Finding Them Marbles

—Photos by Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

PRONOUNCEMENTS
—Caschwa

he goes around picking up
other people’s lost marbles
before they descend into
the black hole

and then, eager to show off
his boundless intelligence
and massive generosity

he lays out these sparkling
jewels of spiritual guidance
on social media under his
own byline

sometimes it is a treasure
trove of the world’s finest
pornography, masquerading
as a reputable reference book

other times it is a mere babe
in the woods thrust into the
pilot’s seat

but mostly it is just a collection
of shallow stories…embellished
by wonderful lost marbles

_________________

DRIVEN TO EXTREMES
—Caschwa

911, what is your emergency?

I am in my house and am receiving some kind of
high frequency noise or something that is giving
me terrible headaches

Can you see any utility vehicles on your premises?

Negative

Are there drones visible outside around your house?

Negative

Are you watching political coverage on TV?

Yes, yes

Turn off the TV and try reading a classic novel

That works, thank you, you are wonderful!!!

IN MY DREAMS
—Caschwa

Witness: sworn in, gives testimony. Begins a new train of thought…

Counselor: interrupts, attempting to finish Witness’ sentence.

Witness: exits the witness chair, begins to leave the stand, gestures toward the counselor and declares: “OK, I’ll take a seat at your table and you can come up here, swear in, and testify.”

Judge: The witness is out of order. You will retake your seat on the stand and continue with your testimony.

Witness: With all due respect to the Court, you need to do more than sit there like you’re watching a movie when counselor tries to silence my sworn testimony in favor of his own verbiage.

__________________

UNDER OATH
—Caschwa

1) The witness was at the scene of an event but cannot recall any details
2) The witness didn’t see an event, so there is nothing to recall no matter how good the witness is at retrieving memories
3) The witness didn’t see an event, but conjures up a feasible-sounding memory just to avoid the appearance of having trouble retrieving memories
4) The witness has no independent recollection of an event, but rather recites statements and conclusions drawn from other sources
5) The witness is a pathological liar, so no one will ever really know the truth of the matter
6) The question given to the witness is based on false information or a false premise
7) The juror was in a jury pool that was sworn in as a group, answered “no” when everyone else answered “yes”, and just wasn’t heard
8) and more like that ….

WALK A MILE…
—Caschwa 

You might be empaneled to judge me, but you are
not truly my peer unless and until you have:

struggled with properly securing camera film, audio recording tape, movie film, or a typewriter ribbon, onto a take-up reel

corrected typos on carbon copies in a manual typewriter

driven a full-size car that does not have power steering

dialed every digit of every telephone number on a rotary dial phone to place a call

managed to find and reach your destination using street maps

created a piece of furniture without using a power tool

driven a car regularly for years having only the limited entertainment options of AM radio

suffered the hazards and inconvenience of using bias ply tires

waited until you reached age 21 to acquire some of the same rights we grant to 18-year-olds today

had to carry a draft card

been pulled over by the police on at least 4 occasions, each time while driving a different year, color, and model of car, and were told “A car like yours was used in a crime.”

been in the situation where you have to quickly find a working pay phone in a private booth that furnishes a recent phone book in usable condition, and then you have to scrounge and beg for sufficient change to initiate the call

maintained a love affair with the spouse you married over 36 years ago

recovered from a coma

donated an organ

had both eye lenses replaced, and one thumb reattached

THE WORLD OF POETRY
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

In the world of poetry
There is paper for magic
And ink for brilliance.
Can you see it shine
Up from the page
Like little diamond crystals
From mind to mind
Heart to heart
And soul to soul?

It is waiting
To be eaten,
The product of
Many sleepless nights
Of poets who answered
Muses’ calls
And put pen to paper
To trace the flow of magic
Across the nighttime sky.

__________________

WORKINGMAN’S LIFE
—Joseph Nolan
 
I screwed a lot of screws
Onto a lot of bolts.
It was my job,
For which I took
A lot of jolts,
From electrical emissions
And family permissions
To let me do my work,
But only by
The grace of my paycheck
Was I not a jerk
Among them all.

So it goes for
A workingman.
People expect you
To bring home the beef,
To go to work without
Complaint,
And be a man-in-chief,
When you get home.

