The Wind's a Coyote

—Photo by Christopher Moon

HOT PINK AT 11pm
—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento

All I did all afternoon
with all those hot pink beads
was make hot pink bead necklace
after hot pink bead bracelet,
until my mind is pink.
At least, I think my mind is pink.

I close my eyes, my hot pink eyes,
and see all those hot pink beads
and feel the necklace around my neck.
The hot pink bead necklace
is not a necklace I should be wearing,
at least not wearing to bed.

 —Photo by Christopher Moon

NOAH'S ARK
—Carol Louise Moon

On Noah’s Ark are many daffodils.
And daffy still, are rainbow arcs
which shower the sky with mini-
flowers.  This fella Noah
only knows to grow a daffodil
a day, then two, till there are four—
then plenty more.  Daffy still,
are roses rising trellis-high.

Other lonely fellas sigh for rose
and rainbow, too.  Beaus—
who know their daffodils (with
taffy-colored frills) will thrill
when daffy doves and loves
at last come home.

(first pub. in Brevities, Vol 128)

—Photo by Christopher Moon
 

THE PALM
—Carol Louise Moon

The palm, she sees the clouds float by
in hues of blue.  The seas, they roll
in this slow dawn on Honolulu’s shore.

What’s more is now the birds
have joined the tree to sit and see
the show of early sunset’s rustic glow—

before the nighttime closes in,
when all the stars shine
not so bright as moon,
later on tonight… but not so soon.

_______________________

WHAT THE EYE DOESN’T SEE

—Taylor Graham, Placerville

The wind’s a coyote,
ranging down the arroyos to hunt
the dark, then skulking off at daybreak,
disappearing like convection
over the ridge.
If you listen in your broken sleep,
you’ll hear the song—
the howling of wind, and pull
a comforter closer against
your dreams, small creatures fleeing
from under the bed over sand
studded with skulls
worn smooth as stone.
And yet, on other evenings
after you walk the dry creek to its
beginning, and let the wind
hollow your head and blow it clean,
your dreams will beat
with angel wings
sweeping the chimney
like coyote breath, like the wind.

______________________

NIGHT DESCENDS
—Taylor Graham

The sky ignites with firebrands
the ravens gathered in black hoods,
as sun subsides in scarlet bands
to dark beyond the edge of woods.

Lone traveler to the borderlands,
a peddler cinches up his goods
and turns his step as dusk remands
to dark beyond the edge of woods.

So many unfulfilled demands!
Old lovers put away their “should”s
until the daylight, give their hands
to dark beyond the edge of woods.   

______________________

AT THE VET’S
—Taylor Graham

She nests in the wire
dog-crate, temporary safe haven.
But her amber eyes—
pupils dilated rail-spike dark—
speak fear.

On the scales, 60 pounds—
dog-fur over muscle, bone, spirit—

Her tongue flicks soft
against the vet-tech’s hand.
The probing starts:
thermometer. Stethoscope.
“Beautiful heart.”

_______________________

FIREBIRD
—Taylor Graham

              for an old search-dog partner
 
On a fresh spring morning
you picked one egg from a wild-turkey nest,
carried it gently in your jaws
and placed it in my hand—
jaws that could shake a rope-tug toy
like it was a rag-doll.

Through dark November woods
you led me as if on tiptoe, as if walking
on eggs, to show me the lost woman
you found, barely alive.

After decades, you still
return sometimes, ranging into dream-
sight. I reach
for your leash and release it,
follow your lead into the midnight woods.

______________________

Today's LittleNip:

AVOIDING THE EMPTY NEST
—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove

My parents dropped me off
At college.  I picked up my bag,
Turned to wave, but they
Were gone.  Didn’t go home
Though.  Put the house
Up for sale and moved
To Florida.  Took me
Most of Christmas break
To find them.  Then
They moved again.

______________________

—Medusa

Sheep in Spring Pasture

(Christmas and Adri in foreground)

—Photo by Taylor Graham

Busy Days

—Poems by William S. Gainer, Grass Valley and 

Photos by Robert Lee Haycock, Antioch

SPRING—BUSY DAYS

Saw the squirrel
walking across
the shed roof.
I waved.
He looked busy,
too busy
to wave back.

