASHES ALIVE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Now ashes in urns, all of them
comprise part of the architecture
as inseparable from the home
as its very walls

Joshua, my wife’s adopted cat,
big, yellow, friendly, we bonded
right away and when our son
was born, Joshua dispelled fears
that the cat would reject the child
and immediately accepted him as
family

Bo, our salt and pepper Cockapoo-
terrier that we adopted to save from
a dire shelter future, knew all blood
family by scent, and would scrap and
bark loudly when anyone else
presented themselves at our door

Chica, our adorable light and dark
chocolate Chihuahua, loved to chase
and be chased, so we would run in
circles, and she would stop and look
back over her shoulder to ensure I
was close by because a big hug was
always the end game

Jo Lynn, my loving wife of 40 years,
finally resting in peace after numerous
and varied tormenting challenges, now
sits on a shelf in the living room, no less
a factor in putting in her two cents’ worth
while any matters are being considered

* * *

Carl has also sent us what he is calling a first-letter-and-first-word Double Acrostic. My resources don’t list this as an “official” type of Acrostic, so I guess we can credit its development to Caschwa:

 

 

STATE OF MIND
—Caschwa

Clothed and sheltered
Adults seated in the
Lounge engage
In spicy discussions to
Front their aversions
Of public exposure with
Raw nerves shaking while
Nude statues ignore their
Image, knowing it is just
Art

* * *

Here is a Sestina by Joshua Frank:

 

 

LAST VISIT TO THE BEACH
—Joshua C. Frank

The beach, untouched by Time throughout the years
As millions of waves washed from the sea,
As Time transformed me, now no more a boy,
Where I would walk each season on that sand,
Each decade by my side a different dog,
Still looks the same as we make tracks together.

The houses on the cliffs still stand together;
The restroom hut’s unchanged in thirty years,
But smaller since I went with my first dog.
The little village by the wind-swept sea
Stands still, unlike an hourglass’s sand;
It’s I who changed since I was just a boy.

My mother took me as a little boy
To this same beach, and here we’d play together,
And then she’d read a novel on the sand
For well-earned rest back in those early years.
She never worried; she could always see
Me watched and herded by my boyhood dog.

Some years went by; I had another dog.
The first would know me only as a boy;
The second one recoiled from the sea.
The people who’d come here with me together
Had slowly disappeared throughout the years—
The sea had washed their footprints off the sand.

Now, after thirty years, I cross the sand
And pass the people, with another dog.
It’s sad to climb the crags of early years—
Too much departed since I was a boy.
No humans with me walk the sands together.
The crowd recedes; just me, him, God, and sea.
There’s nothing left for me here by the sea
Except to walk more dogs upon the sand—
The people here and I don’t go together.
The only friend still with me is my dog.
I don’t like what they taught me as a boy—
I can’t turn back from truth I’ve learned these years.

I see the sea the last time with my dog;
I’ll leave the sands I ambled as a boy
To find a wife, for many years together.


(First published in The Society of Classical Poets)

* * *

And here is a form developed by Josh, the Sestina Sonnet, which uses the Sestina algorithm for four end-words, plugged into the Sonnet form—a marriage, if you will:

 

 

 

RED FLAGS     
—Joshua C. Frank

The national flags of the Westerners’ lands
Turn red in the dim, fading light of the sunset,
Like Communist red—bloody floors in a prison.
All the flags look the same when the light fades away.

Distinctions of flags have all faded away;
You can’t tell your own from the Soviet land’s,
And Christians and patriots cast into prison
Are told by the warden they’ve seen their last sunset.

A country’s long day has to end with a sunset;
What soldiers have fought for is fading away,
And chaos fights order and locks it in prison.
The victim?  Depends on just where the die lands.

With what we hold dear walled away in a prison,
There’s nothing to do now but watch the land’s sunset.

 

(First published in The Society of Classical Poets)

* * *

And here is a short-but-sweet Ars Poetica from Stephen Kingsnorth:

 

 

 
SPACE
—Stephen Kingsnorth

⸮ With fewer words,
more space for thought,
but space between
the terms creates
prompts required
for eroteme ?

