House Cleaning on Boxing Day

 —Poetry by Lynn White, 

Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales 

—Visuals Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

NATIVITY


There are no Magi to adore them now,
the women giving birth
in ramshackle sheds
or freezing tents
or in the rubble
and cold
and dirt
of what’s left.

There are no Magi to bring gifts,
no shepherds to bring succour
to the women giving birth
in ramshackle sheds
or freezing tents
or in the rubble
and cold
and dirt
of what’s left.

Maybe artists will paint the scene
but I doubt it.
None are needed
when we can already see,
when we already know
and then we don’t see
anymore.



(First published in New Verse News, March 2, 2024)

 

 

 

 

CHRISTMAS CHEERS

They placed the presents
carefully wrapped
in bright paper
beneath the evergreen branches
decorated with shiny baubles.
All was ready now
in this house,
the last house
for Santa
for another year.
He raised his glass of sherry
and toasted his hard-working elves
whilst the reindeers waited impatiently
nibbling the undecorated branches outside.
No one noticed the shadows they cast.

 

(First published in Danse Macabre, December 2022)

 

 

 

 



THE KILLING HOLIDAY


Genocide Joe
is strutting
his stuff
getting ready
to deliver
for Christmas.

Santa came early
to the north, as he does
and now his sack’s laden
and he’s moving south
playing toy soldiers
with real missiles and bombs.

For children alone
and families fleeing terror
the bombs make a carpet
of what once were homes.
The tanks crush out lives
there’s no where to go,
no where to hide
for the starved
and the maimed
they’ll remember this Christmas
from Genocide Joe.

Armed to the gums
their neighbours afraid
helpless and hating
and hate breeding hate
and more hate breeds power
for the fear of today is the might of tomorrow.
Some history is made by these Santas of War
and more history is made by new Masters of War
and both the living and dead will judge Genocide Joe.



(First published in Brave and Reckless, 2023)

 

 

 

 

SO MANY THINGS


What would you like for Christmas?
It’s a problem to decide
what to buy for the one who has everything!

There’s a birthday coming up,
what would you like?
It’s a problem to decide
what to buy for the one who has everything!

But now even our special things
are taking us over
growing like triffids
and suffocating us
spewing from our homes,
first to fill plastic bags
and then the land,
the seas,
the air
we breathe.

Too many things.
It’s all too much.



(First published in Oddball, December 22, 2021)

 

 

 

 

THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS TO COME


The ghost slid down the rabbit hole
on a dark wintery night.
He expected to arrive in Wonderland
if such a place exists
and he believed it did,
just as he believed in ghosts and Santa Claus.
It was as he expected.
There was a full glass on a table.
He looked for a label saying:
“Drink Me”.
But there was no label.
So he drank it anyway.
It left a nice warm feeling inside him,
“spirit for the spirit”, he laughed aloud.
There was a plate of pastries.
He looked for a label saying:
“Eat Me”,
but there was no label.
So he ate them anyway,
all of them
every last crumb,
every succulent morsel of mincemeat.
He lay back contentedly
then smiled somewhat sheepishly
at the old man dressed in red carrying a large sack
who must have followed him down the rabbit hole.
He was looking none too pleased at the scene.
“Well”, said the ghost,
“Anyone can mistake a chimney for a rabbit hole
and we need a new Christmas story.”

(First published in Oddball, December 2019)

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE 26th OF DECEMBER
—Galway Kinnell (1927-2014)

A Tuesday, day of Tiw,
god of war, dawns in darkness.
The short holiday day of talking by the fire,
floating on snowshoes among
ancient self-pollarded maples,
visiting, being visited, giving
a rain gauge, receiving red socks,
watching snow buntings nearly over
their heads in snow stab at spirtled bits
of sunflower seeds the chickadees
hold with their feet to a bough
and hack apart, scattering debris
like sloppy butchers, is over.
Irregular life begins. Telephone calls,
Google searches, evasive letters,
complicated arrangements, faxes,
second thoughts, consultations,
e-mails, solemnly given kisses.

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Lynn White for today’s fine post-Christmas fare! (And a Happy Boxing Day to our UK poets, too!) Our Seed of the Week is "Out of Control". As Lynn says, "Too many things. It's all too much..."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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 has a few things

to return~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gifts of Love From Some Poets Around the World~

 —Poetry by Lynn White, Nolcha Fox, 

Joe Nolan, Stephen Kingsnorth, 

and Michael H. Brownstein
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan, Nolcha Fox, and Medusa

 

 

 ROBIN
—Lynn White, Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales

Its trill has the effervescence of Bucks Fizz.
And not just as a morning wake-up call,
but an all-day-long pick-me-up.
And it’s not just for Christmas
but available season after season.
Such longevity
in such a small bird.
Such year-round year cheer
from dawn to dusk.