____________________

ADMIRING A MEMORY

Out on the porch
we keep a flower pot
with a little patch of grass
growing in it.
No, not that stuff,
the kind kids play on.
Every once in a while
I take the shears
and give it a mow…
spend a little time
cleaning up
the mess,
stand out in the drive
and admire my work.

____________________

CHAIRS TO-GO

Saw a guy
walking downtown
carrying a chair
a kitchen chair
he was carrying it
like a surfboard,
except with legs
you know...
I imagine
he's ordering them,
the chairs
one at a time
To-Go...

___________________

WITH THE LITTLE THINGS

I wish my legs were longer,
my back didn’t hurt
so much
and the dogs
would be quiet
when I asked them.

With the first list
I asked for
money, fame and women.
It didn’t happen that way.

So let’s just
let it go—
the wishes:

Let the back ache
when bending
for a found dime,
the dogs bark
when the postman delivers
and the neighbor lady
keep waving
when she’s on the porch—
sunning.

We’ll leave the wishes
to the little things
that’s where they seem
to be found—
with the little things.

SEVEN PLACES TO GO IN YOUR SLEEP

To find the monsters,
see if they need
help.

Her bed,
to smell her pillow
hope she feels the breeze
of your breath…
wonder if she’ll remember you
in the morning.

To the cliff where everyone falls,
be the first to push the curious,
lie about who did it…

A new-mowed lawn,
look for the dead in the cutting,
beetles, worms, lizards, snakes,
a toad maybe.
Ask why their lives didn’t count.

The place where blind dogs live
and see things you wouldn’t believe
thank them for barking
in the odd moments.

To where heroes go,
where they have a name for you,
but it’s secret, it means more than god.
You get to have a sword, a saber, a wand,
a pistol.
And whatever hat you wear,
fits.
A place where evil knows your voice
and trembles…

To the Hall of Good—
where wishes get answered.
Where the Commissioner
knows your list,
says, “This is a good one.
We’ll do it first…”

Seven places,
there are more, lots more
but these are the ones
that call
my name
when sleep
needs a friend…

____________________

HUSHED IN LONELINESS

All my life
all I've ever wanted
was to be like you...
You'll never know
how hard a heart aches
trying to make that happen
knowing it never will...

Some of us go years
without the feeling
then it comes,
one day—
every day
relentless
one word
from one person
driving you back to the child
who spent the long hours
alone
watching a cold world
through
a cracked window
knowing all time does
is push
all you want
farther away...

The ones like me
have learned to hold back
knowing each day,
each push
makes the reaching
for the pistol
that much easier…
but we don’t.

Others are able to let go
become hushed in their loneliness.
Others
get lost in empty dreams
wander beyond rescue,
melt in hurt
until time calls
no more—

and you
one of the beautiful,
harbored in privilege
keeping the gates secure
declare
no harm
done—

_____________________

Today's LittleNip:

AMERICA US

Indians,
Mexicans,
black, white,
something else,
just kids...
don't make them
something
they have to be
let them become
something
they want to be...
let them be us...
one of us...
America...

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Bill Gainer and to Robert Lee Haycock for today's sumptuous fare! And a reminder that Bill will be hosting a Red Alice's Poetry Emporium reading at Shine tonight featuring Cynthia Linville and Kelly Freeman plus open mic. That's 14th & E Sts., Sac., 8pm. Be there!

 

[Click on photos once to enlarge]

A Contentment of Promise

—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento

SHOULD I BELIEVE IN SPRING

I heard the birds singing today
under my sadness
and I said,
Should I believe in spring?
Permit feeling?

And the birds were oblivious
to my thought
and they sang in the tree
by my house
where I hung clothes
under a cloudy sky
and I said,
Should I believe
in possibility?
This singing is so pleasurable.

And the birds
sang through my reluctance
to permit joy to enter my heart
and I said,
Should I permit my heart to
open to anything again?

And the birds
continued singing
in the tree by  my house
and I said,
Should I linger at this chore
and enjoy the singing?
And the birds continued,
oh, continued, singing.


(first pub in Acorn, 1996 and Senior Magazine, 2002)

_____________________

SOLSTICE MORNING

The solstice now.
Rain.
Weak light of winter.

The year turning heavily over,
like a bear in a cave,
the days of linger past beginnings.

Strange words lining up in the mirror.
A faceless day,
an old yearning—

yearned once again.
We approach the new
and turn a bit sadder.