___________________

Many thanks to today’s writers for their lively contributions! Wouldn’t you like to join them? 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 these challenges, and send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.) Let’s try one of Josh Frank’s Sestina Sonnets:

•••Sestina Sonnet (Joshua C. Frank): uses the Sestina algorithm for four end-words, plugged into the Sonnet form

•••AND/OR try a Double Acrostic as Carl Schwartz has developed it, with a first-letter-and-first-word structure (see above).

•••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 “Winter Moonlight”.

____________________

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

•••Acrostic Poem types: https://studybay.com/blog/how-to-write-an-acrostic-poem
•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Benison: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bennison
•••Bina: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/bina
•••Double Acrostic (Carl Schwartz): first letters and first words of each line form an Acrostic
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry 
•••Haibun: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form
•••List Poem: clpe.org.uk/poetryline/poeticforms/list-poem
•••Rhyme/Rime Royal: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/rhyme-royal-rime-royale
•••Senryu: www.masterclass.com/articles/how-to-write-senryu-poems#quiz-0
•••Sestina: poets.org/glossary/sestina AND/OR www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/sestina
•••Sestina Sonnet (Joshua C. Frank): uses the Sestina algorithm for four end-words, plugged into the Sonnet form
•••Waka: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/waka

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!
 
 
 Make what you can of today's
photo, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)

* * *

—Public Domain Photo

 
 
 

For info about
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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

 

 

 

Refuge

 Born From An Angel’s Kiss

 

* * *

—Poetry by Linda Klein, Playa Vista, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

FIVE PERSONAL HAIKU

Music, my refuge,
it can soothe and transport me
to another place.

Daughter of the wind,
I will go where it takes me.
Look fast.  I am gone.

Rain, like pebbles flung
against the window glass,
roles down in zigzags.

In sorrow I hide,
embraced by willow branches.
They console my pain.

Memories return
in flashes to comfort me.
Soon they disappear.

 

 

 

                     

IN THE EVENING

Faint, sporadic voices coming from the street,
the words are indiscernible, but it doesn't matter.
They belong to that other world.
All that matters is that I am home.
It is the end of another day.
Ahead are the hours that belong to me alone.

I run water in the bathtub, hot, but not prohibitively
so.
If it cools, I can add more hot water later.
Moving slowly as the tub fills, I undress,
placing each item on the granite-topped vanity.
Then I swing my left foot over the side of the tub
to test the water temperature with my toes.

I slide into the soothing warm water, holding onto
the grab bar.
Warm vaporous air kisses my face and arms.  I hum
a song
that has been on my mind to start, and then I sing 

it aloud.
I take the perfumed soap oval and lather it on,
breathing in its scent, lie back and close my tired
eyes,
still singing and imagining, planning, and dreaming.

On the wall opposite the bathtub, I have two

Cassatt prints.
of mothers attending their children.  Actually the 

same mother
in both prints, She reminds me of my mother, She
looks
so much like her and has the same gentle manner.
My tears mingle with the vapors that surround me,
soothing tears.

 

 

 

 
                                                           
PEEP, PEEP, BLEEP

I could never be a sheep.
They will follow anyone, anywhere,
without a single peep.

I would offer suggestions,
come up with ideas, have my say,
and ask all kinds of questions.
If ignored, I'd simply walk away,
               muttering.

____________________
              
Today’s LittleNip:

A POEM IS BORN
—Linda Klein

A poem is born from an angel's kiss
to soothe the poet's heart
and touch his soul.  It will rarely miss
to make it whole, though wrenched apart.

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Linda Klein for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

Sweet Refuge

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that Patrick Grizzell
will be reading at The Silver Lining
in Sacramento tonight, 8pm.
For info about this and other
future 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—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!

 

 

 

 

Me & My Second-Hand Guitar

 —Poetry by John Gray, Johnston, RI
—Guitar Artwork Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

RESTAURANT EAVESDROPPING

I wasn't trying to eavesdrop
but what can you do.
The tables are so close,
and some couples
are just louder than us.

They never stop talking,
while we enjoy our silences.
It's that vacuum theory again.
As our lives shrink,
our neighbors’ presence expands.

I feel her complaining, his anger.
And when bitterness turns to sorrow,
to apology, to smiles,
I'm right there with them.

Sure I tell you I love you.
But he loves her is what I'm really saying.

