Blue Hours on the Shoreline

 —Poetry by Sterling Warner, Union, WA
—Public Domain Visuals Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

SIGHTS, SOUNDS & SKYWALKER JAVA

Coffee steams out of my Darth Vader mugs
rolls down my empty gullet as Quaker oatmeal
comes to a boil on the stove; peering out
my kitchen window, I notice a small herd
of whitetail deer ankle deep in Annas Bay
pensively scanning the Hood Canal

alert ears listen to harbor seals bark,
Canada geese honk, and sea lions grunt.

Pouring a second cup of java, the herd
stood spellbound, observing an orca pod leap
out of water, emitting various pulsed calls,
whistles, and echolocation clicks while waves
lap at their legs, soothing tired, cloven toes
chilling keratin hooves, waiting for ebb tides

to reveal hidden salt flats and oyster beds…
lead to small-island safety where does birth fawns.

 

 

 

 

 

31 FLAVORS REVISITED

Frozen lactose melts
down conical waffle sugar cones
young unwashed fingers squeeze the essence
of a momentary freeze as if corralling stray sheep,
confident broad tongue strokes would curb inertia
chocolate embracing a thawing mass, destined
to decorate diamond match sidewalks
like butter in frying pans
or else trickle down
parched throats
drip ice cream
rivers, refresh
bellies that feel
like furnace
cavities ready
to explode,
shrivel like
beached
jellyfish
in the
sun.

 

 

 

 

FORECASTER FAUX PAS

Weather predictors proclaimed inaugural spring
as buds emerged through tree branches
daffodils sprouted from down below
birds sought dry grass to construct nests.

We washed mold & mildew off our slip ‘n slide
placed peatmoss like a feather mattress
on a stretch of lawn to cushion landings
& increase momentum on the plastic film.

Three days in a row we’d wait till classes ended
hurried home ASAP to begin our ritual exercise
skimming the slick sheet like stones
skipping across waterways…never sinking.

In a week the butterflies, June bugs & buzzing bees
disappeared following a torrential downpour
unexpected, endlessly pelting our water slide
with rain, hail, and a micro blanket of snow….

 

 

 

 

WEEPY WALLPAPER

Interlocking chains hang
from the ceiling molding

to a wooden wainscoting
discolored maroon wallpaper

clung to lathe and plaster
water spot stains revealed

places where rain seeped
through leaky roof shingles.

I stared into the weepy design
imagined its genius from ink

patterns and finish drying
to cutting and packaging

decorative rolls that seamlessly
incorporated mold and mildew marks

into the initial blueprint, placing
water blemishes beyond reproach.

 

 

 

 

JUDICE MISCONSTRUED

A blue hour descended along the shoreline
I hear Judice’s gospel voice whisper, whisper,
whisper
    from on high then shed light far below
    haunting heaven’s pearly gates with academic
    curiosity less anxious to dwell as a spiritual
    entity
than examine the remainder of glacial fjords
watching Washington’s winter snowcaps drool
down mountains, etch irregular patterns.
 
Judice’s misread chill inexplicably melted away
her natural ablation mimicked icy peaks nearby
baptizing promontories, flooding gopher and mole
    burrows on the headlands; patient and kind,
    she never “suffered fools” yet gave me weekly
    chances
to notice her profile in the university theatre lecture
hall
always two seats away on the left; like lost oppor-
tunities
amid frog rain, regret consumes me upon reflection.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Some people walk in the rain. Others just get wet.

—Roger Miller

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Sterling Warner for today’s fine poetry!

 

Be sure to keep SnakePal Nolcha Fox in your thoughts today, as she undergoes surgery in hopes of relieving her mega-monster migraines. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

LittleSnake in frog rain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Without A Recipe

Butterfly

—Poetry by Ann Privateer, Davis, CA
—Photos by Ann Privateer

 

 

HE

A grownup
A retired
Architect
In a second
Marriage
Squeals with joy
When he finds
A penny
His only solitary
Accomplishment
For the day.

 

 

 

 Fountain

 

 

SHE

Never married
Until age 50
The child
Of a demanding
Mother
Now squelches
His every move.