What a weary thought to think,
so we sleep the harder.
An old bear in a cave has dreams like ours.

_________________________

SPRING IS NEXT,

we assure ourselves of that,
warmed by the thought.

The CD is slowly mourning its music
like an introduction to an ending.

Only the shy say things like this with
hesitation and uncertainty,

which are both true.
It is a sad now—

a dim realization—like hope,
unwrapped once again inside the heart.

Something will be, something waited for
and loved for its promise. Meanwhile,

winter strikes back with a fierce shadow
that blots out the cold sunshine.

I’ll take what I get from this strange
little scenario: a contentment of promise.

SPRING,

personified
hidden behind foliage
emergent as with wings

partly featured
partly shape
without shadow
light and
slippery dark
one hand clutched to a tendril
leaves breathing around you—

how you push into being
metaphorically
revealing your arrival
into mood
and restlessness
conveyer of energy
and love—

oh, you are ready for all of that
best hurry through your phases
made by water and color to create you


(After "Spring", Watercolor by Claude Ponsot)

(first pub. in Living in the West, March/April 2014)

___________________

ARRIVAL   

It was for you I wore this heavy gown
and brought this gift.

It was for you I grew this thin
and tough as the resisting, jealous wind.

It was for you that now
I grip your hand with such a grip.

Don’t fall away.
Don’t turn aside.

It was for you I learned
to control the erosion of my face.

You’ll not learn who I am until
you look with fear and love into my eyes.

I am the power now. It is for you I touch
your weakness with my claim:

it was you who called me,
and I came.

_____________________

Today's LittleNip:

SPRING

twirp twirp    twirp twirp
chitter  chitter  chitter
chip     chirp
twirp  twirp    twirp  twirp
thrun- n  thrun-n  thrun-n
chitter  chitter  chitter
twirp
chrrrr   chrrrr   chrrrr
chirp     chirp
chee-er  chee-er  chee-er
chir-r   chir-r   chir-r     chir-r
chip     chirp
twirp  twirp    twirp twirp

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Joyce Odam for today's delectable fare in the Kitchen, toothsome goodies based on our Seed of the Week: Sure Signs of Spring. Our new SOW continues the theme; this one is She's Nesting! Could be about birds, or bears, or babies of any ilk. Could also be about humans—those urges we get around this time of year for gardening, spring housecleaning—or enticing a mate. Send your poems/photos/artwork about nesting of any kind to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. No deadlines on SOWs, though; ferret around through "Calliope's Closet" at the top of this column for SOWs of the past. Poems and visuals sent to Medusa's Kitchen do NOT have to be about the SOW.

Covered by Bird Song

Summer Garden Spirit

—Poems by B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA and 

Artwork by Jennifer O'Neill Pickering, Sacramento

SPRING'S FIRST DAY

Staring at Warhol prints
on my branch of a calendar
purchased from the Village
on spring's first day
kids with hoops
have an off-Broadway brunch
of kosher hot dogs
with Easter bunny chocolates
in Central Park,
others slip behind the trees
to be locked together
from a stranded winter,
even the first light
off-off-Broadway
featuring my one-act
has stuck out its tongue
for the matinee,
it's still too cold
in the Big Apple
to play alto sax
or do a cool routine
of stand-up on this bench
even for lunch money,
anyway two buttons
on my old navy jacket
have fallen
like white pigeons
on the moldy pavement,
near passerby tourists
holding magnolias
from a wedding
run by my bicycle
and a mumbling soul
named "Cat" on her coat
with a foreign tongue
and worn-out sneakers
holding a first-aid kit
on her shoulder
takes out a needle
from her backpack
offers to put on my buttons
and suddenly laughs
with a new-found joy
at my Warhol prints
telling me she escaped
a half-hour ago
from a stern lecture
and parental storm
takes us in a taxi uptown.

________________________

SPRING, AT LAST

A melody alarms me
from an iconic
glass bird clock
and it is first light
with an early
maternal sun
visiting to take away
the pollen chill
at the open window
my transitory memory
erodes my running time
hearing the practice
in a breathless march
of marathon runners
embrace onto a field
of sky angel kites
unexpectedly floating by
over a transparent Bay
my hands reach out
to an aviary of sparrows
with water and bread
on this insurgent dawn.