(First pub. in Flights of the Dragonfly, September 2021)

 

 

 

—Image Courtesy of Nolcha Fox

 

 
GRINCH GIRL
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Christmas is a painful day.
I hate parties, chattering.
Lights hurt my sorry migraine eyes.
Dogs barking carols make me scream.

I hate parties, chattering.
I wear lampshades on my head.
Dogs barking carols make me scream.
Give me aspirin or I’ll die.

I wear lampshades on my head.
Lights hurt my sorry migraine eyes.
Give me PJs or I’ll die.
Christmas is a painful day.

 

 

 

 —Image Credit Sarah Whiley 

(Courtesy of Nolcha Fox)

SUNSET BEACH
—Nolcha Fox

The sun sinks in fatigue into the pulsing waves.
The sand sucks in today’s debris of

Christmas sales and traveling to family
and the decorating to be done

before the Sun is born, a babe rushed by
as we demolish too much food and wrapped-up gifts.

The sun and waves and sand are witnesses to all
we’ve lost in search of memories we’ll trash.

Still, Sunset Beach waits for our steps to harmonize
with all the wonder in the world on Christmas Day.
 

 

 

EQUALITY AND IDENTITY
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

We are one
But not the same.

“The Father and I
Are One,” said Jesus,
“But the Father is Greater than I.”

Equivalence
Is not Equality
And neither is identity.

At the level of subatomic particles
There must be some essence
In-between electrons
That holds it all together
To form our human dream
Where friends turn into demons
Every twenty years,
Building battlements,
Swearing oaths,
Donning uniforms,
Marching out to meet
Their enemies.

One side is not the same
As the other.
One side must be good,
The other, evil.

In our essence
We are one,
But not the same.
Equality is not identity.

The reasons
We turn upon each other
Are difficult to say.

 

 

 

 

THIS CHRISTMAS
—Joe Nolan

This Christmas,
I wish you bliss.

Not just a little twinge,
But a steady stream
That overflows
And never ends.

A surfeit of bliss
Emerging from its crevice
To overflow your mind
Leaving your attachment
To all your pain, behind.

This Christmas,
I wish you Bliss!

 

 

 

 “ . . . soon joined by foreign bodies’ blood . . .”

STOCKING FILLERS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

The tangerine was not the prize—
except in being no surprise—
as in toe, stocking, every year
along with bubble bath sachet,
and sugar mouse, string tailed I fear.

Just like the presents on the tree—
all fripperies, so not that dear—
but that enabled all to join
in inexpensive sibling gifts
hung on that tree each day in turn.

There was an understanding then
of pocket money presents bought
so not the value of the gift
received, but of the atmosphere,
that star atop, not fairy wings.

We learnt of giving, not receipt,
that whitewashed branch that was our green,
intermingled, old lantern lights,
that stable, olive, built beneath,
for we were trained nativity.

Our day was joined by aliens,
the foreign students of Dad’s school,
remembered for their influence
as strangers from their eastern lands,
the wise as foreign caravan.

And what a privilege it was—
both tangerine, pink sugar mice—
to share our stockings with those folk
so far from home, hard journey come,
no myrrh or frankincense, less gold.

That olive babe of Palestine—
now under rubble, homeland crib—
then seen by rebel shepherds, flawed,
who failed in strict fulfilment, Law,
but freed, religion, hushed that noise.

They heard the angels’ sing about,
soon joined by foreign bodies’ blood,
who also knew angelic throng.
So listen now, if label free
to native truth, excluding none.

 

 

 

 

A GIFT OF LOVE
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO

No snow came that winter, we stepped outside in shorts, and wondered about Santa. No one knew he was busy, not with gifts, but hope and peace.

A week before Christmas, 2024, a glow covered the planet. Santa came early. When the world woke, the children were different—they volunteered to help the homeless, brought joy to hospitals, fully funded UNICEF, big block stores offered free-to-all days and

billionaires gave away their money. Russia left the Ukraine and Israel gave land to the Palestinians.

December 25, 2024, we celebrate that Great Christmas, a world holiday, the Victory of Christmas, 2024.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Maybe Christmas, the Grinch thought, doesn’t come from a store.