 

 

 

MAKER OF MAPS


The stream is silver, robust.


stoked by inciting snow,


egalitarian in the way its watery fields


feed poets and painters,


hikers and fishermen.


It's madcap


as those wild Irishmen I met in New York,


but friendly in its rowdiness,


with splash and swirl.


inviting me to every bar in town.


I lean over the wooden railing,


my body an overture


to a symphony joyously unfinished,


where woodwind thought surprises


deep brass of bone,


where trout fill a small watery stage


before an audience of hook and line.


Five hundred miles away


is a town of people


who know, in ways that only


make sense to mourners,


what I cannot do.


But here’s a breath they cannot take back,
there’s a landscape they can
never build upon,
overhead, a sky too fat for framing.

 

 

 

 

ALL ABOUT THIS WILD LIFE

"Plenty of wild-life in these parts,"
the man in the convenience store had said,
though he never mentioned
"wild" means "still", "life" means "death”.

But there they were, like litter on the roadside,
my first bob-cat flattened, skinned just like
an unlucky neighborhood tabby.
And an armadillo, its suit of armor
no match for highway trucks.

I slowed as if every mile per hour
put another life at threat, but nothing
braked the road kill.
"What was that turtle thinking?"
my wife asked. "And don't
opossums ever learn."

We passed an ignorant deer,
turned over on its back,
four legs stiff and straight
and pointing to the sky.
And then a dumb skunk,
whiffed the remnants of
its futile smell,
an hour or two beyond
the time it sprayed the tractor wheel.

A car passed us,
a huge tan bloodhound in the back seat,
poking its head through the window,
bellowing low
how not every animal was dead.
"So if we take them with us,
it's okay," I told myself.

Then you spied the crows
feasting on a splattered woodchuck.
Our car startled them.
They begrudgingly took off
leaving behind their carrion.

"Good grub just a half mile down the road a-ways,"
the man in the convenience store had said.

 

 

 

 

THE MARTINGALE FAMILY

The Martingale family’s annual vacation
can’t really begin because there’s a
beached whale taking up their favorite
tanning and picnic spot.

They stand in a line, mother, father,
eldest daughter, youngest daughter, son,
just off the roadway,
equipped with cooler, beach towels,

sun screen, even a badminton set,
all looking down at the great lump
of gray and white whose heart is beating
futilely against its own heaviness

while its fin flaps more and more slowly
as it waves goodbye to the world.
So much for pristine white sand,
azure waters, Montana-sized sky

and round and golden god-like sun.
“This shouldn’t be allowed,” says the mother.
“Where’s the…” the father stammers.
A name for those who push behemoths

back into oceans eludes him.
“Why did it have to happen
this week of all weeks,”
blurts out eldest daughter.

Youngest daughter’s eyes well up.
She was hoping some coloring
would disguise her acne outbreak.
The son isn’t sure that

a dying whale is a bad thing.
He’s eager to poke a stick
in its heaving side.
The Martingale family are

the perfect example of
unforeseen circumstances, uprooted plans.
For compassion, for empathy,
I suggest you look elsewhere.

 

 

 

SOLITARY VISION    

        

Tuesday night, laundromat,


stench of boiled clothes,


detergent dust, eyes swamped


by ceaseless spinning in all directions,


the folders, the stutters,


the talkers, silent types with


heads in year-old magazines.


And lint, everywhere lint.


Like moths to the flame of fiber.


But there's someone I haven't seen before.


Young, pretty. She holds blue underwear


up to the light, like fish tank glass,


with the rarest of species shimmering,


floating, behind.


Wednesday night, library, bring back


three books one of which I read,


aisles of must and paper dandruff,


cover rot, frayed edges.


And whisperers, the terminally quiet


with battered copies of the classics,


another layer between them and the world


to go with their eye-glasses.


1 examine my clothing for the lint,


nothing, words will have to do.


And someone I've only ever seen


the once. Young, pretty.


She selects a recent best seller,


puts it back, fondles the Nabokov


for a moment or two, puts it back,


goes with her first choice.


Thursday night, supermarket,


carriage before me like a mother's


womb, a child of corn-flakes, soda


and t.v. dinners I shall have this week,


the smell of cold in the refrigerator aisle,


dank meat, wet lettuce, the nausea


of competing spices.


