It Must Be A Poem

 —Poetry by Richard LeDue, Norway House,
Manitoba, Canada
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

MOURNING THE PETALS

Another evening flat as a trampled daffodil,
which no one noticed as they hurried
somewhere they won't remember in a week,
but I feel the crushingness, and mourn the petals
that could have inspired a painting
or comforted a grieving lover.

Instead, we're more focused on mud
tracking through a clean kitchen,
and how we need to believe in well polished floors
meaning more than we have nothing left to say
because silence is strong enough to survive
footsteps going nowhere they haven't already been.

 

 

 

 

MY FIFTEENTH YEAR (ANOTHER SELF-
INDULGENT POEM)

I've sort of forgotten who I was
because I focus too much on who I am
at 43, which is a very unromantic age
compared to fifteen, and I could say
all the usual expected things,
like about having a first drink or kiss,
but I think thinking about my next glass
of rye whisky is more useful,
and I'm certain all the hope
I had back then hasn't died,
yet it's grey haired and worried
about wrinkles too,
although does anyone notice any of this
other than me?

 

 

 

 

AS CELEBRITIES GET POLITICAL

Is it possible to betray someone
you never met?
Probably, because our imaginary dishonesties
are always worse than the truth,
and the ghosts of famous strangers
haunt our brains with an intimacy
we keep well fed with silence
and by refusing to accept
they don't even know our names,
while our dead great grandparents
mourn us for being
so in love with the wrong ideas.

 

 

 

 

WILLING TO WASTE YEARS

People ought to earn their cynicism or nihilism,
instead of inheriting it like their grandparents
were given a belief in god and heaven

because now living has become like money or
jewelry
fought over after someone dies,
leaving people so damn sure they're right,

that they're willing to waste years, spending them
on hate,
when love would have been more dangerous
of an investment with the only currency they truly
have.

 

 

 

CLICHÉS FUELED BY LOVE

I wish we never kissed,
but instead spat polite hellos
while we passed each other by
because our first kiss tasted
like spit. After all the lies,
dressed up as poems,
reassured me of rose flavoured lips
and suns setting inside of eyes,
only for me to learn true disappointment
is two tongues dancing like slugs
desperate to drive away loneliness
(my third or fourth kiss
with the same girl),
leading to a breakup as predictable
as clichés fueled by love.

 

 

 

YEARS LATER

Constellations in the cool autumn sky
remind me of your last words
shining in my mind years later
as I navigate life,
while winter promises going in circles
and footprints so easily filled in,
that I wonder why
more people don't say hello.

 

 

 

 

IT MUST BE A POEM

Losing a staring contest with a blank page
feels a lot like being lost in a blizzard,
following footprints that fill in
fast enough to prove the moss on tombstones
wiser than any name or date
or witty metaphor appreciated by so few
that it must be a poem.

But sometimes there's stanzas, still as trees
in summer on those days when the wind
has nothing to say, and the leaves,
luscious in their greenness,
forget their autumn colours a bright prelude
to the sort of death that makes a poet
believe paper can blink.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

AT LEAST THE HANGOVER PROVES
YOU’RE STILL ALIVE
—Richard LaDue

Sometimes, the dead are an empty table
in a bar on the wrong side of your brain,
where you order beer and retell stories
you heard so many times
that you believed in immortality,
only to black out,
swallowed up by the silence and darkness,
which steals the light behind eyes
and leaves memory orphaned.

_____________________

Newcomer Richard LeDue was born in Sydney, Nova Scotia, Canada, but currently lives in Norway House, Manitoba with his wife and son (8 hours from Winnipeg, if that helps). He is a Best of the Net nominee and author of 3 chapbooks and 5 full length collections. His latest book, Second Hand Salvation, was released by Alien Buddha Press in 2023. Welcome to the Kitchen, Richard, and don’t be a stranger!

Read more about Richard LeDue at https://www.amazon.com/stores/Richard%20LeDue/author/B09DX9YL4T/.

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Richard LeDue

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that 

Stephen Meadows, Rina Wakefield

and Moira Magneson will read

at Pollock Pines Library today, 4pm.

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!