Why do you feel so lonely
As a man-of-the-house?

Don’t you know
Everybody loves you
As long as you feed them?

People feed their dogs
Until they die;
The same with their horses,
Or, at least they try,
To keep on working and feeding
Everyone they owe a lullaby. 

TAXES
—Joseph Nolan

The government taxes my income.
The government taxes my land.
The government taxes my wealth.
When I die, it takes a sizable share.
Its taxing will never cease.

Each day,
I pay the sales tax.
Each year,
A tax return.
Why do they call it “return”?
It never comes back this way.
I’ve never heard
The government say,
“We’re sorry we taxed you so much!”

ORCHIDS IN SAND
—Joseph Nolan

Somewhere are orchids
Putting down roots
Into sandy soil
That might blow out
From beneath them.

They don’t have
To root deeper
Each and every day;
Some days can
Be vacation days.

Roots grow
Stronger with discipline—
The future made
More determined
By continuous effort.

Sand may be
Turned into concrete
With just a daily
Application of mortar.

Leave some cracks
To let the rain
Soak in.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

NO FENCES IN HEAVEN
—Joseph Nolan

They don't build fences in Heaven.
Someone would steal all the nails.

____________________

Good Monday morning! The moon is full and my snakes are a-stirrin’… Our thanks to Joe and Caschwa for being hard at work on poems and for sending them along to the Kitchen, and also to Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) for his fine photos, too. The sunflower is from his garden. Carl has sent us mostly list poems this week, but his first poem is a response both to recent Seeds of the Week, and to Medusa’s distress cry last week about losing her marbles. At least someone found them. (By the way, today IS Columbus Day, right….?) 

And congratulations to Joseph Nolan for his Honorable Mention at the annual Jack Kerouac Contest in Davis for his poem, “Enchanted by Jazz”! Joseph and the other winners read their poems last Friday night at the John Natsoulas Gallery, after a reading by Gary Snyder. Another Honorable Mention was won by Frank Dixon Graham, and congrats to him for that!

Poetry in our area begins at 7:30pm at Sac. Poetry Center, with Linda Jackson Collins and Geoffrey Neill, plus open mic. On Thursday, Sac. Poetry Center presents Third Thursdays in the Sacramento Room of the Central Library on I St. in Sacramento; bring poems by someone other than yourself. Also on Thursday, beginning at 8pm, Poetry in Davis features Margaret Ronda plus open mic at the John Natsoulas Gallery on 1st Street in Davis.

Friday at 7:30pm, The Other Voice in Davis presents Vincent Kobelt and Alice G. Walker plus open mic at the Unitarian Universalist Church on Patwin Road in Davis. There will also be another reading this weekend in Davis, this one at the Davis Arts Center Poetry Series on Sunday at 2pm with Mischa Kuczynski plus open mic at the Davis Arts Center on F St.

Have a hankerin’ for some cowboy poetry, or want to read some yourself? This Saturday at 1pm, 2:30pm, and 4pm, Manzanita Arts Emporium in Angels Camp presents Hoot ’N Holler—Cowboy Poetry & Storytelling. Audience members are encouraged to sign up to tell a story or poem, Wild West style. Info/entry form: www.manzapress.com/events/hoot-n-holler-cowboy-poetry-storytelling/.

Then this Sunday, Poetry of the Sierra Foothills presents Adam Sodofky and Alamgir Hashmi plus open mic. at Caffé Santoro on Pleasant Valley Rd. in Diamond Springs, 1-3pm. 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.

Interested in workshops? Check the green box at the right for a listing of local ones which will be held this week and/or later.
 
—Medusa, celebrating the poetry of the full moon!

 When Medusa goes off her trolley...

—Anonymous

 

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.

When Leaves Fall

—Anonymous Photo
 

THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE
—Jane Blue

It is October, dogwood and roses outside my window,
my feet on my ottoman
empire.  The leaves of the dogwood soak up sun
like a pool of drying blood, darker
than the single-petaled rose it stands behind: colors
of a Turkish rug or a Byzantine tapestry.
What do I know of life?  The leaves will soon fall
and rot into the earth.  In the spring, dogwood
covers itself with waxy white, like the chaste
St. Clare in her coffin.  Clare is here on the ottoman
in a poem by Jorie Graham—
“At the Exhumed Body of Santa Ciara, Assisi”—
preserved in her young starved body.
She was like the leaves of a tree, waiting for rain.
The tree does not go out and get rain for itself.
When leaves fall and die the tree endures
in its limbs and roots.  So what
is death, anyway?  A novel by the Swedish writer
Jens Christian Grøndahl is here too: Silence in October
that deconstructs a marriage.  What if?
What if they hadn’t made their continual
treaty of Sèvres, compromising and diminishing
their personal realms.  What if we hadn’t?