Miller Park, Sacramento

SPRING GREEN LINES

On Bay road to the water
meeting two runners
practicing for the marathon
a woman in immortal optimism
wearing a leg brace
tells me she is in recovery
from last year's tragedy
the man is silent
on the hostile dunes
his arm in a cast
a tiny cross on his chest
in an anemic accent
asks me for the time
hands in his pocket
with little emotion
as if a shore bird
plucked at his right eye
rests on the woman,
then with a shortened wind
and not a little trepidation
visit my orange kayak
with a homeless runaway
dozing in the open boat
at first light,
undo the few ropes
by the turbid streams
near recondite flasks
of a cheap wine
near his sweatshirt
feeling the dawn air
nestled like a grackle
near my skin
and embrace landscapes
on my living tongue.

________________________

AT THE SOLSTICE, 2000

You want to take
your Harley
out to the Coast,
feeling vertigo
yet hypnotized
by new affection
and scented
by jocund laughter
for the new century
rolling rock tunes
over your keyboard
after supplanting
yourself by the ocean's
kayak store guys
wanting to check out
any wintry damages
to your boat
from the home harbor's
northeastern storms
only rightly armed
with a deposit
of fresh verse
covered by bird song.

Georgia, Freda, Emily and Me

FIRST SIGHTINGS

Teen hysteria in the light
of bottled-up wintry voices
in the ripened part
of a sporting life's noonday
taking their free hours
with whirlwind resonances
longing for attentive love
losing themselves
in green sleeves
along the riverbeds
outlining their bodies
first sighting
cool acquaintances
taking their shapeless leaves
on tender harvest pillows
by the new vineyards
in the frosty sunlight
like Adam and Eve.

_______________________

WRESTLING

Hearing myself say
in whispers "earthquake"
to my Russian geology friend
through his frequented
sunbelt moves
on his cold wrestling mat
knocking down worries
of all climate changes
in a threatened earth
but giving it no mind
a hyperactive minute later
trying to hold on to
my own mind body problems
on this solstice noon
punching out
my own worries
ready for another round
of nature's unrevealed
left-out surprises.

 Three Faces

Today's LittleNip:

A SPRING BEGINS

Taking a piggy bank
by the river
above our woodland,
a couple of runaways
with new tattoos
and eyes like blue fish
pack their belongings
as sunshine trembles
at the edge's shore,
as a gutsy jogger
not losing much time
eager for spring's

generosity,
whispers some advice
yet gets into his cop car.

___________________________

—Medusa, with thanks to B.Z. Niditch for today's poems, and to Jennifer O'Neill Pickering for today's artwork!

Mandala from St. Jean de Luz

—Jennifer O'Neill Pickering

Like the Truth on Fire

—Photo by James Lee Jobe

A PRAYER IN SPRINGTIME
—James Lee Jobe, Davis

I pray that the stars in heaven might be laid on velvet before Your feet, like jewels, like the wish that follows the dream, diamonds that speak in a whisper of living.

I pray that the ocean might be a threshold for all that You love to cross, wave after wave of beauty passing in time, stepping through to drumbeats, sanctuary, a new home, a new place.

I pray that the finest canopy of the forest might welcome the brightly plumed birds of Your soul; a wooded choir, close and safe, the flower of song to greet You at the blossom of each day.

I pray that the mountains might be Your snow-peaked door, and pushing through, a universe spins like a pinwheel on the wind sliding off of the river, like the truth on fire, calling You outside to pray.

And what of us, the people who worship before You, bent knees sore on hard stone, the open hearts and hopes that brought us spring out of the cruel, bare winter?

I pray that we might learn to love You for what You are, not that which we would have You to be; mother, father, keeper of the great empty void.

_________________________

—Medusa

Devouring Our Own Hearts

Machinery, Locke, California

—Poems and Photos by D.R. Wagner, Locke

TRIGGER WARNING

This poem may contain
Depictions of suicide
Or describe medical procedures,
Skulls or skeletons.

It may contain the words
Dumb or stupid.
It may describe illness,
Death and dying,
Spiders eating into the heart.

Insects may be involved here,
As may snakes and blood.
It may suddenly concern
Itself with intrusive thoughts
Or cause serious injury.

It may recall childbirth
And pregnancy.  Perhaps
Discussions of particular
Behaviors that are repellent
To certain animals or groups
Of people who cannot bear
The thought of slimy things.