 

 

 

I Am A Forest

At Once

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

 

 

morning filled with sleep
autumn color fills the air
yesterday thinning

         —Robin Gale Odam

_____________________

THE GUARDED WOODS

—Joyce Odam

Who watches me with the
strange indifference of flowers

in the guarded woods
of my imagination

where I go in search
of strange flowers

seen in flower books—
the many eyes and faces

of such flowers
in their dissimilarity—

at home in
their dark shadow places

where they thrive and compel
my curiosity, where

should I dare to pick one
I would be forever guilty.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/25/15)

 

 

 

Visitant

 

IN THE MIND OF
—Joyce Odam

All night they struggle through the forest,
two creatures from the tale of woe,
doomed to create an ancient story
from myth to moral—she

being borne on the back of a handsome beast
who would protect her from the evil that
lurks at the edge of fairy tales,
not yet written.

                                            
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/9/11; 11/17/15)

_____________________

IN THE FOREST
—Joyce Odam

in the forest
which had been silent
something happened

a tree fell
taking at least
a century

it fell to the ground
and shuddered
taking at least a year or two

and made itself
comfortable there
while all its vibrations

reverberated still
and the air
resumed its breathing


(prev. pub. in Cotyledon 7, August l998; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/9/11)

 

 

 

Beyond The Need

 

CONDOR
(10-ft wing span, 35 mph, no vocal cords)
—Robin Gale Odam

No call, no cry, no voice—
but the rush of feathers in flight,
translation of the windborne.

                     
(prev. pub. in Brevities, March/April 2021; and
Song of the San Joaquin, Fall 2021)

 

 

 

 Guardian Angels

THE OLD FORESTS
—Joyce Odam

this
is where
the
trees
thrive
that are
still alive
ageless
trees and tall
in a guarded
reserve
that are
very old
untouched by all
but the perfect moonlight
that shines secretly upon them
                              

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/3/22) 

 

 

 

 Solitary

 

QUIETLY READING HERE FROM
A JUST-OPENED BOOK
After The Reader in the Forest by Robert Henri

—Joyce Odam

I want to write to you about the history
of an hour just lived.
I have come to this tree
which is very tall, and very old,
and seems to welcome me.
There are many such trees  
that seem to be just as knowing
of my presence, and I am writing
from memories that seem to change as
day changes its light through the leaves.
I think I have become lost, but that
is only another small detail
to mention—if I am found,
and you are not even the
one I want to find me.
There was something
about something
that I wanted to say,
but the tree is humming
as I lean against it and
the shadows rustle
ever-so-softly.
I never knew
there were
so many
shades
of green.
I know this is  
only a small grove
pretending to be a forest,
but that comforts
my little while of hiding.
City sounds still try to
invade the silence—the sky
is vanishing through the leaves.
The hour I mentioned has not really
been lived, just these mood-wanderings, this
room of leafy green curtains that keep changing
their light—moment by moment through the hours.

                                                           
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/1/21) 

 

 

 

 For Ever And Now

 

UNKNOWN HOUR OF WHEN
 —Joyce Odam

Time has brought me here—unknown hill
and sky—unknown hour of when.

An only tree looks familiar. I walk toward it.
Uphill.  Downhill is too dark.

How can this be morning—there is no clock.
I am thrust into timelessness.

I listen for birds in the tree.
Clouds hang still.

The tree rustles its leaves.
A voice-sound forms a question.

Ask and ask—I turn from my direction,
look down at the tops of trees.

A forest,
tightly held together by the silences.

I shout for an echo—call out,
call out—no echo in the density.

I have been asleep, and I have wakened
Where is the sleep tunnel?
                                            

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/18/20; 6/11/24)

_____________________

CALANDO
—Robin Gale Odam

When the credits roll, when happily
every after is embraced and the story
cleaves to a strand of illusion, the music
becomes slower and softer, dying away.

                               
(prev. pub. in Brevities, October 2016;
Sacramento Poetry Anthology, 2017;
Song of the San Joaquin, Winter 2017;
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/20/24)

 

 

 

Fairy Godmother

FOR THE CUP THROWER
—Joyce Odam

I am glad to have your book
with the spilled coffee on it.
I know how it feels
to throw a cup against the wall.
All the precious paper in the world
cannot stay such anger.
What a furious design you have made—
all that splatter—all the poems
have become suddenly holy.