The lint is dollar signs. The paper trail


that leads to my most famished wallet.


But then someone I've only ever


seen the twice. Young, pretty.


She's buying soup mix and it's


an instant endorsement. Yogurt in lieu


of ice-cream. Lean cuts. Diet everything,


She's saving her figure... for what?


for when I see her in the downtown traffic?


when I spy her in the music store?


in the far corner at McDonald's?


at the cinema, the two of us,


in the dark, alone, separated by six rows?


Lives are ultimately blue-prints, I'm finding.


Where they go astray is in the shirt


wrinkles, the missing page, the milk sour


because I forgot to check the date.


She loses a sock, she hates the hero,


the bananas have more calories than she thought.


Nothing in there about working up the courage


to speak to her.


Nothing in her diagrams that would allow


her the space to listen.


Maybe tonight I will see her in my dreams.

With me, compromise has always been a solo act.


 

 

 

 

ANTICHRIST

I watched Rosemary’s Baby by myself
in the apartment
with the lights low.
And then The Omen,
same scenario,
only a glass of wine for company
(it remained unsipped by the way).

In a small dark room,
on a lumpy couch,
I was witness to the birth of the antichrist
whether it was Mia Farrow
gently rocking her yellow-eyed
bundle of feral joy
and Lee Remick’s dead offspring
being swapped out
for a sweet smiling proxy
for all the hell below.

Sure, in between,
I saw my share of westerns,
rom-coms, war epics etc.
but none that stayed with me
as compellingly as the progeny of Satan.

That’s why I don’t trust the son
a mother introduces me to
on my solitary walk through the park.
And I stay clear of the pickup basketball game
One of shirts or skins could well be
the false Messiah.
I don’t even accept the offer of the kid
who volunteers to help me load my groceries
into the trunk of my car.
Sure he may just want a tip.
But it could well lead to a deadly immersion
in a lake of burning sulfur.

People like to remind me
that I was a little boy once.
And sure I broke the vase.
But that was clumsiness
not perdition.

 

 

 

 

A LIFE GIVEN OVER TO FUNERALS

A telephone clicks.
A door quietly closes.  
An email goes unanswered.
Or we just take different paths.
We spend so much of our lives
being cut off from people,
yet only when they're really dead
do we make a big show of it.

From now on,
I'm going to mourn every chance I get.
I’ll sob at twilight, turn ashen
when people show their backs.
You say goodbye and I send flowers.
Your “Write soon”
is a priest’s incantation
as he stands over the grave
of no contact for months.

Why let it all gush out on dead ground.
May as well let my tears flood a rock.
May as well proclaim.
“God, I miss that toe-nail clipping,
that strand of hair.”

From now on, whatever is part of me
has to answer for its absence.
Even an hour apart
should involve a burial.
There’s nothing more final
than “Until the next time.”

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE BLUES
—John Gray

Someone left the front door unlocked.
Guy ran up the stairs, found his Missy
in bed with another man,
blew his head off with a shot gun.
Another’s been picking cotton all day,
with bent back and sun-scarred face.
A third met the devil through the demon drink.
A fourth can’t stay out of the gambling den.
A fifth finds his only pleasure
with the ladies of the night.
If it wasn’t for me and my second-hand guitar,
you’d know none of this.

____________________

John Grey is an Australian poet and US resident, who has recently been published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. His latest books, Between Two Fires; Covert; and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon. He has work upcoming in California Quarterly, Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad. Welcome back to the Kitchen, John, who first visited us in April of last year.

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 John Gray

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For future 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—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!

 

 

 

 

Surviving School

 Good Morning, Children

—Photos by Joyce Odam

 

* * *

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA

 

 

THE CHANGING
—Joyce Odam

In the sweet green air of night
late summer winds rise up—play at dance,
tease the fluttering wings of leaves—
blow the curtains in through open windows.

The cat sits by the screen door,
looking out—
watching the motion of shadows—
the nocturnal mysteries.

The green trees
flicker under the street lamp—
approve the spotlight—
shimmer and preen.

Name it what you will,
there is
a change in the air;
something quickens—makes rumors.