 

 

 

Fish

 

WE

Friends
A long time ago
Present-day shoulds
Command
Attention
Put off
The weekend
To want to be alone.

 

 

 

Greens

 

MUSHROOMING

Absurdity
Lives beneath
Mushrooms
Where they discover
Mystery in moments
Laughing, undressing
How they electrify
In a go-around
Without a recipe
To unfold. 

 

 

 

Lion

MEDITATION

Get rid of the garbage
Periodically
Update oneself
Thank the I
Inexhaustible
Presented
By the me
Thinking, caring
Sharing
Happy.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Be happy in this moment. This moment is your life.

—Omar Khayyam

__________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Ann Privateer for today’s fine poems and pix!

 

 

 

 Eqyptian Sparrows Nesting in
Queen Hatshepsut’s Tomb

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

Frozen Against The Darkness

Today  

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

 

 

POEM FOR SADNESS
—Joyce Odam

Everything is broken.
All my golden winds are
crying at the eaves.

The shadows make
their indecisive motions
and the terror of

the leaves is on the day
like answers in the
the fumble of a question.

Sounds ebb and flow
and seek the slower dying
of the echo.

Light can make
no further struggle so it lets
the darkness know.

Somewhere
a single goose
is slowly falling;

his space fills up with crying
and the ground prepares
its shudder.

The flying of the seed
is like a burden
in the pregnant air.

What if the dream be real . . .
and what if there is nothing
in the after.

                           
(prev. pub. in Oregonian Verse, 10/22/67; and
Harlequin Press, May 1968) 

 

 

 

The Sadness

 

 
AXIOM
—Robin Gale Odam

Because my eyes are masked,
and because rivers of tears have
stained my cheeks, and even though
my lips are hidden in shades of dark,

she has come to my hand out of the
axiom of art—from the quill pen—the
rue bird from the theory of sorrow.


(prev. pub. in Brevities, November 2019)

______________________

THE POET’S WIFE
—Joyce Odam

She came to the door,
night-eyed, witch-haired,
and whispered,
“My poet is locked in his tower.
No one disturbs his twenty-third hour.”

“How did you meet him?”
we asked her. She smiled.
“He composed me one day
when he was drunk on rhyming.
He liked my sound and metaphor.
I liked his timing.”

“Oh, what are your children doing?”
we shuddered.
She shrugged. “They are cutting out words
from what we say, doing research
for their father.
But he throws their adjectives away—
why do they bother?

“Will you show us your forest-garden,”
we flattered.
But she warned, “Something heavy
is in the air. No one can breathe what’s growing.
The night is sick with molding green.
And I am sick with knowing.

“Will you tell him we came…” but whirlpools
moved in her moody eyes,
and she
was already climbing her husband’s stair,
taking key-shaped pins
from her struggling hair.

­  
(prev. pub. in Trace, 1965;
“My Stranger Hands”, Wagon & Star, 1967;


and Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/11/23)

 

 

 

Look At The Weather

 

THE POET MENTIONS HER CHILDREN
—Joyce Odam

She has such children,
such children,
hidden in bibles and prayers,
hidden under blanket-tents
pulled over chairs,
hidden in the world
away from her . . . hidden.
But her strings are silver rain
and her children come home again
to dry her hair,
to kiss her wet weeping.
Her strings are silver rain.
Her children return.
She holds them . . .
she sends them away . . .
it is an old pattern.


(prev. pub. in Voices International, 1989
;

and Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/1/14) 

 

 

 

As We Watch

 

 
THE POET, STEALING TRUTH
—Joyce Odam

We saw how you stole
line after line from
yourself and called it
original, how
you threaded strands of

sunlight into your
hair when you stood at
the burning window;
how light entered you—
the transparent light

with you shining there
—an apparition,
alive and screaming
until a din of
silence received you.

How will we find you
among the golden
ashes that still hold
your original
presence. Your words were

written on the glass
where rain erased them—
your tears, as you turned
back to us—unchanged
and we believed you.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/3/17)

_____________________

THE POINT OF THE STORY
—Joyce Odam

come to me after the others
I will tell you a tale so slow
it will take hours

the point of the story
will never be reached
it will always have to be
continued
it will take days

it will be boring
but will have
a thread of interest

you will get caught up in it
like a soap opera
it will take years


(prev. pub. in Free Lunch, Autumn 1991; and
Song for a New Beginning chapbook, 1993,
Red Cedar Press of Colorado)

 

 

 

Birdbath

 

AND OVER THERE
—Robin Gale Odam

. . . in the leaves, the by-
gone of a different time barely
away from me now . . .