                                          
(prev. pub. in Epos, Winter 1975; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/16/19) 

 

 

 

The Sleeper

TRAGEDY AND TRAGEDY, FADING-OUT
After Carnival Evening by Henri Rousseau, 1886
—Joyce Odam

Where are we now but in some dream
together, emerging a dark woods—

two mimes in white costumes,
wandering through a night-sketch—

late of a country carnival
(how long ago)?

displaced by time, perhaps,
the winter-stricken trees already lonely

for our presence
as we slowly diminish—

two cloud-wisps emulating us, the cold
and following white moon about to weep.

                                                     
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/25/17; 9/17/19) 

 

 

 

 Me, Myself, and I

 

FORGIVE MY NEGATIVITY
—Joyce Odam

I know no other way to be these days—these
hard-lived days, days of revelation, hard to say
and hard to live—comma unto comma of sad
thought endlessly pursuing some conclusion.

I don’t want to say illusion here but have to let
it in for dull reality—I fail life and fail myself
past utterance and silence. At odds. I spiel and
spiel on paper made of trees, I am a forest—

gone from rain to fire, and fire to rain.
It’s all so complicated now. I spiel
and spiel. I hold still. I hold still
so I can know.

_______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE PROMISED LOVE
—Joyce Odam

“The clearest way into the universe is
through a forest wilderness.”—John Muir

Follow the music of the trees.
Follow the music of the birds.
Follow the music of the
ever-deepening winds
that pull you deeper
into the waiting universe
of mind, and heart, and soul,
to where the promised love is.
                                        

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/6/12; 9/3/13; 

7/15/14; 7/12/22)

_______________________

Our Seed of the Week was “Alone in the Woods”, and The Odam Poets have tackled it with their usual verve and glory. Many thanks to them on this third day of Autumn.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Nosy Neighbors”. 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

 

 

 

 The Reader in the Forest
—Robert Henri, 1918

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Twin Lotus Thai presents
Kate Wells, Geoff Neill, & Jean Biegun
in Sacramento 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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Trampoline Circus

 Last Walk
—Image by Nolcha Fox (with Microsoft Designer)

* * *

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Caschwa, Devyanshi Neupane, Sayani Muhkerjee,
Michael H. Brownstein, Michael Ceraolo,
Joe Nolan, and Claire J. Baker
—Images by Nolcha Fox and Shiva Neupane
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan and Medusa

 

 

LAST WALK
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Today I walk in golden glow
of autumn in the woods.
The stream reflects the
darkening sky and trees
in reds and ambers, ready
to embrace the fading light.
Soon the winter snow
will cover all that I now see.
I won’t walk this way again
until the coming spring.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

TIMBER TIMBRE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Despite the myths of fairy tales,
or terrors played across the screen,
in woods none can be alone, for
our species share such space with more.
From canopy to groundwork down,
profusion, swarming legion life,
abundance branch, twig, leaf await,
those each with veins, sap circulate.

As swum through xylem, phloem in flow,
soars lifeblood against gravity
from roots, a network weaving zone,
so iceberg like, unseen though known.
With taste, scent, touch and telling sounds
we sense this world alive with swell,
and yet we fear what we don’t know,
that symbiotic ally show.

Withstanding in surrounding crowd,
those trunks are witness through time’s range,
whose age rings out, ancestral heirs,
surrounded bark uniquely theirs.
A carpet laid of ancient pile,
seeds stratified in layered seam
as rotting grave turns golden lode,
for sapling spring ready explode.