The waves of the sea-painting seem to move,
you watch the motion of the water—
the wet color of the moonlight on the wall
—something you never noticed before.

                                                 
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/19/18)

 

 

 

 Good Morning, Miss Flowers

ABSTRACTION
After “Yana Yamaya” by Carina Clavigo
—Joyce Odam

she closes her eyes against the world,
the time of the world,
the guise of the world

she paints her face, her eyes, her lips,
signs her name at the credit edges
of her mind

she borrows a tune to hum,
changes the words,
finds her trance

she does not merge into a wall,
it recedes—recedes—into
a memory of space

she dis-
connects
from the space around her

she is who she will be forever—
forever and now
and the now of forever

                                    
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/26/23)

 

 

 

My New Dress

CHANGING THE RELATIONSHIP 

—Joyce Odam

One day she up and changed, became someone
to fear, perhaps, to puzzle over at best, for her
new and ornery ways, the soft and raggedy way
she dressed—all in torn things—pulled from back
hangers.

And it was where she went in bad weather and
came back at odd hours—hours when the clock
showed a particular row of repeated numbers on
the small clock by her bedside.

It was the way she murmured of blue forms by the
window, that seemed to know her, and love her,
and how she went to them in her trance of being
and celebrated with them her sorted miseries, and
how her new name glistened on their lips—and
how she loved the sound of this, and became their
name for her, and it was her own—the one she
chose to be, before you came.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/22/18) 

 

 

 

 Mary Brings Her Lamb, I Bring My Frog

ACCORDANCE  

—Joyce Odam

if the last drip
of rain
is to be
my measure,

and rain
is scarce,

why,
to my eyelashes now,
come these tears
that follow
        

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/29/20)

 

 

 

Oh, I Forgot

NOT SWIM HERE
—Robin Gale Odam

describe the river homework due
wade through abstract nouns
slippery root words sink and hide
compound sentence branches endlessly
rapid words merge into unruly paragraph
crowded adjectives describe motion
wonder imagines force could tell it better
tangled roots twist in the turbulent deep
opening statement arrives late with
confusing current thick to tread
skim the surface hold your breath
better not swim here wake up
it’s due tomorrow 

 

 

 

 Little Brother Wants To Stay

EPILOGUE
—Robin Gale Odam

Beware, these girls are mean—
I remember them from grade school,
I think I was six.

I watched from the long bench, my
back against the red bricks—I fixed
my eyes just beyond them, as though
watching the bats that swept over the
playground from the terra cotta roof tiles.

I saw the sharing of secrets—the knowing
looks, the telling smiles covered by fingertips,
faces turned just away from my presence,
my imperceptible waters—

deep waters for treading, for paddling
around them if it was not too far—for holding
one breathful of words and gliding just beneath
the surface and around them—or for sinking into—
for sinking, and then away and back to my bench
and the red bricks—to looking past them at the
bats, and waiting for the bell to ring.

                                                 
(prev. pub. in Medusa's Kitchen, 3/21/23) 

 

 

 

 Picture Day

HE HAD A FEELING ABOUT HER
—Robin Gale Odam

She was the one who would lift him up out of the
night of his childhood—the nightmare of falling
from flying above the old schoolyard, above the
huge children who poured from the classroom, who
reached up to grab at his shoes as he floated above
them just barely—their eyes turned downward to
anchor the blacktop, to kick the round ball at the
boy in the playground at recess, at lunchtime, and
after the lesson of numbers to ponder on paper with
lines and the spelling of arguments, words of con-
tention—hello and how are you today, what’s your
name, what school did you come from and where
did you live—you are sitting in someone else’s old
seat.

And there on the bench at the end of the wall near
the fountain of water and clutching a lunch pail of
delicate color—the moon and the owl and the boy—
was the one who would lift him up out of the night
of his childhood. He watched from the top of the
trees.
                 
______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THIRD GRADE
—Robin Gale Odam

a string of wooden hearts
around her neck, crudely carved

______________________

Thanks to Joyce and Robin Gale this morning for their fine poetry and Joyce’s fine photos! Our Seed of the Week was One Day At School. This week’s new SOW is “Winter Moonlight”. 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

 

 

 

 

 Home Schooling
—Public Domain Illustration

For future 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—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!