We look at old photographs.  “Is that you?”


Everyone is going to breakfast at Crepeville today.
“Is that a city?” you ask.  No, it’s a restaurant.
We’re not going to Crepeville this Sunday.  I roam
my ottoman empire.  I always come back to you.  Soon
I will get up and we will walk through the streets together.

        

           —from Turf Daisies and Dandelions, Rattlechaps 

             Chapbook Series #29, Rattlesnake Press, 2006
 
______________________

—Medusa, celebrating the life of a fine poet ~

And a reminder that the International Peace Festival in Carmichael takes place today from 11am-5pm at the La Sierra Community Center on Engle Road, and that from 3-6pm, Sac. Poetry Center’s special event, A Tribute to James Cooper, will take place at 25th & R Sts. in Sacramento. 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.

Jane and a little prince.
To learn about services for Jane and
about her daughter’s Facebook group, 
“Remembering Jane Blue”, go to 
www.facebook.com/jane.blue.7/.










 






Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Fire and Time and Spells . . .

My Lemons. Not Yet Ripe.

—Poems and Photos by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA

The air is here to encase your lungs in love, and the earth exists so that you have a place to make your stand. Your skin is across your bones because your heart is boundless, and friend, your heart can expand to cover the universe. Your skin keeps all of your joy contained in one place, here, where you need it. Even the horrors that you endure exist to open the door to the blessings. Everything is a blessing; you live, you breathe, your mind is gifted with sight, you are a soul, one with all that is. Cast off the shadow and rise. Now.

___________________

What do I want? To see the flowers wake up at dawn and spread their petals before the unending glory of the newly risen sun. That's all.

 Pico Verde Jobe

Pale, it stirs on the small, hard cot. The air is thick and still, and far too hot for dawn. The pale thing stares for a moment at the ceiling, and then it rises. What will today be? Seconds that pass like hammers on steel. Hours like death. Every day is another eternity. It opens the small window and peers out between the steel bars. Birdsong. A breeze that carries something new, something that names the day and sends the night off to another part of this world. The golden light of early morning. Hope. Pale and alone, it looks up at the changing sky.


_________________

I am visiting Putah Creek, where I set some of my son’s ashes adrift, when the beautiful cry of a pheasant rips through the air, cutting me like a fresh sorrow. Every new day is another year of suffering.


_________________

Even if I found enlightenment,
I would still need to clean up this yard.
Dang.
 

 

 Poet and Grandkid

I try to leave some emptiness in life, it feels right to do so. Only one day happens at a time, and that works for me. I can see through my life to my death, and likewise, I can see through my death and so better enjoy living. Just now the daylight grew and covered all of the sky. How lovely.


__________________

The fire in the stove is built from the sound of dogs howling. This fire has howling to burn instead of wood, and this fire is the edge of night, its sharpest corner, its finest and longest dream. This is the corner where the avenues of love and indifference meet. Muddy Waters is playing a long blues riff on guitar and I am kissing your lips, one lip at a time, then you smile and the spell is cast in shadow and thought. In this spell we are stars from different galaxies that stand naked together, toe to toe, face to face, shining. We are as bright as the pleasure of living. In this spell the earthquakes have names like old blues men from another generation, from earlier decades, with names like Hambone and Sonny. I am lost, and I say that out loud for you to hear. There is a moth drawn to the light of the stove the way that life is drawn to death. The way that death is drawn to life. That moth's time is almost up. And you and I? You put your soft and gentle hands to the sides of my face and pull me down to you, and then you very gently bite my lower lip. Fire and time and spells mean nothing to us anymore. 


___________________


Today’s LittleNip:

The endless pale heavens often call out to me, reminding me that I am alive and free. This moment.