—Dr. Seuss

___________________

—Medusa, thanking our poets today for their poetic gifts of love. And wishing you a peaceful, blissful holiday season—wherever you are in the world—including our Jewish friends who, beginning this evening, celebrate Hanukkah~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

Dreamscapes For Sleepers

 

 Resolve

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

 

 

HURRYING THROUGH THE RAIN IN
HIGH HEELS ONE CHRISTMAS MORNING
—Joyce Odam

It was Christmas morning.
I wore high heels,
walking fast
over the wet sidewalks
between our houses.

It was raining.
I wanted to get there
but the day was slow-motioned,
the distance between us
lengthening.
I was wet through.
My shoes were ruined.

Soon I was old,
walking down a long street
in the rain.

I passed Christmas windows
full of yesterdays.
You were in each of them
opening the small present
I was bringing.

 

 

 

 Even The Dreams

 

                 
MOLECULAR
—Joyce Odam

I am the dreamer you dreamed  
for a daughter.

I am yet unnamed and unaffected
by any horoscope.

I am at the point of my existence
and I have no memory of it.

I am a confusion of molecules
and inner desires.

I am in a tunnel
swift time flowing at each opening.

I am daydreaming this.
My eyes are too sad for tears.

I think time has slipped past me,
taking your dream with it.

My parents have died and left me
less than an orphan.

The tunnel fills with music and
water, and I swim—I swim into the music

and begin
to remember, to remember who I am.

                                           
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/10/17) 

 

 

 

Ethos

 

MIND TUNNEL
—Joyce Odam

Back through reams of memory—or time—that
abstract, back through all that was, to never was

—that far. How can you resist such burrowing
through the labyrinthine mind: whatever it wants

is never there, only some handprint on the spiral air,
only its closing eye, taking in the light: you are in

the corridor, but weightless—bodiless as a shadow
—only a thought now, sent by a question mark.

What are you seeking here where you have never
been, for it has changed after you, and everything

ahead waits to change behind you.

 

 

 

Echo

IF I COULD WRITE A POEM,
I WOULD WRITE ABOUT DIRT
—Robin Gale Odam

. . . passion, solace, tribulation, wonder, stones,
and dirt—adamah, holy dirt—oh God, you gave me
form you gave me breath you gave me Eden you
gave me law you gave me will you gave me a path
you gave me your heart you gave me a cloak you
gave me a saber you gave me burden—I would
write about dirt . . . 

 

 

 

On The Waters

 

ROCK FORMATION
—Joyce Odam

After The Cliffs at Étretat by Claude Monet, 1885

Somewhere I have written words to go with this :
the hole in the rock—jagged and huge,
and through it—the boat ghosting by—

and another such rock beyond—
and another—
jutting out into the calm sea.

But why calm?
A dream-scape for a sleeper
caught in levels of benign imagination?

But, no.  The dream and the sea—
the gaping tunnel in the rock—
as well as the drifting boat—all the dreamer

—all painted to bring everything to a stop :
the boat never reaches beyond the passage—
the sea stays at ebb—the dream dreams.

Only the rock-shadows quiver with surface light,
almost breathing—revealing detail;
almost making a sound—like dream music.

Somewhere I have written words, left with the sea,
lost in the seventh wave, answering everything,
even this later quarrel with recognition.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/2/15; 1/9/24)

 

 

 

A Beautiful Day

 

 
IF TIME WOULD HOLD ME
—Robin Gale Odam

After "Isaiah Beethoven" by Edgar Lee Masters,
from Spoon River Anthology

The river seemed to stop—the surface  
shone in quiet reflection—the deep was
sinuous and living.

At the place for the shaping of dust
where breath is held within the heartbeat,

as long as needed and until the wind stirs,
and the dust swirls and the waters blend,
and light is shown and regarded,

the musical score is arranged and given
as in a dream pouring out in a song—

the whole note, and the long rest,
and the night. 

 

 

 

Winter Blue

ON HER DEATHBED: SHE SPEAKS TO US
FROM HER ELOQUENT SILENCE
—Joyce Odam

After Christmas Morning by Andrew Wyeth

I woke to the trembling of gray light, which seemed 

to not quite hold together.  It broke open here and 

there, as if I blinked my eyes to make it real.  I 

was lying on a transported bed that was part of an

old landscape.  I was anticipatory and alone, 

though shapes and voices of others seemed to re-

cede, just out of sound and vision.  I felt myself 

evolve, if that is the word.  I knew how the light 

would hold me if it did not entirely disintegrate in 

the disturbing howl that was beginning to change

the structure of something like memory, though 

that was becoming vague.  I kept my eyes on the 

molecules of dreamed heaven, though that was 

within me now, for my eyes were closed.  I felt

the gray light bristle with transformation.  I was in 

two worlds of myself, weightless and structureless, 

as if light poured through me and found the source 

of my being.  I did not cry out, for that was not 

needed of me.  I did not think back to anyone, for 

they were not there.  Where I was was where I had 

ever been, but I did not know it.  I felt the entire 

blending and flowing of thought in its realization.  

