Reading the Papers

—Anonymous Photo

EVERY MORNING
—Mary Oliver
 
I read the papers,
I unfold them and examine them in the sunlight.
The way the red mortars, in photographs,
arc down into the neighborhoods
like stars, the way death
combs everything into a gray rubble before
the camera moves on. What
dark part of my soul
shivers: you don’t want to know more
about this. And then: you don’t know anything
unless you do. How the sleepers
wake and run to the cellars,
how the children scream, their tongues
trying to swim away—
how the morning itself appears
like a slow white rose
while the figures climb over the bubbled thresholds,
move among the smashed cars, the streets
where the clanging ambulances won’t
stop all day—death and death, messy death—
death as history, death as a habit—
how sometimes the camera pauses while a family
counts itself, and all of them are alive,
their mouths dry caves of wordlessness
in the smudged moons of their faces,
a craziness we have so far no name for—
all this I read in the papers,
in the sunlight,
I read with my cold, sharp eyes.

___________________

—Medusa

Buying Shorcake in Brigadoon

Thaumatrope

—Anonymous Photos

—Poetry by Eamonn Stewart, Belfast, Ireland
 

THE THAUMATROPE

The snail-shaped ticket
Machine in the dole…
Rubbing my eyes
To ware the wreckers lanterns,
Tuned-in to those escargotique ondes
My soul mines the ice
At the Lunar poles.

The turnstile’s thaumatrope turns,
But shows exploded views
If its bearings could speak
Ennui, ennui, ennui they’d squeak.

In this Oort Cloud of loneliness
Opportunity knocks
At astronomical distance—
Perihelion is posthumous fame.

 Imagined Oort Cloud

TRANSIT OF VENUS/TRANSIT OF ACCESS

On the day of the transit of Venus
Belfast was overcast.
The Family Court clerk
Metered the Teardrop Effect
From first to last.

My daughter wouldn’t see me
Since I spoke to her like my peers—
Both case reviewed in 244 years.

My First Communion congratulations
Were profane
“Not age-appropriate”
Too urbane.

Later, The Evening Star’s
Portentous Eclat,
Not sleeping, I saw it rise the same.

 Transit of Venus

BAR-B-Q OF THE VANITIES

Bring your own, Beechmount ‘97


In waking’s pay telescope,
The penny drops.
Dreaming’s shove ha’penney machine
Pays-out the lot.

“Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also”
But, untouchable reason doesn’t want to follow.

One swallow didn’t make a summer;
Each ring-pull was not Excalibur retrieved.
Though the sun transfigured the bottles,
Each beer can was not Achilles’ Shield.

Asleep, I felt again
That barbecue’s infernal flames.
Once more you say “Buck-up your ideas or I’ll leave.”
Both of us unhappy, both of us to blame.
In sleep I’d not be the one who mostly grieves.

 Victory of Samothrace

220-185 BC

THE RELICS

I dreaded it like the Banshee’s Comb,
The music box works
From a Lourdes tableaux
Some dead pilgrim
Neighbour brought home.

Broken, Ave Maria
In starts and fits
Picking out the notes like nits.
I was scared out of my wits.

On honeymoon, The Victory of Samothrace
Thrilled me with dread
As mum’s lucky “Chile O’ Praig” had—
The one without a head.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

DISTURBED EARTH
—Eamonn Stewart

When they release your name
The soul departs
But it is loathe.

The Big Bang fizzles out
And creation maunders into reverse.

Now boffins say there is
No peace in the grave—
And there is water on the moon
And I’ve bought shortcake
In Brigadoon!

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Eamonn Stewart from across the sea for today's fine poetry! For more about the thaumatrope, see courses.ncssm.edu/gallery/collections/toys/html/exhibit06.htm and www.youtube.com/watch?v=U32Sv99cDOs/. For more about Oort Clouds, go to solarsystem.nasa.gov/planets/oort/indepth/.

 Eamonn Stewart

Celebrate poetry from across the sea!

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.

Thousand Thousand Crows

—Anonymous Crow Photos

LIZARD
—JD DeHart, Chattanooga, TN

scarlet lacy fabric
on the back
and two shining twin pistols
spelling disaster

he licks his lizard lips
at the lower section of town
eyes never moving from his
target, but catching all.