All of this may happen here
And you are advised not
To read this poem or consume
Anything that may harm your mind,
Health, psyche, or religious beliefs.

________________________

THE WOLVES

What makes the tears that part the flesh?
What makes the song in wind?
What blinds the eye that it never may see?
What thickens the blood that thins?

From far out the North, a beating of angel wings.
At first I thought it was snow.
It came down for days and covered our homes;
There was no place we could go.

The wolves came down to stand on our roofs
And they breathed down the chimney flue
And they smelled the flesh of us who lived there,
And they wanted it all, red and blue.

Our crew had never meant to stay here.
We thought we would be gone by Spring.
But the Winter held us as tight as death.
It snapped our plans, broke the songs we sing.

And still we hear the wolves outside;
We shall hear them evermore,
Until the Spring breaks through the snow
And the flowers bloom once more.

 Russell's Truck, Locke

TRAPEZE

The ease in discovering hands in the air
Lifting the body high above the waters.
A dance of puppets walking above nothing.
I can offer you an eternity for a very reasonable price.

We enjoy the bar, swinging us higher and higher,
Its begging us to let go, completely let go.
From the fly bar, a shooting star, an uprise shoot.
Double over, Flexus and the Pirouette.
The angels return with one or both legs.

We twist however we are able to gain the bar.
We do the suicide without a catcher; just the flyer,
A suicide or a reverse suicide.  Does it matter,
Once we have remounted the board and are returned
From the catch trap?

Finally, we have no history.  We were there, high
Above the ring, dressed in white, and finally we are ready.
Listo.  We watch the trapeze swing before us.  We become
A perfect wind, force out to gain height, always to gain height.

________________________

NIGHT DESCENDS

Night descends.  It sets up its little
Tents across the valley.  From one or another
Location someone lights a lamp within a tent
And a soft and comforting light glows through
The cloth structure.

Individual and quiet music escapes from
A harmonica or concertina and drifts like
Woodsmoke above the valley, beneath
The vernal moon.  There is no kinder quiet.

Slowly the veils come down to swaddle
The land.  Peace comes slowly too but it
Does come, in flocks of birds landing in
Trees as dark as their wings appear.

The river remembers and slaps the sides
Of its banks as it moves past, a burden
Packed with dreams, part of its surface and its
Depth.  We can watch from here, listen
To the quiet, pretend things will always
Be this way, the breeze swearing this is true.

 Statuette at Gozion's

SURRENDER

The guns cough up their
Blue seed into our cities.
We recognize so many faces
Drifting in and out of Preta
Realms.  Sometimes they
Are our children.  Sometimes
They are our lovers, our priests,
Our finest dancers, column
After column of hungry faces.

We will play them sweet music
And perform before the throne.
We will tell the stories to chambers
Filled with red ghosts and glistening
Strangers who claim they want
Nothing from us.  “We come
In peace,” they say.

We devour our own hearts.
We hide our hands beneath
Our lovely clothing.  Still they
Come toward us.  We sit upon
The ground and begin these stories.
We hear the guns snapping
Like twigs in a storm made of ice.

________________________

THIS BOOK WAS LEFT OPEN

The floor littered with weapons,
Ancient weapons with edges that
Speak to the teeth of dogs, even tigers.
It is impossible that they should be there.

This book has no descriptions.
Remarkable that these weapons should glitter
So.  Sons kill fathers in these books, but it seems
A little thing.  The edges of these objects are
The real dialogue.  It is a very old interaction.

Language is a rigid system.  It allows nouns
Free reign and we must move among embedded
Verbs, stumbling and staggering from the edges
Of these weapons.  We will never know them as other.

These are your brothers and sisters, your family,
The uncle from Argentina who was never seen
After 1942, but was famous in obscure newspapers.
These provide colorless roads and we thread them together.

Finding the book open in the morning, on the floor
Next to the couch where I fell asleep, I close it.
All of its dancing is now within me, still glittering.
It spills from me, like salt on dark ground, mysterious,
Full of reflections in mirrors we may never encounter again.

 Down from the Levee

Today's LittleNips:

PEAR ORCHARD

It looked like a pear orchard
That had just come into bloom.
As I got closer I realized it was her eyes.


KIMONO

Is that a new kimono
You are wearing tonight?
In this light it looks like a tattoo.

It is, she replied.