—James Lee Jobe


___________________

Our thanks to James Lee Jobe for our Saturday-morning wake-up call! As the sign says, all we have is now… Next Friday, James will be hosting The Other Voice at the Unitarian Universalist Church on Patwin Rd. in Davis, featuring Vincent Kobelt and Ann G. Walker, plus open mic, 7:30pm.

That’s next week. Tonight from 5-8pm, Sac. Poetry Center Art Gallery presents its Second Saturday Reception for this month’s exhibit, “Broad Way”, broadsides by local poets/artists to celebrate SPC’s 40th anniversary. Also tonight, the Belle Cooledge Library on S. Land Park Dr. in Sacramento will present Poetry of the Emcee: Literary Strategies of Rap and Hip Hop with Eric Duran, 6pm. 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.

—Medusa, celebrating the poetry that is the current moment ~

 —Anonymous

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Itsy Bitsy and the Joker

—Poems and Photos by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento, CA

As I walked out leaving my parents’ place on Sunday evening to go back to my place down the street
      The neighbor’s cat, Itsy Bitsy, who likes me, runs across the street to greet me
      For several years this calico cat they have outdoors has liked getting attention from me
      She rubs her body against my legs and purrs
      Then comes the neighbor’s dog, Sofie, an Australian Shepard-and-Border-Collie mix
      (Sofie’s guardians allow her to be unleashed in her front yard because she’s friendly)   
      She loves coming up to me to enjoy me scratching her ears and neck with my fingers
      Sofie and Itsy Bitsy then stopped to glare in one another’s eyes
      I wondered if they said something to each other, like 
      “What are you doing, she’s “mine!”
      I could imagine them arguing that moment over me for attention in their shared mental “animaleze”    
      Then I said, “Itsy Bitsy and Sofie, be friends now!”
      I don’t know if the neighboring cat and dog ever will just because I’m the human who commanded it
      But as long as they glare at each other and don’t actually fight, it will probably be alright.

         

Despite being a “white” Evangelical Christian
     I have no problem with “Columbus Day” being changed to “Indigenous People’s” Day
     But so many of those want to hold on to Columbus like he was “messiah”
             rather than just a very faulted racist man who helped Spain conquer the “New World"
     Native Americans lost their lives to Western conquest as well as their lands;  
             even those who “converted” to Christianity weren’t treated as human beings
    America’s indigenous people were targeted for genocide—
    Yet glamorized “cowboy” westerns depicted the “indians” as the villains
    So much of history favors those who it considers the “winners”
    But doesn’t consider the humanity of the “losers”
    Even California’s history usually taught that the “golden rule” was, whoever got the gold, ruled
             and that it was "manifest destiny” to build their civilization while murdering the native peoples
    Yet Alfred Kroeber, an anthropologist who saved the life of “Ishi” the last Yahi,
             dared to demand that white Americans owe the Native Americans more than a mere apology. 

   


On Oct. 5 some Blue Angel jets
        or rather billion-dollar killing machines flew over my house
        Rancho Cordova’s Mather Air Base was having an “airshow”
        but some pilots apparently flew out above Arden Park in Sacramento
        I have to wonder what it is like to have those planes flying over to bomb you—
        especially in the Middle East 
        Such pilots probably convince themselves they are merely bombing buildings instead of killing people 
        Besides, I did once know a former military pilot who decided to no longer go to airshows
        He said Mather wouldn’t let him take in his own picnic and grill
        and, with several kids, being forced to buy from vendors was just too expensive
        I told him I think airshows are just another sign that we need to stop our bloated military budget.   

                         

A newsletter email I got from Audubon is an article against humans feeding wild birds
       Audubon says, ask yourself, “Is it true? Is it kind? Is it necessary?”
       They say no one, for instance, should ever feed endangered Scrub jays—
       Jays fed by humans stuff like peanuts are actually being malnourished and starved 
       Thus humans are leading to their extinction
       Audubon also says there’s a better way to feed songbirds
       Than by providing seed feeders in your yards
       Growing native trees and shrubs are best—
       Such as the service berry or crabapples
       But frankly I’ve always been fascinated as to why people feed birds anyway—
       The Bible in Matthew 6:26 says "Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, 
           nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?”
       I also wonder why people are so eager to feed pigeons and geese in parks
           but not the hungry of their own species on the streets.