. . . of a different time, the
quiet stirring blown over, un-
remembered, in the past . . .

. . . the little wind and the flutter
of leaves, almost ready to fall, con-
signed to oblivion . . .

. . . or maybe just buried
in a line on a page of the journal,
and nearly forgotten . . . 

 

 

 

To Woes of Others

 

POEM WITHOUT AN ENDING
—Joyce Odam

Let us begin a poem and never finish it—just let it 

dwindle off the page as if there is more to be said, 

but when you turn the page another one begins. 

And let us title it “Poem Without an Ending” and 

give it only that one page to struggle on, ending 

there, maybe with the word and, or at least no 

punctuation-mark in a punctuated poem. And let it 

enjamb—and have too big a gap of meaning—

built up to, but not quite conveyed. And it will be 

intense rough draft—the way first thought comes, 

so quick and obscure we can only follow to see 

where it leads. And it will lead us away from it-

self, as if it resented our awakening—though it is 

the one that came to us—tossing like stones at our 

window, our faces frozen there against the dark-

ness, looking out to see—as if this is the way life 

is—on its single page the long quick scribbling—

the—
                                                                      

(prev. pub. in Poetry Now, July 1999; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/29/19)

 

 

 

Mercy

 

POET OF ALL THE TENDER THINGS
THERE ARE TO HARM
—Joyce Odam

The young lover of life
is more than I can suffer.
He is so passionate of all the loves
his heart can conjure.
Poet of all the tender things
there are to harm.
Gentle as gentleness
would have him be.

How can I tell him, Listen,
there is
the cruelty
and the losing
and the never becoming what you need to be;
there is the failure
and the hate to be a part of;
there is the settling for something less . . . !
when he looks at me with tangible love
and says, Yes, I know . . .
but not awhile yet . . .

Oh young imbecile,
whom I love as a sort of miracle
and dare not yet believe—
write yourself that way then.
I hope life believes you.


(prev. pub. in Nickel Review, 1970; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/26/20; 9/20/22)

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

exhale at the looking glass
resolution of gravity

—Robin Gale Odam


(prev. pub. in Brevities, November 2019)

_____________________

Our thanks to the Odams—Joyce and Robin Gale—for today’s fine poetry as we continue to swelter here in California!

Our new Seed of the Week is “Roadblocks”. 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.

 

You may not have been able to access yesterday’s post, and if that’s true, then I’m very sorry. Let me know, and I’ll send it to you. One of our poets listed the Seven Naughty Words in his poem, so Blogger got irritated and blocked the whole post, insisting that people click certain things to get in. Not exactly censorship—more like a filter to keep kids out. As I said, I’ll get it to you if you weren’t able to access it.

And I guess we’ll have to watch what we try to post. So know that, if you use such words, I’ll have to take them out. This is, incidentally, the first time this has happened, even though we do use the F-bomb and the S-bomb on occasion. 

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 …against the darkness…

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

A reminder that
Twin Lotus Thai presents
three Fresno poets:
Tino DeGuevara,
Charlie Hensley & Paul Pierce
tonight, 6pm.
Reservations recommended!
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!

 

 

Overstaying One's Welcome

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Taking the High Road

 

 Early Winter Storm
—Photo by Chris Feldman


 

* * *

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

CALL ME BY MY NAME
 
shy, languorous, perhaps cruel
fall undresses slowly
as wind, hard rain
strip gold and russet leaves
from branches without remorse
trees' curves emerge
leaves pile at their feet
bright silken lingerie
 
fall unfolds over weeks, takes her time
finally stands beautiful, bare
before the last kiss
before her lover runs and winter tightens
 
trees hold onto that goodbye
stand strong throughout the year
they sing, Call me by my name
I am more than golden leaves, trefoil gown
more than arms or branches, fingers, twigs
skin or bark that peels to sweet new wood
more than blood or sap
 
