Mixed Bag On A Monday

—Anonymous Photos of Bunches of Bunches-o’-Things

IN THE LAND OF MIXED MEANINGS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Opened up the dictionary for
help with a definition, and all
that was inside were flattened
leaves of unknown origin.

Attended an institution of
higher tuition, and got a third
degree burn when they sent
me the bill.

Why does the simple task of
installing a new vacuum cleaner
bag have to be so unclean?

Oleanders grow like unwanted
hair: after you cut them, they
grow back even more fully.

Whenever I see the words “Easy
Open” on a plastic or cardboard
container, I bring out my metal
toolkit.

Everyone knows about those
winged bugs we call flies. Logically,
there would also then be some
wingless bugs we would call “crawls”. 

LOW LEGACY

—Caschwa

(seeded by the term “oblit” from
Joyce Odam’s Solidify, Medusa’s
Kitchen, October 15, 2019)


Was presidential in name only
acted with all the facts, logic,
and substance of flatulence
galore

swore an oath to uphold the
glorious Constitution, then
cherry-picked a couple points,
no more

adopted a defined purpose to
obstruct, confuse, and fully
obliterate all the good deeds
of yore

became Executive Team Leader
by making only his vote count
chose cabinet heads rotten to
the core

now investigations are pending
a new election is brewing
we have yet to see what is
in store 

PAY US!

—Caschwa

(Response to Taylor Graham’s
“Consolation”, Medusa’s Kitchen
October 17, 2019)


We are comforted to know that when
automakers crash-test their products,
they use crash dummies instead of real
human beings

Once the autos reach the streets, if
there are still problems that should
have already been corrected, the
automakers are held liable for damages,
some huge

So how can power companies get away
with using real human beings as crash
dummies for staged power outage
situations that are not real emergencies?

That is like breaking into our homes and
local eateries, taking away all perishable
foods, and tossing them straight into the
dumpster under the pretense that this
will better prepare us for a real, bona fide
emergency situation

If power companies continue to insist on
using real human beings as crash dummies,
we should present them a bill for our
services that collectively is greater than the
expense of the safer option of converting to
underground power lines 

HOLD YOUR BREATH

—Caschwa

Disaster
stocks falling even faster
the economy in slump:
Trump

Still waiting
trickling and percolating
no money yet reaching me,
gee!

Texas Ranger
charged crimes when cribs a danger
ICE takes babies from their bed,
dead

Mood hotter,
lead in our pipes and water
tax revenue not spent right:
blight

No allure
big sewer system failure
all the workers who were deft,
left

The lions are back at the Sacramento Zoo

     But I’m one who wishes I could free them
     Just like the rest of the animals at the zoo
     and just get rid of zoos along with circuses
     and anything else that advertises animals as “entertainment"
     The Sacramento Bee said the lions were “happy” in their new enclosure
     “The only thing that separates you from lions now is an inch and a half of glass..”
     said zoo spokeswoman Laurel Vincent
     I wonder if such humans think captive-born big cats are just big pussycats
     that their internal instincts won't realize they are supposed to be in the “wild”
     and that they won’t rebel in being caged
     It sickens me that they probably also keep them drugged
     which is why they so often appear so docile         

—Michelle Kunert, Sacramento, CA

__________________

A guy at work offered me some little chocolate donuts from a bag 
        I said “No thanks, I don’t think they’re vegan.”
        He looked confused at me rejecting his generous kindness
        Then I said “Besides, it reminds me of a ’70’s Saturday Night Live sketch I saw—
        I suspect it was “little chocolate donuts” that did in comedian John Belushi,
        not the drugs

—Michelle Kunert

LIZARDS AT PARTIES

—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

A lizard
Hangs it tail
Into the wind.

It likes to
Feel the venting
Of air
Moving
Over skin.

It wags its tail;
It sends its tongue
Into air,
To taste the scene!

It’s only acting
Naturally,
For a lizard,

But some object
Most strenuously,
To tongues in air,
Un-seemingly,
And terribly obscene,
But that’s how
Lizards are!

If you don’t like it,
Don’t invite them
To your parties.

BLACK HOLES AND THE EVENING NEWS

—Joseph Nolan

If you think the universe is real,
Think about black holes.
Black holes can suck in stars,
And frequently do.

Gravity-waves are splashed out into space
When a star meets its
So-un-star-like demise.