In the movie “Joker”
        Joaquin Phoenix plays a crazy middle-aged comedian-clown who goes on a violent crime spree
        and no “Superhero” in the DC comic universe comes along to stop him
        Critics worry about the gun violence and mass shootings in the movie
        especially since there are so many these days in the real world    
        But I’d end such a movie with the supposed villainess Cat Woman killing the Joker
        and Batman would be all mad, feeling his ego destroyed   
        And she’d say “Why, Batman, I had to do what you wouldn’t
        because you “heroes” around here enjoy Joker coming back to fight you… "

 ______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name.

—William Shakespeare (from A Midsummer Nights’ Dream)

______________________

Our thanks to Michelle Kunert, a long-time SnakePal who has come back to visit us with her unique poems and photos. Her world is always colorful, always charming! Welcome back, Michelle.

NorCal poets will be saddened to learn that primo Sacramento poet Jane Blue passed away in her sleep last Tuesday. More information may be had at the "Jane Blue" Facebook page at www.facebook.com/jane.blue.7. Our thoughts are with her husband, Peter Rodman, and her family.

—Medusa, celebrating the life of one of my mentors, Jane Blue. (Jane and Dennis both—too many lost, too fast!)      

“Death is not the opposite of life, but a part of it.”

—Haruki Murakami

(Anonymous Photo) 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

 

Autumn's Garden

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

HABITAT SCHOOLYARD

In Autumn’s garden
summertime colors muted
and the dead unplucked.
But come along, walk quiet,
listen ~ stop ~ breathe-in lessons.

THE PONDER VIEW
    from email with Patti Farrington

I email Patti:

A poets’ retreat on Ponder Ridge!
But I’m totally frazzled right now—trying to
bundle phone-TV-internet, dealing with invisible
entities in cyber-wifi space—no one seems to know
who does what, who to talk to, what the system is
or how to make it work. I'm wandering the waste-
land-of-technology, and it’s plum wrung
the poetry out of me.

Patti responds:

A tech spasm! A vortex of disassociation.
Birds don’t sing in a vortex, poems have no voice
there.
I hope your synapses find their way back
to the land of the living.

Me again:

Forget the frazzle! I’ll be at your poets’ gathering,
imagining the full Ponder Moon over your
ridgetop... a poem,
the best remedy for tech spasm.

WELCOME TO AUTUMN

Scarecrow beckons from a garden already fading, tomato vines sagging with the last green globes. A touch of frost last night. Scarecrow doesn’t care. He grins. Did he just wave at those wild geese passing over, honking on their way south? Scarecrow likes it here. He’s stuffed full of trimmer leavings dry as summer gone—my long, hot labor. All that work with saw and loppers, woodpile’s flush with cordwood. Scarecrow says Relax. This morning’s cool and crisp with possibilities. Breeze is a sigh—take a deep breath, chill of winter.

scarecrow doesn’t care—
head full of forgetfulness,
kettle steaming tea

INSOLENCE

How can a little old Gold Rush town
have so much traffic? so little parking? No free
spots, even the Main Street garage is full.
Just one slot, in the Compact section—SUVs
over-lapped onto both sides. My little Honda
slips in between behemoths. I leave space
for the right-side driver to enter his Expedition,
and slide out my side. My business is brief;
back to my car. Left-side Armada’s driver
stands there, sarcastic, “Think you can get back
in your car?” “I got out, I can get in.” I do,
wondering about the definition of “compact.”
Out in natural daylight, I see: a rubberized
calling card under my wipers. Congratulations!
You are an inconsiderate SOB.
He must’ve ordered a good supply of those
cards, to have one handy-on-the-spot.
And, it takes one to know one.