As this creation communicates,
what language may we use ourselves?
Facility our being lacks,
to listen ’ere we lyric wax.
Yet may our ears attune to notes,
at minim scuffle, grounded drop
if not the auxin, wormhole, mole,
holistic echo, timbre, soul. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

VIBRATIONS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

alone in the house I play
the piano fortissimo and
a decorative China tea cup
and saucer on the shelf have
no choice but to hum along

a military airfield nearby
dispatches a double rotor
helicopter which shakes
the rooftop

out on the street a truck
driver who is short on time
but big on air horn attempts
to awaken and dislodge that
sleepy flow of traffic ahead
of him

freight trains, idle so much
of the day, slam together cars
at all hours in preparation for
a haul

dogs in fenced yards on either
side of my house carry on the
tradition of barking for no
obvious reason, as my house-
hold’s dogs have done in the
past

meanwhile anonymous critters
tippy tap across my roof and
attic floor almost like they get
their mail here, too

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

THEY’RE ALL CORRUPT
—Caschwa

Snapshot of a pet peeve

the year was 1973,
it was my first car
a 1963 Dodge Dart
pulled over by a cop
for a safety inspection
I came to a complete
stop and fully complied

at the outset he asked
to see my driver’s license
which was in my wallet,
deep in my pants pocket,
so I unfastened my
seatbelt (they had no give
back then) retrieved it from
my pocket and produced it

he checked my lights, tires,
a few other things, then wrote
me up for not wearing a
seatbelt

in no longer than a brief
snapshot of time, this one
cop had smeared the fine
reputation of the whole force,
removed the shine from their
badges, tarnished all the honor
and respect of the title Officer,
and forever lowered my
expectation of being treated
fairly by a cop

from what I’ve seen since,
change from this posture is
the exception, not the rule 

 

 

 

 Devyanshi with lamingtons
—Photo by Shiva Neupane

LAMINGTONS
—Devyanshi Neupane, age 5,
Melbourne, Australia

I enjoy Lamingtons
But the less sugary ones.
Just once
In a week.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

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

The avalanche of broken dreams
The choir of new-sought promise
Surprise me as I go on seeking the world
The telepathy of numerous things
All at once come undone under my periphery
The vision of hydrangeas and little faiths
What if all a dreamscape of muted epiphanies?
Truly dream then again and again under the
canopy
For faith of all things comes around
The sun basks in a miraculous height
The trampoline circus of humanity at a standstill
Still flickering and sowing the seeds of freedom. 

 

 

 

 Joe says: Just needs a lot of stark, black, 

flying crows to look like a Van Gogh~
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

WHAT IF THE PALESTINIANS AND
ISRAELIS SAID, “NO”
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO

No to their governments, no to war, no to
genocide,
holocaust, torture, and yes to peace, collabor-
ation,
cooperation, friendship, all children should
thrive.
From every direction thousands, then millions,
of Palestinians and Israelis arrive at the border
screaming for an end to all conflict—
it's time for peace, faith, hope and trust—
and then people of all religions, nationalities,
ethnicities and race begin arriving by plane,
train,
car, bus, boat, camel, foot, wheelchair
until the volume of protest grows so great,
the immense weight of their bodies so heavy,
both lands blossom into The One Great Garden
of Peace, Love, Eden, Psalm and Prayer.


(prev. pub. in Lone Stars 105)

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

THREE FREE SPEECH CANTOS
—Michael Ceraolo, South Euclid, OH

Free Speech Canto XCVII

Irving Feiner was a college student
when he decided to make a speech
on March 8, 1949,
addressing a crowd of seventy-five to eighty
When one person wanted him silenced,
the police,
                instead of protecting him,
arrested Feiner instead of the threatened rioter
The majority of the Supremes said
"We are well aware
that the ordinary murmurings and objectives
of a hostile audience
cannot be allowed to silence a speaker"

But they did just that,
upholding Feiner's conviction

* * *

Free Speech Canto XCVIII

February 1940
The Board of Higher Education
in New York City
appoints Bertrand Russell to teach
at the City College of New York
Someone who didn't have standing
filed a lawsuit anyway,
                                  and
the judge, John F. McGeehan,
ordered the board to revoke his appointment,
saying such an appointment
"adversely affects public health, safety, and morals"
The appointment revoked,
the paper of record piled on,
saying that Russell should
"have had the wisdom to retire from the appointment
as soon as its harmful effects became evident"