_________________

LONG BOW
—JD DeHart

with her majestic
emerald long bow she

gives Robin Hood
a run for his money

arrow
sent straight through

to the core of targeted
soul sends showering

down
unexpected results.

 The Magic Hour 

SKIDS
—JD DeHart

I came
to a skidding halt.
While these other
clowns, creatures, and heroes
are saving the world
on a grand scale,

I’m the clean-up man, yes sir.
Maybe not as bright as some
of these others.

Maybe a hidden genius.  Part man,
part car.  I screech and skid
along on this pavement stream.

Pardon me as I pause
to pick up another piece of litter
to keep our city clean.

 Something Shiny

 

CHEERS
—JD DeHart

One of these days, the wise old
prophet says, this world will
end. 

Nothing lasts forever. 

There will be remnants, I am sure,
who will travel on to other cities,
landscapes, planets.  They will start
a life there.

What was once true will become
myth and legend.  And maybe that is
why we have superheroes after all.
Maybe all these panels and stories

are the mythological leftovers
of what used to be something like the
truth.

Then again, maybe we’re just making
it all up.

Cheers.

 Urban Crows

OXYMORON AND WINTERGREEN
—Michael H. Brownstein, Chicago, IL

fur of pain,
leaf in blood,
slash of white power:
flesh is not bark,
xylem is not bone,
blood is not syrup.

a weakening of lungs,
snarl and melody,
the hum of an underbelly.
a lack of sleep,
the failure in endings,

the failure of skin scars.

 Crows in Sky

SUPERSTITIONS
—Michael H. Brownstein
 
the house facing the end of the road
the pole dividing the path into factions
the thousand thousand crows clouding the sky
the witch tree and bewitched tree
the time Sunday was the first day of the week

the shadow of the suicide girl and her mother
packing cans and other trash a week
before the first day of spring
and the light in the distance moves
not the shadows
not the twigs on the branches:

a snail of curiosity—

the bee-sting of intellect—crow of cold

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

A MAN IN LOVE
—Michael H. Brownstein

A man in love
cannot hide his shadow.
A man alone
sees a reflection of the mirror.
A man with a new haircut
hears music with his feet.
A man in love
has an inside light
flash bright. A man
in love

hears dancers with his voice.

_________________

Many thanks to JD DeHart and Michael Brownstein, our poet-contributors today!

Head up to Placerville tonight, 6:30pm, to hear Winters Poet Gary Kruse (plus open mic) at The Good Earth Movement Poetry Night, 250 Main St., Placerville. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa

 Crow Rides Eagle

—Anonymous Photo

Celebrate poetry that flies!

  

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.

Dreaming of Genies

December Sunrise

—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

RETURNING THE GIFT

I don’t know how far he traveled to get here.
But there he was behind the counter,
computer repair, just when I needed someone
to gaze into the depths of circuitry; to smile
and say he could fix it, and he did. And the next
time I passed that counter, he called out
greetings by name. What kind of service—
what gift—is that in the craziness of holiday
returns, everyone’s electronic gift-wish
not quite right this season. Just look at the lines
of people, in or out. Merry Christmas.
Did he light his smile for that holy day, or
some other? I think such a smile is his everyday
natural, a gusto of fresh breeze in this stuffy
store; his glow at fixing my inscrutable
magic-box, so I can’t help but smile. A joy-
light that has little to do with electronics.

 Winter Woods

TILT-SHIFT TIME LAPSE

It’s winter but the big pond doesn’t freeze.
Is the blue heron on the lagoon, the egret
at the wetlands mouth? Prehistorics
grace our just-this-very-dawn meanderings—
as jazz might lilt a march, brisk breath
riffing the odd old leaves that didn’t fall,
turning underfoot the dead that did. Listen.
A whoosh, ruffle-shuffle of leaf-drift, it’s
the turkeys, head-pumping forward step-along.
Dinosaurs among us; passing through bone-
brittle grasses, gone; up the hill where
blue oaks still let acorns fall, for living food.