TASTE OF HOME

September rain, and the hills are washed with green. Already I’m imagining miner’s lettuce—Indian lettuce—in a salad, as I walk out my door into the middle of green. Come spring, I’ll trust my instincts, let my feet dictate the way. I’ll be looking for heart-shaped leaves lavish underfoot, free as sun and shadow, crisply soft as air. Gathering handfuls takes no practice. This wild bounty isn’t bizarre or scary, and it wards off scurvy. Just add olive oil and a squirt of lemon, and miner’s lettuce perks up the colorless head I paid good money for at the supermarket.

green elf-umbrellas
with tiny white blossom-sprays—
there’s woodland magic

LATCHES IN OUR LIVES
    a scrunched skeltonic

At the shelter     a kitty-welter helter-skelter—
This one here! a twitch of ear that shows no fear—
a black-cat bold with eyes pale gold. If truth
be told, I like cats black.     No taking back
when you hear that purr erupt from fur.  
He’ll cause a stir in our quiet house of dog
and mouse.    I’ll name him Latches
for the way he snatches with paw and catches
my hand—no scratches      but he’s got
claws,     and feline jaws give rodents pause.
He’s skeleton key, sure as can be,
to let things free.      Just wait and see.
He’ll find a way however he may      into
cupboard’s array of breakables. Gay    
as crazy-ball—a dare-it-all    climbing
wall at a vertical crawl…. Please don’t fall!

Today’s LittleNip:

DEADFALL
—Taylor Graham

Oak twigs for tinder,
kindling for a woodstove, split logs
for winter warming—
there on hillside beckoning
the random spark wild-flaming.

___________________

Thank you, Taylor Graham, for your autumn poems and photos, tinged with amber and red like the season—and mention of the random spark which we’re all dreading. Pray for fair (small!) winds and following seas… and that the power comes/stays on!

Today’s photos by Taylor Graham are from the Sutter's Mill School with its little habitat garden just off the main entrance drive. For more about skeletonic verse, go to www.writersdigest.com/writing-articles/skeltonic-verse-poetic-form/.

Today at noon, Wellspring Women’s Writing Group meets at Wellspring Women’s Center in Sacramento, facilitated by Sue Daly. And noon today is the deadline for the Jack Kerouac Contest in Davis. Tonight at 8pm, Jan Haag will read at Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar, plus open mic, hosted by Geoffrey Neill. 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.

—Medusa, celebrating the red-and-amber poetry that is Fall ~

 Black cat troublemaker: “…skeleton key, sure as can be…”
—Anonymous Photo

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The Stranger

Louis Kasatkin (right) with the Mayor of Wakefield, 
Councillor Charlie Keith

—Poems by Louis Kasatkin, Wakefield, W. Yorkshire, England

ENCOUNTER WITH A STRANGER

The Stranger with the shabby overcoat
and hangdog expression asked me
if I could spare him a few reminiscences,
I replied that the change in my pockets
changes with the changing tide,
though I could offer him
some reflections instead;
The Stranger sat back in his chair
ordered himself another absinthe
and began whistling some nameless tune
while he waited for his drink to arrive;
”If all our pain and sorrow
only came on the morrow
would we set the alarm late
or not at all?
taking the chance that
vicissitudes had all
somehow passed us by
while we were fast asleep.”
”And were we to store all
our tears shed in our lives,
how big would the bottle have to be?
Could we claim back some pennies
if we returned it empty?”
The Stranger glanced askance
at his watch where time had
stopped years ago,
he wondered aloud where
the waiter might’ve got to
with his drink?
”If we don’t feel the suffering of others,
how will we know if we have blood in our veins?”
The Stranger got up,
bid me adieu;
after he’d left
I saw in the mirror that
there was no longer a reflection there
of me.

__________________

A STRANGER RETURNS

”We meet again!”
the Stranger said,
the one I’d never met before,
sat alone at the pavement cafe
he asked me if I would
like to wallow in nostalgia with him;
I said I didn’t reminisce
much these days though I
occasionally enjoyed a fond memory;
Ordering an espresso, he spoke
of his parents and the War,
I interjected with academic achievements
and holidays abroad;
He said he couldn’t remember them,
though he was sure he’d seen me
once whilst in Amsterdam;
I said I’d never been and whoever
it was he saw it wasn’t me;
Finishing his coffee the Stranger got up
and turning to me said,
there was only one other time he was sure
that he’d seen me,
curious, I asked him when?
In the bathroom mirror
that time I hesitated
with the cut-throat razor
and fear in my eyes…