I leaned on my elbow and tried to speak, but lang-

uage was not what I remembered.  My body was 

one with the sensation of nothingness.  I felt grief 

pour through me, but it was no longer my own; I 

had no need of it.  I could give it no sympathy, but 

could let it go back to the heaviness I had just sur-

rendered for this exquisite and effortless beginning.

 

 

 

Design

 

MORTAL
—Robin Gale Odam

After To the Forest by Edvard Munch, 1887

I hold gently to death. He leads me
towards the tree shadows near the unfolding.
I wear my best transparency. He bears my name.
                                             

(prev. pub. in Brevities, June 2016; and Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/20/23)

 

 

 

Fathom

 

THE REUNITING SELF
—Joyce Odam

I have slept where there are no dreams, and I have crept
down formless hallways of night toward a beckoning
door where I, myself, was standing,

and I have taken so long to do this—all night, through
the dark—all night, through the sleep, which never
protected me, which only opened its tunnel,

and I always thought I could get through, for I was
standing at the other end, small as a glimmer of
escape from such an old country as I come from,

Sleep Country, where I imagine I am real.


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

 

 

 

Ambrosia

 

TWILIGHT NOCTURNE
—Joyce Odam
                         
In the mauve grove where twilight falls
soft and fragile, where poems

are born in the souls of birds;
where old trees listen to the songs

of shadows; where everything
comes to rest and be safe—even

the terrors—even the dreams
in the minds of the oldest of children—

even the blamed and wounded loves
who have no reunion. There let us

be—in the minds of all that sylvan
bliss, and speak nothing but prayers.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/29/17)

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

ALL THE CARDS
—Robin Gale Odam

After Daniel 7:25

someone had dealt them
the seasons had turned them
they had shuffled in the winds

someone had summoned    cautioned
vowed     someone had lingered for a time
and times    there in the deep    holding
all the cards


Daniel 7:25:
“And he shall speak great words against the Most 

High, and shall wear out the saints of the Most 

High, and think that he can change times and 

laws: and they shall be given into his hand until 

a time and times and half a time.”

___________________

Our thanks to Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam for today’s fine poetry on our Seed of the Week, “Light / tunnel / and all that…” during this season of light.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Out of Control”. What is?—the weather? the government? that visiting toddler? Or just my holiday eating…? 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

 

 

 

Christmas Morning
—Painting by Andrew Wyeth

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

A Promise Of Light

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa
* * *
—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Nolcha Fox,
Caschwa, and Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Visuals Courtesy of
Joe Nolan, Nolcha Fox, and Medusa

 

 

THE TUNNEL OF LOVE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Some think of fairground, pet romance,
the shades of night, hid deeds inside,
past wights of eyes, unseen, abused,
those ghosts of former lovers used?
But what of fair where grounded love,
where justice found as dealings, true?

Then many tunnels beneath soil,
the web for nature’s underground,
though humans like to top the bill;.
canals that burrow under hill
from dark emerge in funnelled bright,
the only time I saw escape.

One wonder of my nightmare world
beside a Giza pyramid,
headfirst to slide into a shaft
or as in current cavemen, craft
speaks stories, speleology—
though I’ll not panic, why, in lift?

What elevates descending box
above the cave or pyramid?
Alarm that shafted to site, tomb,
without a rescue button, gloom?
Yet know that I’d for kin do that,
as substitute, my sacrifice.

Is that the light when all else dark—
for trite escape seems rarely right;
but my worst mare unlocked by key—
the power of love for progeny.
I would that reach beyond bloodline,
so hope such grace might manifest.