 Upcountry

INNER OUTING

It’s pernicious, getting-old. But maybe
it’s not frivolous, to long for high country, here
in the flatland depths of soul waiting for
spring’s second coming, to restore those days.
Let’s drive up to the cow-camp, meadow
abloom and switchback trail beyond.
It’s the wrong season? Don’t quibble. Thin air
does us good, even walking at a rock’s pace.
I’ll pack baloney sandwiches—that’s all
I’ve got in the fridge and who wants to waste
time shopping? You’ll stop along the trail
to wonder like a blind man seeing
the meadow wild with paintbrush, larkspur,
hellebore. I’ll hike just a bit farther.
Snow? Never mind. Mind is its own journey.
Glorious, so close to heaven, where granite
shines like quicksilver. Quicksilver
in my boots. How could I stop walking? 

 Forest

RECALLING OLD HOLIDAYS

three generations
together at home-made house—
small boy piggy-back
on Grandpa’s shoulders, glitter-
eyes in incense cedar woods

how big is color?
like a little boy it runs
through the whole wild world

small girl in small house
bedtime dark except for street-
light winking thru blinds—
blue-glass globes on unlit tree
sparkle a magic forest

 Barbs

WHICH HUNT IS ON?
Response to Caschwa’s “The Hunt Is On,”
Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/29/17

An arrow’s shot into a stranger’s hillside,
trajectory horizontal eye-level over
his front gate and straight up his driveway.
The archer’s target’s on the backside
of two stacked straw bales across the road.
What’s the range of a Predator arrow?
How far must that arrow fly
beyond its bullseye, for the hunter
to know he missed?

 Trek Dance

RE-BOOT

I’m retiring the old ones, trail-running boots
that were cheap at the outlet. Meant for
following my dog as he follows whoever’s scent
I give him; through school or business complex
on a weekend, a civilized place where I won’t
need tread that clings to granite, keeps my feet
tethered to my shadow in a landscape flighty
as deep space. These old cheap boots have done
their miles of pavement, their cushioning
is gone, soles separating from uppers.
I’ll buy a new pair, maybe a different brand,
maybe they’ll wear better. Shall I give
the old ones to my dog to chew? My dog on four
paws running for the wind; he bootless dances.

 Samovar

Today’s LittleNip:

BOXED FOR GOODWILL

—Taylor Graham

A sort of
Aladdin’s lamp but
not golden
no genie
inside except in a child’s
imagination.

Tea kettle
of some provenance—
samovar,
the mother
called it, maybe by mistake;
a family heirloom

or just a
thing no one knew what
to do with,
stored in
attic for some child to find
and dream of genies.

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Taylor Graham for today’s fine poetry and photos! Head over to Davis tonight, as Poetry in Davis presents Chris Erickson plus open mic at the John Natsoulas Gallery, 521 1st St., Davis. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

 —Anonymous Photo

Celebrate the magic of poetry!   

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.

Lotus Unfolding

—Poetry by Ann Wehrman, Sacramento, CA

—Anonymous Photos

BALANCE

morning tender as rain slowly approaches
sun veiled in dove gray
clouds, soft pearls
breezes gentle for December

feel the morning’s in-taken breath
gathering exhalation
anticipate approaching, cleansing storm
rain that will melt fallen leaves
already piled in gutters
mounding by concrete walks
swirling, descending from tree limbs
dressed now in burnt umber, fire orange
clumps of mistletoe stranglers
suddenly exposed on branches newly bare

even in paradise, Northern California’s trees die
from thirst, from hosting bloodsuckers like mistletoe
from insects, from cruel humans’ greedy saws

I dream of a re-seeded continent, continents
Great Plains waving, Redwoods full and rich
mighty Amazon forests healed
balance restored between Earth and humanity

____________________

CHANCE

night glows orange
All Hallows approaches
air finally cools
edges with frost
half moon
an ice football

tail lights streak—
Saturday night dates
workers head home
families itch to escape—

long winter ahead
gardens turned and banked
will love survive the cold, come spring?

MIDDLE-AGED REENTRY STUDENT BLUES

Today I spoke with my counselor;
she suggested that I drop my minor in dance.
Perhaps it would make it easier to graduate on time—
she must not have known what it means to me.

She suggested that I drop my dance minor;
perhaps she thinks I’m just boogiein’;
She must not have known what it means to me,
the grace, loveliness, and glamour.

Perhaps she thinks I’m just boogiein’,
not serious about my college years;
the grace, loveliness, and glamour
won’t pay the rent down the line.