Call me by my name
through the long winter, forgotten
they stand, broken, cracked
beaten by cold winds, longing
 
then at last, new life
green, warm sun and air
buds emerge, the trees sing
I am your other, I am your love—
call me by my name

 

 

 

 My Favorite Practice Room
—Photo by Ann Wehrman

ARIA
 
I reenter my favorite practice room
tears surprise me
long hours spent here, years ago
cold plastered walls, fragrant polished piano,
worn bench
welcome me back
wooden shelf holds my purse, flute case
it’s held thousands of music students’ gear
 
desire pushes
like a seed sprouts through soil
presses with every breath against gut, heart,
throat
I tremble as I unpack my flute, fit joints
together
close the thick wooden door—still, I will be
heard
I lift my flute to my lips

 

 

 

 Swallows' Nests
Sacramento State University, 2024
—Photo by Ann Wehrman

HOMING
 
in May, swallows with their new babies
fly in and out of nests in the eaves
of Capistrano Hall
 
my heart aches for my friend
now living in her car
survived getting old, losing her mom
even beat cancer
 
hands reach out to help
but she doesn’t see them, can’t trust them
folds into herself

 

 

 

 Take the High Road
—Photo by Chris Feldman


CHANGING COURSE
 
today imploded silently
while I slept unaware
and when I woke, stretched
I was pulled from within
away from what I had thought would be
picked up, set upon a new path
 
to-dos, deadlines unraveled, blew away
as I sat, breathed
later I made an omelet rich in cheese, veggies
rather than choking down dry toast
didn’t beat myself up
over playing a few wrong notes in orchestra
took photos of baby trees
poking up next to grandfather redwoods
inhaled fragrant soil soaked by heavy rain
 
fate gently swept me forward with love
I opened my eyes and jumped

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Between stimulus and response there is a space. In that space is our power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and our freedom.

—Viktor E. Frankl

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Ann Wehrman and Chris Feldman for today’s fine collaboration!

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

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!

 

 

    

Coyote's Children

Feeding the Gray Mare

—Poetry by Michael Dwayne Smith, 

Apple Valley, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

DAYBREAK

These mornings
my aim is to go outside

& take the world literally,
simply, genuine—

blue jay sipping from
water pooled beside a sprinkler,

my grey mare giving me the ol’ side-eye.

Of course
I am bum-rushed by life’s fear & anxiety.
Of course
I am ashamed of the secrets I have kept

(I so wanted to give them each away.)

Waking comes earlier every day.
Am I in a hurry for someone, something?

To make morning tea means time & care.
To drink invites sitting—

reverent gaze into desert hills
from our front porch,

horse whinny and birdsong
all the annotation I require. 

 

 

 

 

SCARCITY

Young couplets branch,
ripe with flowering fruit.

A turn, and then dry leaves
parachute to the ground,

ochre, carmine, plain shoe
brown. Scarcity begets plenty,

plenty a flamboyance,
a splendor, light, the sun the

basis for its being, ours, the
concealment of absence, the

nothing, which always prevails. 

 

 

 

 

DIVINATIONS

A Polaroid portrait, Janie’s buoyant smile,
eyes closed, head tilt dramatic into empty sky,
a fading creased survivor from 1974—
I place this on a table beside the handful of

multicolor river stones pocketed on an Arizona
reservation in 2004. I pick up a pen, pause,
listening, allegro moderato, Sibelius, Violin
Concerto in D Minor. A Sunday morning rises

inside me, days and years and rainstorms, a
slender white vase holding a single sunflower.
Back in my apartment, 1979, I am furiously
painting in dreamy afternoon sunshine, and Janie

does not suspect, for neither do I, that I am
painting the rugged road through treacherous
mountain terrain that leads me first to madness,
then to divorce, now to this window overlooking

an amiable grass, a venerable mulberry tree,
these six chattering ravens on a lax fence. 