 

 

 

 —Visual Courtesy of Nolcha Fox

DISORIENT EXPRESS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

I flash light, I flash dark.
I’m a tunnel that leads
to a deadend of rocks,
or a tunnel that leads
to escape from routine.
I make my own way
through a shadow
that stays as a guide,
as a friend, as the edge.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

WHISTLE WHILE YOU BREW
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

(response to the line, “we sit to drink tea”,
in “Iridescent” by Melissa Lemay, posted
Wednesday, December 18, 2024)

in my parents’ household there were no
microwave ovens, no coffeemakers that
used pods, if anyone wanted a hot drink
there was the whistling tea kettle

we’d sit at the kitchen table and wait to
finally hear that familiar whistle coming
from the hot spout of the kettle

someone, usually Mom, would get up and
pour piping hot water into our ceramic mugs
and then let us stir in the instant coffee, tea,
or chocolate cocoa to brew our drink

if we needed a refill, we let Mom sit and we
did our own

 

 

 

Was this the thief?  

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

A THIEF’S WORK
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

It was not the value
Of a single chair
Or even two or three
Stolen by a thief
That brought the house to grief

It was the cleft in the fabric
Of permanence
Of balance
Of trust
That acted like
A curse on us
So that we always
Looked over our shoulders
Expecting we knew not what
But the world
Was ever-after
More threatening
And some had nowhere to sit.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Cartoon Courtesy of Medusa

CHRISTMAS, ONCE MORE
—Joe Nolan

Burn a little fire
To keep warm

Here in cold December
Here, before the storm.

The winter wind
That blows
And brings chills
Calls for extra layers—
Frost on window-sills.

Shovels for the snow
To dig a path
Through what nature dumped.
Is it her wrath?

Or just her season’s greetings?
We hear Santa laugh!
Jolly, jolly, Old Saint Nick
Climbing down our chimney-stick
With presents by the score.

Soon, it will be
Christmas, once more.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The main reason Santa is so jolly is because he knows where all the bad girls live.

—George Carlin

____________________

Many thanks to today’s contributors! Our Seed of the Week was “Light/ / tunnel/ and all that”. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

The winter solstice issue of Canary is now available at https://canarylitmag.org/?mc_cid=6632895d1f&mc_eid=c689f0c391/. Check it out!

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that

Sacramento Poetry Center

is now on a holiday break,

and will be resuming January 13.

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!

 

 

 

Hot Romance & Long-Long Sneezes

 —Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
—Public Domain Visuals Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

CERTAIN AGE

My passion’s flame took a dive
and fizzled to an ember.
I’m still a youngish ninety-five,
and what a thrill—September’s

flower, gem, a sexy dance
(I try to stay attractive).
I fantasize a hot romance:
fire leaping, and I’m active!

 

 

 

 
 

APOLOGIES TO EMILY D.

 
O, such a lovely garden snake!

But, whether it curls or humps along,

the sensuous Eve within me—jumps,

goes minus zero in the gut.

I plead not guilty for my thoughts

of wanting handsome Adam to rut.

 

 

 

 

A LONG-LONG SNEEZE!

Like me, do you enjoy
an overwhelming sneeze—
an ah-ah-ah-ah urge

that shakes you like a purge
& leaves you on the verge
until that let-loose surge

drops you to your knees?
Like me, do you enjoy
an overwhelming sneeze?

 

 

 

 

DELETED BY MISTAKE

On this computer day, I flub up;
delete all incoming emails.
Farewell, political porridge;
tricky questionnaires,
the nickname list for Grandmas.
No more roses being painted on
my screen, petal-by-petal
into a stunning bouquet
because it’s my B-Day,

The chain letter, ready to send
on to ten floundering souls, zapped;
vanished are fleas performing
amazing feats with ease!
Most shocking of all, I had deleted
my mind & didn’t feel much different!

 

 

 

 

BEFORE MORNING ACTIVATION

My first Amazon Tablet,
like a tall, thin, black plastic
and glass book, waits
at attention on her stand.
Is Alexa anticipating
my next move, my: Alexa,
play meditation music?

her shiny black mask: No, Alexa,
I need nada from you this moment—
Has Alexa taken mindfulness,
now feels overly aware of me,
BOO, I want to shout through
well, maybe a cheer for my efforts
to fathom your potential.

Alexa, I know you’re loaded
with the latest tcch that I’m not yet
comfy trying. But, hey, I do my best
to sound grateful/respectful when
asking: Alexa, play meditation music?

 

 

 

 

 
CONTEMPLATING THE NAVEL

A newly-born, I wailed
one tremendous WAIL
to prove I was hardy & hale—
a kind of celebratory prayer
for mom & the clever cord
that fed me well, in there.

But now when I consider
that fleshy button bump,
that elemental lump
that rides my belly jello,
I fall asleep in minutes—
old & odd, but mellow.