Not serious about my college years?
I’m serious as a heart attack.
Dance won’t pay the rent down the line,
nor will that minimum wage job, at age fifty-nine.

I’m serious as a heart attack about my future,
but this is my last real chance to dance;
I won’t work that minimum-wage job at fifty-nine—
I’ll be responsible, finish school, become a teacher.

But this is my last real chance to dance.
So why don’t I drop the dance minor?
As I finish school, be responsible, become a teacher,
I will also dance—for it means the world to me.

ALL THIS

so full that the cheap, plastic flange
holding the rod broke
spilling blouse after blouse
pants, belts, dresses
into a huddle
on the darkened closet’s floor

soon, I will lose this gut, upper arm flab
soon all this will fit, I kept saying—yet
having no patience with starving myself
needing energy, nourishment
appreciating food’s comfort, strengthening power

all this still doesn’t fit
over the years, all this
has, in fact, compounded
until one can barely enter the closet
much less wear it all
even if it did fit

today, fiery purpose prevailing
grab handfuls of hangers
garments of all kinds
make myself try them on
before the mirror

piles grow—
three, then four black garbage bags worth
someone else will wear these treasures
someone whom they actually fit
my closet breathes again
the next step, embracing my body
still too fat for all those clothes

BITTEN

In my young waking
I met you,
standing at the edge
of your concrete driveway,
all the tall houses
grouped side by side.

With a flash,
the rake you held
bit the edge of my face
by my eye,
warning
or boy’s caress,

I never returned.

___________________

SHEPHERD

Embroidered kippahs
crown both heads;
one boy meets my eyes,
his blue gaze sober, warm, proud,
his gait quick,
close to younger brother,
whose eyes are down,
face hidden by squirms.

LOTUS UNFOLDING

my love for you glows
filling this small room
late-afternoon sunlight dapples
warms the walls
transforms worn, tan carpet
into paradisiacal sand
sifting on September’s beach

sunshine flickers through branches
of tall shrubs, just outside
as breeze shifts,
making the light dapple and change
a different slant each moment—
like your face, new each day
yet constant as the sunshine
in its warmth

ELEMENTS
(for David, at the loss of his father)

walking down the beach where I scattered his ashes
the sea pulls the sand
fills rock cubbies and pools, rushes back out
taking sand, ashes, and all
I walk on
sun bright, rude gulls swoop low over my head
I am here, but he is gone
a gap, or nothing
where he was
now swept out to ocean’s depths
I am here now
tomorrow I will be gone

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

A COMIC LOVE POEM
—Ann Wehrman

You’re not my cat,
you’re my landlady’s cat,
and she’s not here,
gone again for a few days.
Yes, she’ll be right back, really—
don’t keep crying!
You’re overwrought,
you sound like a mountain lion,
a giant, fantasy Siamese
crying, crying, scratching
at my door.
I know she lets you sleep
with her,
but I won’t.
All right, all right,
I’m coming out,
let’s talk it over.
It’s 3:00 a.m.,
go to sleep,
it’s OK!
She’ll be back,
really.

_____________________

—Medusa, with many thanks to Ann Wehrman for today’s fine poetry! Tonight, tune in to Dr. Andy’s Poetry & Technology Hour (KDVS 90.3FM) for a conversation with poet Chris Erickson from 5-5:30pm, then with Barbara West from 5:30-6pm. Chris will read at Poetry in Davis tomorrow (Thurs., 1/4) at the John Natsoulas Gallery, 8pm.

 Celebrate the dance that is poetry!

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.
 

Shadows Reaching Through Shadows

A Curve of Shadow

—Poetry and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

NEW DAY

The sky, filling with blue, then a fragile cloud or
two, threading. A sharpness of birdsong, penetrating

the silence—brief—and from no distance other than
where it was a startled moment back. Then, that slow,

soft tone of whiteness that takes the place of early
blue, the way you slowly surrender the owned moment

to the swift intrusion of sounds and urgencies, your
reluctance to rise from the warm bed—seductive with

comfort—warm around you. The sky again—gone flat
outside your window-measure, full of daylight now,

the clouds, losing their pink direction, taking on the
heavy factory gray that smudges them.

You stretch and sigh. You look at the clock.