__________________

THE STRANGER’S ABSENCE

I recall him saying,
”of all the possible possibilities isn’t it possible
that there being no possibilities is amongst them?“
To which I countered,
”We cling obsessively to those pieces of a jigsaw
we’ve somehow come to accumulate by chance,
accident or ulterior design, only for those pieces
never to fall into place or even bear any resemblance
to a discernible outline or pattern or a promise of coherence.“
I contemplate the solitary glass of absinthe
that sits forever stationary on a marble-top table,
un-paid for and un-drunk until The Stranger returns,
and quaffs it savouring the liquid’s unique indifference
as it surges down his gullet;
We are only led to imagine such things
because we imagine that the Stranger,
long since absconded into the obscurity of the world-at-large
might somehow re-appear unannounced as if by chance,
fate or ulterior design,
And then we might recommence the desultory dialogue,
the Stranger and me
that dialogue which he chose peremptorily to abandon
with his trademark flaneur disquieting insouciance;
and so I sit and toy with the pieces of jigsaw
left me as a memento or perhaps not,
some pieces are clearly missing and
the glass of absinthe requires that I pay for it.

___________________

THE STRANGER, ONE LAST TIME

There he sat,
in the place where he sat
the last time that we spoke
all those years ago;
And there he sat
as if he’d never left
and the years hadn’t passed us by;
”I’m still waiting for my absinthe that I’ve ordered”,
he ventured apropos of nothing,
his deprecating smile lingered
as he brushed some imaginary
cigar ash off the table;
A faint susurration arose
from a Greek Chorus somewhere
in the background of this
mise—en—scene;
”Years in a desert of empty days,
years in a white nothingness,
Time itself marooned in
a white swirling fog“.
”Waiting…” the Stranger began,
my curiousity piqued, he continued,
”is the worst part of waiting “.
I concurred, which seemed
to set him at his ease,
though he glanced obsessively
at his pocket watch;
”Time flies and having flown
runs out of fuel and crashes
amidst the contretemps and vicissitudes
of our world“.
He once more glanced around for signs
of a waiter with the absinthe which he’d
ordered such a long, long time ago;
but no-one was forthcoming, and
overcome by ineluctable disappointment
he rose and bidding me adieu
swept with customary insouciance
from the cafe into the busy boulevard;
as I turned my gaze from the departing stranger,
I saw the waiter arrive with a tray
bearing a singular glass…

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

There are no stranger here; Only friends you haven’t yet met.

—William Butler Yeats

___________________

Welcome back, Louis Kasatkin, and congratulations on your contributions to your community’s poetry scene! Louis was first featured in the Kitchen in March, 2016. He writes that his bio has expanded somewhat—most recently he planned, organized and directed an unfunded, alternate grassroots community, LitFest, in his city of Wakefield—the UK's 11th biggest city by population. He has appended a couple of pics on that, including one of him with the Mayor of Wakefield, Councillor Charlie Keith, at the official media launch of #WakeyLit19 held at Destiny Christian Church. Louis is the founder of Destiny Poets UK, and the Editorial Administrator of www.destinypoets.co.uk/.

Back on US soil, tonight from 5-7pm, Poetry Off-the-Shelves poetry read-around will meet at the El Dorado County Library, 345 Fair Lane, 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, celebrating poetry pals across the sea ~

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Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Hold the Child

Alto Sax

—Poems and Photos by Joyce ODam, Sacramento, CA

RED HAIR

Natural redheads. Natural
response. Mirrors confirm.

All eyes go toward. Admire.
Hair of fiery look.

Audacity of self-assurance.
Hair that lifts to light.

Has sheen. Pulls self and
others in same distraction.

Admiration: Hey, Red… !
Target for helpless hearts.

Advertisements
love that look. Movies, too.

Little Egyptian bottle.
Henna.

Promise to cure dullness,
ignite with sexy color.

 Augur

THE FIELD COUCH

The field couch is gone, left at the edge
of the sidewalk one furtive night a month ago,
left there to flaunt, to invite, to sag in its plaid ruin
with other rubbish piled and scattered as the tail-
lights sped away. Well, today

it’s gone. Someone took it. And we miss it now,
for the audacity of its signature, for its mystery—
our thing to talk about—our city-thing that we
deplore and can do nothing about. Or maybe

its owner just returned with a pang of conscience,
or family sentiment—as of an old sick dog that one
must face the disposition of. Or maybe someone
just needed a couch. And we didn’t hear or see
anything this time, either.