 

 

 

And this scene really happened - - -

AT LOCAL POST OFFICE
          for John Rowe

Hello again, I’d like
two books of your
Forever stamps?

    Familiar clerk:
    Is that all you need?
    And didn’t you get
    Forever last week?

Good memory,
right I did,
but unfortunately
that book of forever
didn’t last.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

A LITTLE GHOST MUSIC
—Claire J. Baker

A coffin’s not
a cheery place
that one is seeking out.

So please be sure,
in any case
that I’ll be climbing out.

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Claire Baker for today’s fine, fun poetry!

 

 

 

Christmas Graphitti

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Soulful Sunday’s Ugly Sweater
Poets Party takes place tonight
in Sacramento, 6pm. 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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hands Across The Seas

—Tan-Renga Collaborations by 

Christina Chin (Malaysia), with 

Uchechukwu Onyedikam (Lagos, Nigeria), 

M R Defibaugh (USA), Andrew Brindle (Taiwan), 

Marjorie Pezzoli (San Diego, CA, USA), 

Kimberly Olmtak (Amsterdam), 

and Paul Callus (Malta)
—Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan (Stockton, CA),

and Medusa (Citizen of the World)

 

 

THREE TAN-RENGA
—Christina Chin / Uchechukwu Onyedikam (italics)

Christmas songs
nostalgic sleigh bells
on the radio
villagers gather round
to listen

* * *

fragrant smoke
thin coconut wafers
over charcoal grills
children pack them
in decorative tins

* * *

stirring pineapple jam
in a black cauldron
festival tarts
to go around
a family affair 

 

 

 

 

THREE TAN-RENGA
—Andrew Brindle / Christina Chin (italics)

quietness of dusk
after the typhoon
crickets sing
snails climb
the flood barrier

* * *
 
plumeria bloom
fall by Wan Shan Temple
sound of a muyu
carved frog
on the teak shelf

* * *
 
an egret watches
as flowing waters pass by
patience fills the air
a pool of catfish
at the shallow bank

 

 

 

 

FIVE TAN-RENGA

—Christina Chin / M R  Defibaugh (italics) 


snow on white
after the snowstorm
winter solstice
the morning sun
shines brighter still

* * *

stepping out
of the jacuzzi
two winter birds
cuddle at the frozen
birdbath


* * *

warding off evil
spirits of winter solstice
holly bushes
we ask to borrow
the neighbor’s trimmers

* * *

winter solstice
ladies soak in yuzu
bobbing yellow fruit
hides their nudity
hot bath today

* * *

relatives gather
for the winter solstice
niche wind blows
clouds away from
our ancestors

 

 

 

 

SIX TAN-RENGA
—Christina Chin / Marjorie Pezzoli (italics)

Dongzhi Festival
marks the beginning
of a new year
she stirs the pot
lambs under foot

* * *

on the jetty
villagers heading home
winter solstice
fish in hand
the night darkens quickly 


* * *


going round the table
pouring rice wine for everyone
year end festival
folding joss paper
the furnace is stoked

* * *

falling snow
the countdown
is on
ice skates laced
the frozen pond awaits


* * *


my cat stares
at the twinkling
lights
unseen angels
sharing wings


* * *

the fireplace
shimmers its
warmth
packages with bows
anticipation builds

 

 

 

 

THREE TAN-RENGA
—Kimberly Olmtak (italics) / Christina Chin

winter equinox
bathing in rain from the gutter
tropical waterfall
the euphoria
jumping screams

* * *

year end festival
ghosts from the past
wither with the fireworks
drums chase the evil out
of nooks and crannies

* * *

packed in a cold tent
a war child rubs her eyes
Christmas transcends borders
gifts boxed and wrapped
surprises for everyone 

 

 

 

 

THREE TAN-RENGA
—Paul Callus (Malta) / Christina Chin (Malaysia)

first day of winter
limited sunshine robbed
by an overcast sky
hot pot served
at a corner shop
 
* * *

welcoming winter
at Mnajdra temples—
the first rays of sun
long way down the valley
on a cool day
 
* * *

winter solstice
hanging on the front door
a yule wreath
aromatic herbs seep
through the kitchen

____________________

—Medusa, with many, many thanks to today’s fine poets for early seasonal gifts of fine, fine poetry! For more about the Tan-Renga poetry form, go to https://www.graceguts.com/essays/an-introduction-to-tan-renga/.

 

 

 

". . . villagers gather round . . ."

 

 

 

 

A reminder that today at 2pm,
Sacramento Storytellers Guild meets
at Sacramento Poetry Center.
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!