__________________

TIME CHANGE
    (After “The August Darks” by Amy Clampitt)

The darks of morning
early darks on the cusp of winter—
heaviness—damp weather—the hours building;

somewhere the sea echoing the body’s heaviness,
the tidal restlessness,
the hollowness of the air;

a drizzle of wet light at the window,
the first light of reluctance,
what does the clock say—

what is the cause of this unease—
something will fill this frozen piece of time,
this hovering on the peripheral edge of life,

then a bird—once and lyrical—
certain of its existence—
the cold moon fading back into the graying sky.

 Catch of Light

THERE WERE ARMS FILLED WITH TIME

How long ago was that?
There was the sensation
of holding.
So necessary.
Life was in a hurry.
So was time.
We were in its grip.
Swift. Intoxicated
and uncertain.
What did we know?
We held each other
in the dark mysteries.
Was this love?
What did we know?
We were practice.
Tremble. Young,
with the loneliness
of the young.
We were pulled away
into the swift years.
We forgot each other.
Our faces would fade.
We would become shadows
reaching through shadows
and find nothing but
our own selves
dancing to the mirror.
Music returned with this.
Music came back
to remind us.
Oh, vanished ones,
of my memories,
which side of memory
are you on?
It seemed like love.
Time is aloof, suspended
somewhere like a spell
put upon those
who believe in spells.

 Color Choice

TIME PIECE

1. A tangle of light
through an old tree
above a wide gray flow of water,
that’s how winter moves
and offers itself . . .  

2. I have seen light come and go
beyond the days.
I have felt myself follow.
Life was slow.
I held time in disbelief . . .

3. I went from child to
old woman
in a single flow,
seamless as one ripple to another,
borne on a rushing current . . .

4. This morning
I watched the clock
beside my mother’s photograph.
She smiled at me . . .
Her eyes laughed . . .

5. The red numbers keep moving . . .

_________________

TIME PASSING

Life is an art of patience, like this old man
sitting on a porch chair as frame after frame
of time-film catches his non-movement.

But a closer look will show
how much higher the weed grass is
in the last frame from the first.

See how faded his clothing has become,
how first he stares in one direction
then another.

Note that he crosses and uncrosses his leg
and that the subtle house in the background
has settled into disrepair around him.      

 Despite the Flaws

  

TIME SKETCH

No matter where I go, the sand falls. I go through myself
in window reflection and the glass bends back.

I slide through air and things take my place.

I go through time like a message.
Twilight remembers me with its strange light.

I grow luminous. Time has replaced me with itself.

I fit the blue shadows of transition and feel no difference;
when I am there—I am here—how could you know me?

___________________

TIME TO WONDER

I am embryo of death,
held in throbbing measure,
with time to wonder, time
to feel, to learn
that I am not the dreamer
but the dream.

I grow through
all the stages and must not
abort myself
before the full gestation,
nor can I be completed
till the sleeper stirs.

At first dull twinge
of wakening,
I thrust against
the wall of life
and give
one fetal gasp in that
omnipotent dark birth.

 Gold

TIME CAN BE MEASURED

friend fool
you have already inherited
death
you have already been kissed
by its loving eyes
and signed your self
anonymous

so what is fame
but brief
and worth, at best, one
drop of rain
time can be measured
in instant or eternity
they are the same


(first pub. in Writers Showcase, 1971)

___________________

TIME/TIMELESS

Through the beginning which is unknown,
into the ending which is unknown,
morning-time and night-time,
eternity-circle and beginning—
together there is a sway.
Many enter this sway,
enter and find the
core of stillness—
like the quiet eye
of the hurricane—all
brokenness—all healing.
Suffer and let pain heal you.
Something measures you by this.

 Masterpiece

A TIME AND PLACE
                       
for purple candles
and for music
for some lazy time of

day-dreaming
for light that falls in a
certain way

where you like to look
there light the candles
play the music

let your thoughts be tranquil
close away
whatever needs closing

in a place of private storage
under purple tassels
and embossed shadow

leave open what you love
life is yours
give it your happiness

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

REPARATIONS
—Joyce Odam

A stone dislodged from a path,
a butterfly torn by wind,
a voice-echo as it fades:
oh, to reclaim what is said,
oh, to restore what is harmed,
oh, to return what is moved
—symbols of all I regret.

___________________

Our thanks to Joyce Odam for her poetry celebrating time and the new year. Her LittleNip, “Reparations”, is a forty-niner: seven lines, seven syllables.