 Far and Away

FOLLOWING THE SHADOWS

You’ve walked too far down the beach.
You are following someone,
but their pace is faster,
yours too full of anger.
Something must be avenged.
The sand grows heavy
under your slowness.
The day will not hurry.
Your eyes are playing tricks,
scouring the distance
which wavers and changes.
There is no one—no one to follow,
only two shadows—
shadows of your rage,
almost forgiven,
living again
some long-ago betrayal,
failure of proof
the distance      ever-widening,
the following as useless as the love.

___________________

THE FRUSTRATED POET
“Shall I compare Thee”—T. Alan Broughton (p. 256, Poetry Daily): "According to early Icelandic law it was a serious offense to address a love poem to a woman, even an unmarried one.”

How will I hide this, and you not know, not fear my ardor,
(suspected or not) not know by my glance, or certain si-
lences (filled with pending). How can I not offend you
with my love poem made of guarded words, or made of
outpourings, I must speak—must overwhelm you—with
my longing. How else can I disobey the old taboos : will
love kill me? cause rumor and shame? must I write this
on silence—hoping you’ll find it and lower your eyes in
my direction and make some sign? O Lady, dare I risk
this poem for you?

__________________

FROM DIN TO QUIET MUSIC

I would be one with this loneliness
here in this center
which can go each way

here where all things coexist
the light flaring down
and the darkness filling

I want to be the light as it disperses
and be the shadow touched
by the dispersing light

I want to be the stillness
that watches this
I want to be the motion that results

Here is a sleeping bird with a silver wing
and a wing of dark. I want to fall asleep
in its eye and be where it is—

alive and alone
in this perfect center
to be no threat and have no foe

and I want to take in a long deep breath
and let out a quiet sigh, the way I do
when I turn from din to quiet music.

 Petals

IN THE GALLERY
After Marcel Duchamp:
The Bride Stripped Bare by her Bachelors, Even, 1915-23
(Oil on lead between glass)
 
Between glass panes, the image struggles,
torn by the light when discovered,

caught as reflection
when eyes glance past—

uneasy at what they imagine:
nothing     is nothing     there,

but nothing      stares back,
defies perception,

impressed by its own distortion—
this abject dance—this shattered resistance.

 Before Dreaming
 

TIMING

I borrow
this lip and this chair
for my speech and comfort,

for my white space of effort
which is a new page
of possibility.

I borrow this old arrow
to be my direction
and my luggage of light.

They will get me there.
All you who wait
on side roads and benches,

I will not rest till you find me,
greedy as a stare.
Oh, failing eyes,

go by me.
It’s all right.
I borrow patience for forgiveness.

 Vessel

SIMPLE THINGS

Fragmentary. This old light out of older light. Repetitions.
Believe in it. Let it lead you into its farther self. You can
go as deep as you dare. Its name is night. It has many stars.
Count them. Take forever. A child sits watching you, blow-
ing soap bubbles into planets. Wings without angels fly
everywhere. Oh, this is such a night. Go with joy, that old
foe of sorrow. Tell the child not to cry. The child does not
listen. The child rubs an old tear into its eye, watching you
for pity. You are both lost and at home in this night-city
which has opened up its wing for you. Do not try to under-
stand this—you are not here. The child has dreamed you.
Hold the child until you die.

________________

Today’s LittleNip:

RISKING A MORNING WALK
—Joyce Odam

Attacked
by an orange
butterfly, I waver
past—avoiding the shadow of
the crow.

~

The crow—
cawing rudely
at my intrusion on
his path—scolds me so loudly that
I duck.

~

A dog,
sharing the same
sidewalk, sniffs his way past,
taking his rights for granted—same
as me.

___________________

Many thanks to poet/photographer Joyce Odam for her always-welcome contributions today!

I wrote a poem, too:

Lookee, lookee, look at me!
Gorgon’s senile at seventy-three!

I cannot believe that I announced, yesterday, for all the world to see, that it was Columbus Day! If you find my marbles, please mail them to me in a plain, unmarked package…

Our new Seed of the Week is Black Holes. 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, marble-less but still celebrating poetry!

 Medusa

—Anonymous Photo

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.