FLOCK OF BIRDS

That is one huge flock of birds, he said.
They aren't birds, they are broken hearts, she said.
Oh shit, he said, Here we go again.

_________________________

—Medusa, with thanks to D.R. Wagner for today's ambrosial fare!

Sculpture at Gozion's

Olympic Gestures

Donal Mahoney

THE LOVELY WOMEN OF MY LIFE
—Donal Mahoney, St. Louis, MO

If I met the same women now
I probably wouldn't know them.
They're missing teeth, I bet,
and have gray Medusa hair.

Their eyes no longer dance, I'm sure,
and they have liver spots everywhere.
They likely wobble in their flats
and haven't worn heels

since adding fifty pounds.
Some of them, I'm certain,
wouldn't recognize me, either,
despite thick spectacles.

They can't recall the picnics
we enjoyed with wine and caviar
under oak trees in Grant Park,
never mind the nights that followed.

Who needs a woman that forgetful?
I need a younger woman now,
someone I can finally marry,
a girl with a figure like Monroe,

Hepburn's eyes and Hayworth's hair,
someone lithe, slim and graceful,
someone strong enough to push
my wheelchair up the ramp.

_______________________

UNREQUITED LOVE
—Donal Mahoney

On their 50th anniversary
Sammy gave Dolly a necklace 
and told his darling wife that
if they lived long enough
one of them would wake 
to find the other one had died.
"That's life," said Sammy.

And so it came to pass
Dolly rose one day
and found old Sammy
on the bathroom floor,
face blue, body cold,
arms outstretched,
an old man crucified.

This wasn't the first time
in 50 years Sammy had
ruined Dolly's day but now
free of fear, Dolly spoke:
"I never thought you'd die.
I'll have your ashes in an urn
and under dirt by end of day."

________________________

AN OLYMPIC GESTURE
—Donal Mahoney

Saturday afternoon.
He's watching the Olympics
and she calls to say
she's still at the store.
Would he like to go
to a movie this afternoon?

He says he's watching
the Olympics and the U.S.
is on the verge of winning
a gold medal against Russia,
which is no small feat,
he reminds her nicely.

He asks the name of the movie
and discovers it's a chick flick
two men in the world
might like to see.

In an Olympic gesture
he agrees to go with her
if they can sit in the balcony.
He's amazed when she agrees.

When they get to the theatre
it's practically empty.
Everyone's at home, he says,
watching the Olympics.
They sit in the balcony,
the last row.

After an hour she admits
she doesn't like the movie
so they kiss a little.
He nibbles her ear and
puts a hand on her thigh.

He kisses her again
and whispers he's going
for the gold.
She's still his bride,
beautiful and new,
after 34 years.

______________________

THAT VALENTINE'S DAY IN MANHATTAN
—Donal Mahoney
 
You're standing on a window ledge
on the 50th floor of your building.
It's Valentine's Day in Manhattan,
clouds cruising, sun everywhere,

a nice breeze tossing your hair,
the taste of that woman always there.
Do you wonder what happens after
you jump or do you simply not care?

Does God meet you halfway down
and say "What a foolish thing to do."
Or does Satan appear and shout
"Here's the Magnus Doofus of my day."

Do you begin to wonder when
you're a foot above the asphalt
whether you'll hear the splat or
do you jump and simply not care?

______________________

THE HUMAN CONDITION
—Donal Mahoney

Did I forgive her, you ask?
What a silly question.
Why wouldn't I forgive her?
The mother of my children,

she's been dead for years.
Our long war died with her.
Did I attend her funeral?
I'd have been a distraction.

But I pray for her,
the repose of her soul.
She belongs in Heaven,
no denying that, up front

in a box seat after all
she's been through.
If I'm lucky, I'll find
the side door to

Heaven unlocked.
I'll sneak in quietly
and if Peter doesn't 
throw me out, I'll sit

in the bleachers.
The question is,
will I wave if she
turns around?

______________________

Today's LittleNip:

Spring has returned. The Earth is like a child that knows poems.

—Rainer Maria Rilke

______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Donal Mahoney for today's delectable poems. Donal, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. His poetry and fiction have appeared in print and online publications in the United States, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his earliest work can be found at  booksonblog12.blogspot.com  Welcome to the Kitchen, Donal, and don't be a stranger!

—Anonymous 'Way Cool Photo