The new issue of MockingHeart Review is available at mockingheartreview.com/. Submissions! Do it!

And head up to El Dorado Hills Library tonight, 5-7pm, for the Poetry Off-the-Shelves read-around. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

Our new Seed of the Week is Unwanted Guests. 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.

—Medusa

 Celebrate the poetry of the pun!

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.

Facing That Blank Page

—Anonymous Photo

BLANK PAGE BEATDOWN
—David Wright, Sacramento, CA

Blank page, this is confrontational.
I don't really want to be here.
You bring me down because
We used to be so good together.
We drank together, smoked and did lines together.
Now we sit awkwardly facing each other.
Waiting for the other or someone or something to
Light some match.
And every time I begin, a menacing voice
Says yet again,
It's all been said before,
It's all been said before.

 —Anonymous Photo

NEW YEAR'S MELTDOWN
—David Wright

As near as I can figure
It happened like this:
It was New Year’s and I stepped into my
Backyard and fired a shot from my .22 revolver, aimed
Straight up.

Blood fell into my eyes.

The angel my bullet killed was about to
Save our world.
It would be the end of pain and heartache.
No more strays on the streets: dogs, cats, or persons.
But I killed the angel and the whole world knows it.
Everyone turns towards me with eyes of hate.

 —Photo by Maria Rosales

When he wants to check in

God does not
send his son any more.
(Look how that turned out.)

He takes the shape
of a dragonfly or a bumblebee.

Can you spot a dragonfly
without a gasp of awe?
Or a bumblebee,
aerodynamic joke that should not fly,
without believing?


—Maria Rosales, Paradise, CA

 —Anonymous Photo

GO BACK, MAGA STYLE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

In the days of our celebrated pioneers this great young nation of ours was a vast, new frontier to be explored and settled. Now every square foot of land and even the air above it is tied up as public or private property, subject to all kinds of property rights.

So where in the world will the homeless go? 

Their only choice is to go back in time.

Will hard work and clean living get them there?

Surely that, divine intervention, and loans at sub-prime.

 —Anonymous Photo

Today’s LittleNip:

BE IT RESOLVED
—Caschwa

Help shall be given
To those truly in need
Consequences aplenty
For lives built on greed

When doubling dilemmas
Have over-filled your plate
Welcome good ideas
And leave out the hate

All those tears that
You have spilt
Do not transfer ownership
Of any bit of guilt

_________________

Our thanks to today’s contributors for their fine start to 2018! One of the ways to start your new year is with Manzanita Writers Press up in Angels Camp: see www.manzapress.com/. The Manzanita Writers Press and Arts Emporium on Main Street has regular classes, workshops, website support, publishing assistance, and reading and open mics—plus art and music and all kinds of events. Chrys Mollett, for example will be presenting Voices of Wisdom Free Writing Classes for Seniors 55-Plus. Check it all out—It might be worth the little road trip for you!

And of course our area, from Placerville to Winters and everything in between, has plenty going on to keep you busy. Keep an eye on Medusa’s green box and blue box as the year rolls on.

No word from Sac. Poetry Center as to whether they have a reading tonight; I’m guessing not, in the absence of announcements thereof. But Poetry Off-the-Shelves read-around meets tomorrow (Jan. 2) in El Dorado Hills, 5-7pm, at the library. And on Friday (Jan. 5), The Good Earth Movement Poetry Night in Placerville presents Winters Poet Gary Kruse, 6:30pm. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

For a list of the Top 10 New Year’s Resolutions, see www.couriermail.com.au/lifestyle/health/new-years-resolution-queensland-mums-stunning-weight-loss/news-story/4c58293c76690f7f9cca22724595a180/. Medusa, however, has her own version:

1. Write more poetry.
2. Submit more poetry to Medusa’s Kitchen. (And photos?)
3. Submit more poetry to other places.
4. Read more poetry.
5. Write more poetry.
6. Go to more poetry readings in our area.
7. Go to some poetry events in other areas.
8. Write more poetry.
9. Read more poetry.
10. Write more poetry!

—Medusa, wishing all of us another interesting year filled with surprises as we face the blank page that is 2018! Reboot, restore, renew!

—Anonymous Photo

Celebrate poetry for the year to come! 

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.