* * *

Free Speech Canto XCIX

Even before the Alien and Sedition Acts
there was widespread, widely-accepted
state censorship
(one of the many entities
not then covered by the First Amendment),
                                                      because
the governments there worshiped Blackstone
and, despite the Revolution,
adopted English law lock, stock, and barrel
A couple of examples:
                                  in
Commonwealth vs. Freeman in 1791,
a Massachusetts court upheld the constitutionality
of criminal libel,
                        despite
the freedom-of-the-press guarantee,
                                                 saying
the amendment only prohibited prior restraint;
                                                           and
William Durrell, convicted of criminal libel
for merely re-printing the report of a trial
(the printer of the original report
apparently not prosecuted)
And, again. no one could explain why
the freedom of speech and freedom of the press
guarantees in state constitutions
were ignored

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

KITE IN FLIGHT
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Aloof, aloft, alight,
A kite took flight,
Drifted in the wind.

What were we
To make
Of broken string
And flying free?

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

CROATIAN SEASIDE
—Joe Nolan

Red roofs
Punctuate
Light yellow walls
Of homes that align
The Adriatic Sea
Along Croatia,
Once part of
The Roman Empire,
In times gone by
And here we are—
After the death
Of Communism.

It used to be part
Of Yugoslavia—
Land of the Southern Slavs,
Under the iron hand
Of Josef Tito,
Who wasn’t all that bad,
Who kept evil Stalin
Well at bay
So they could develop
Independently,
An attempt at
Peoples’ Socialism
For a country
On its own.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Image Courtesy of Medusa

DEMON GRASS
—Joe Nolan

Demon grass
Upon the lawn
Must be sprayed
Until it’s gone,
Lest it soon devour
All the finer grass
You’ve spent your hours
Nurturing and encouraging
With all your
Green-thumb powers
To dominate
And propagate
And bless you
With its flowers,
To decorate
Your little slice
Of paradise
You gaze out on
From your sliding window.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Image Courtesy of Medusa

THE WORLD’S A STAGE
—Joe Nolan

Who was the designer of the set
That filled up the whole stage
And caused us to forget
Where we were from
And where we were going?

Has anybody caught his name?
Does anybody understand
What kind of magic crystals
He cast about
To cause us all amnesia
And sudden numbness?

Numbness is much worse
Than amnesia—
It siphons off the here and now
While amnesia
Buries memories
Under pillows,
Leaving you in here-and-now,
Maybe forever,
Without resort
To way-back-when,
Back before
Your head began to spin.

The stage is not your savior.
It’s only there
To make your
Call to appear,
To watch you suffer,
To watch you fall.

You might be better off
As an old man
Who grunts and scoffs
At all the world offers. 

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

TWO MORE POETS TAKE
THE WOODED PATH  
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

for Mo Hurley & Sandra McPherson

Walking
and I haven’t
honored them with a tree.
These redwood roots linger in my
fingers.

______________________

Thanks to today’s contributors, some of whom wrote about our Seed of the Week, Alone in the Woods. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

Last Wednesday, I said that Janine Stevens’ new book is No Lunch for the Day Stars from Cold River Press. Actually, she has a more recent book coming out from Claire Songbirds Publishing House: Left Handed Hummingbird, coming soon from https://www.claresongbirdspub.com/.

 

And thanks to Claire Baker for her tribute to Sandra McPherson and Mo Hurley in today's LittleNip. Tune in next Sunday for more about Mo.

______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Quote Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that tonight, 7:30pm,
Sacramento Poetry Center will host
A Tribute to José Montoya.
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!

 

Monday Mood
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Raven Says~

 —Poetry by Kathy Kieth, Diamond Springs, CA

—Visuals Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 
AMBER MORNINGS
 
pop and sizzle like bacon: dry roofs
are griddles frying late August
sunshine.  Tatty birds in late-
 
summer moult are harvesting
what they can, fighting over acorns
in this longer slant of low-slung
 
sun. . .  August mornings are short
on dew: they crackle in airless attics
like brittle old newspaper—yellow,
 
ready to crumple into fall: fold over
onto themselves: shatter their spent
leaves into compost to feed
 
the coming winter days. . .