 

 

 

 

REDEMPTION

Even at St. Hilary’s Episcopal they
peer over hymnals like I’m my father’s ghost,

shrink from my Peace be with you hugs like
leery children. O charming, sun-bleached

adobe, cloistered church, how am I not my Self,
sacramental tears not real enough,

little poems inaudible. Thus, I pray solo,
Sundays. Afterward, with a whisky, I spin

Monk again, to testify in high fidelity,
putting down what I will pick up, as lovely

untroubled Bonnie glides around the house
watching over a simmering soup,

resurrecting in me an angelic, dissonant smile,
as in Who needs anyone else’s heaven?

 

 

 

LOST LETTER TO EMILY

Everyone here is drinking beer, big whooping clouds
passing over, Mojave sun microwaving us all,
everything
hot to the touch, so the beer gets warm fast, meaning

Jimmie & Vero & all that crowd are gulping
Modelos,
letting out circus-tent laughs on the picnic grass
here by
the stables. I’m keenly watching horses stroll,
mostly, or

yipping when I stroke their necks. Last night
Jimmie’s
sister, Tina, found me on the back porch of my little
faux-adobe duplex & full-on kissed my stray mouth.
I have

missed her & it was a gift. I’ve missed you, too, but
differently, like a ghost limb. Tina split this morning
with ass-hat photographer you-know-who. No 

surprise, that.

Remember him hitting on you, after your broken
ankle
bareback riding the Narrows? He’s still got the scar—
man, I was proud of you. I am now quitted on the
warm

beers & have started on a bottle of bourbon. Yes, 

the Heaven Hill Green. Yes, still having that same
dream:
summer in San Gabriel Valley orange groves,
scooting

around on the banana seat of my Schwinn Sting-
Ray,
& Jesus steps out from behind a tree to say, That,
right there, that’s the poem, right now, in your 

mongrel head!

 

 

 

GHOST CHASING

As if I am a boy again, the moon following me
everywhere, like light reflected in my mother’s

green eyes, or the still surface of Silverwood Lake
at midnight. “No one alive is alone,” according

to Helen, perpetually upbeat, but her opinion
counts less because she is so much prettier than

the rest of us. Still, she has a point. I’ve lived in
Alaska’s birch cathedrals, late of the great state

of Americans trying to get away from everything,
but Hey, surprise! People already live there, and

runaways are just toting their problems around
to splash on unsuspecting souls. I’ve tried to run

away from you, too, but of course give in. I keep
a photo of you in my wallet—your beaming

face right after I kissed you. Your death is a
perplexing beauty: this welcome obligation to

cinematic memory, emotional mythos, flights of
stairs in my sleep that lead through lusty shadow

or flowery grief, nights slightly longer, mirrorless
halls full of doors randomly locked or unlocked,

rooms empty of ghosts, but still I feel the delicate
warmth of a wood fire from some chamber or other,

catch feints of ember and ash, and so I search on,
resolute, calm, moon watching through a window.

 

 

 

LONGING IS FIERCE

if you’re a windy tree.
The forgiven grove is closed.

Done for
like the rowdy horse on your father’s farm.

Gallop storm, gallop empire, gallop vinegar sky—
the King’s shoulders are broken,

blessings bent like pounded nails
in the long-broken tree,

redemption barking, moon-lidded, hounded by
October
down in the Paiute caves among some pines.

We are all become Coyote’s children
living in a muddy ditch.

Palestine sparrows nest around it.
We are disappeared.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Whenever the pressure of our complex city life thins my blood and numbs my brain, I seek relief in the trail; and when I hear the coyote wailing to the yellow dawn, my cares fall from me—I am happy.

—Hamlin Garland

____________________

A big Medusa welcome to Newcomer Michael Dwayne Smith, who haunts many literary houses, including Bending Genres, The Cortland Review, Gargoyle, Third Wednesday, Heavy Feather Review, Monkeybicycle, and Chiron Review. Author of four books, recipient of the Hinderaker Poetry Prize, the Polonsky Prize for fiction, and multiple Pushcart Prize/Best of the Net nominations, he lives near a Mojave Desert ghost town with his family and rescued horses. Again, welcome to the Kitchen, Michael, and don’t be a stranger!

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Michael Dwayne Smith

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Modesto-Stanislaus Poetry Center
presents a workshop today, 1pm;

and tonight, 4-8pm, Placerville
authors will sign books at the
Third Saturday Artwalk.
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!

 

When mares give you the side-eye...