 

 

 

 AFTER LABOR DAY
 
Elephant ears on the catalpa are in constant
motion; restlessness that is Autumn has set them
flapping. The grey squirrel looks tired and ratty
 
as she mines dry oaks hour by hour, planting trees
of her own in soft soil. Woolly bears on new
lettuce plants foreshadow Halloween—dark
 
chocolate and pumpkin orange—and Christmas-red-
and-green Swiss chard has started to stretch itself,
grow away from the long, stagnant summer. . .
 
After Labor Day, neighbor kids are back behind
cramped desks, trading bare feet for buses and
the teacher's clock. And after Labor Day, the rest
 
of us move a little faster, sharpen
our edges as we try to store enough acorns
to meet those coming storms. . .

 

 

 

 

AUTUMN BURLESQUE
 
My liquidambar is an odalisque, teasing me
with her leafy veils as she drops them
one by one.  Letting loose her scarves of
chartreuse and vermilion, she shyly
 
shows off supple limbs that have been
hidden from sight and sunburn through
the long hot summer.  The clothes
she coyly drops here and there are every
 
color—red so painful that it moves into
blue, green into ochre, gold into bronze.
Like Joseph, the coat she sheds is every
shade; like Joseph, surely she must be
 
the favored child. . .

 

 

 

AS THE RAVEN FLIES

No wing-shadows here, but we know
his long, glossy feathers are tipped up
on a late afternoon to catch

the welcoming Deltas—warmer air than
he’s used to—swell of soft updrafts that
lifts him, soaring, over this green and gold

quilt with its bright blue border, this fence-
stitched blanket with its long threads of
winding grey road.  He’s headed south—

away from the land of Raven tales, of snow
and fog-tipped redwoods.  Black eyes glisten
on surveillance in this rare visit to the middle

third of his coast: temperate waistline
of California: sandy soil he fashioned out of
sun and frost and raindrops: his benediction

of shadow that stretches across this
rich coastal tapestry, this afghan of amber
and green and soft gold…

 

 

 

 

Raven says...

 

JUST WRITE—
 
about cannibals and headhunters and circus
clowns, about the red spade leaning against
the barn.  Write, even though your pen runs
 
dry/jams up/spits out big blobs of bluey-
purple ink and the cat won't stay off your lap
and it's 'way past breakfast time. . .  Write
 
about that deer staring against old snow, about
the mole over your mother's left eye, about
brave children never born, chances grabbed
 
and missed, regrets tossed away like worn-
out party hats. . .  Write, write!  Don't let
there be space between pen and paper, air
 
after the periods, blank spots on yellow pads.
 
Just write.

 

________________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Autumn teaches us the beauty of letting go. Growth requires release—It’s what the trees do.

—Ka’ala

________________________

—Medusa, with thanks to our readers’ patience on this Autumnal Equinox for putting up with more than usual Medusa-ink today…

 

 

 

 ... about cannibals and headhunters …

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
ForestSong will take place
in Somerset today, starting
at 12pm; and poets
Chris Olander and Barbara Young
will read in Camino today at 2pm.
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!

 

LittleSnake, alone in the woods
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's All Relative

 —Poetry and Photos by Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

 

 

LITTLE NOTES

Three’s a big number
more than the eyes, legs, or feet
then there’s big digits

 

 

 

IT’S ALL RELATIVE

They say that birds are
descended from dinosaurs
do drones come from phones?

 

 

 

 

MYSTERIOUS MIND

When my eyes are closed
I think of things to write down
epiphanies, all

 

 

 

 

SPANKING ED

Learning curves can be
open palms used with great force
on your bare buttocks

 

 

 

 

COGNITION

Hello, I see you
are all the words you need
stand up, be counted

 

 

 

 

KEEPING UP

Punctuality
will set deadlines to address
matters big and small

 

 

 

 

TAUTOLOGY LOGIC
GONE BERSERK

“More perfect union”
has confusing meanings for
imperfect people

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Imperfection is beauty, madness is genius and it’s better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring.

—Marilyn Monroe

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Caschwa for today’s fine poetry and photos! Carl has been hanging out in the Kitchen since 2010.

 

 

 

 

Caschwa

a.k.a. Carl Bernard Schwartz

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that 

Sacramento Storytellers Guild

presents Fall Stories & Poems

at Sac. Poetry Center today, 2pm.

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!