We feel them
Beneath our skin—
The disappearance of stars,
The assault of a gravity-wave,
Like a smashing into a tunnel’s ramparts,
Subterranean,
A long, slow death on the
Five-minute ride to a hospital,
That took an hour-and-a-half to make,
The cameras off,
So well-planned,
The broken seatbelt
In the near-new Mercedes,
The driver, drunk off his ass,
But no-one noticed,
He seemed O.K.,
The way there was
No chance of escape!

If a black hole is big enough
It can suck in a galaxy,
Or,
One-galaxy-at-a-time,
Even a universe,
Easy as that!
Nothing left for the TV news.

BLACK-HOLES

—Joseph Nolan

Black-holes
Show no
Souls,

Live on
Doles
From stars
They suck in.

No way to win
When you’re too close
To an overdose
Of gravity.

Oh! What’s over there?
Where even stars
Are
Unprepared
For something
Darker
Than the darkest
Shadow,
That will not yield to light,
But sucks it in.
Against a black hole
Even light can’t win!

CALLED UPON FOR LIGHT

—Joseph Nolan

Eventually,
We must turn into friends;
No matter how strong the fire,
Or how bright the spark,
Its fuel must burn up.
It’s how we greet
A cooler dark.

Cooler, but
Still warmer
To touch
Than stars so
Distant, bright.

We clamor,
And don’t falter,
When called upon
For light.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE REASONABLE URGE DOCTRINE
—Caschwa

She says: Honey, it’s your turn to do the dishes tonight.
He hears: Come to bed with me now!

___________________

Medusa’s our name, and eclectic’s our game! A big thank-you to today’s contributors on a Monday, as we mix it up in preparation for another week of poetry!…

…Poetry which begins at Sac. Poetry Center tonight with Alamgir Hashmi, Alan Soldofsky plus open mic, 7:30pm at 25th & R Sts., Sacramento. Then on Thursday at 7pm, Crocker Art Museum presents Open Poetry Night: In Tribute to painter/poet Frank LaPena, plus spoken word and original poems by participants. 216 O St., Sacramento. And of course Thursday is Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar in Sacramento at 8pm, with featured readers and open mic.

Friday and Saturday will be very busy days, beginning at Hart Sr. Center on J Street in Sacramento with Poetry Appreciation Class with Marie Taylor, this month about Edgar Allen Poe, 1pm. Cost is $5; call 916-808-5462 to register. At 6pm, Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas, Kathleen McClung, and Eileen Malone will read at Sac. Poetry Center, hosted by Bob Stanley. Then at 7pm, Speak Up: The Art of Storytelling and Poetry presents poems and stories on the theme of “Ghosted” at the Avid Reader on Broadway in Sacramento. All of that this coming Friday!

Saturday, Oct. 26, is Sacramento Poetry Day! This official proclamation was made by then-Mayor Anne Rudin in 1986. To see Patrick Grizzell’s description of how it all came to be, go to www.facebook.com/patrick.grizzell/posts/10208638162724506/.

Saturday will also be busy, as Writers on the Air presents Black Women Tell Tales beginning at 9:30am at Sac. Poetry Center, featuring Stephanie Bray, Brenda Davis, Gladys Wilburn, and Geraldine Walker plus open mic. Then, down in Stockton at 1:30pm, Flor y Cantos: Celebration of Poetry, Song and Dance will take place at Haggin Museum on N. Pershing Av. And at 2pm, Creative Minds meets at GOS Art Gallery on Del Paso Blvd. in Sacramento, and Poetic License poetry read-around meets in Placerville at the Sr. Center on Spring Street. (The suggested topic for this month is “forgetfulness”, but all subjects are welcome.) 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 another wild week of wonderful words ~

 Medusa’s advice to you for this week…

 

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

The Fall Of An Acorn

—Anonymous Photo

PLEASANT SOUNDS
—John Clare (1793-1864)

The rustling of leaves under the feet in woods and under
 

     hedges;

The crumpling of cat-ice and snow down wood-rides,
      

     narrow lanes and every street causeway;


Rustling through a wood or rather rushing, while the wind
      

     halloos in the oak-toop like thunder;


The rustle of birds' wings startled from their nests or flying
      

     unseen into the bushes;


The whizzing of larger birds overhead in a wood, such as
       

     crows, puddocks, buzzards;


The trample of robins and woodlarks on the brown leaves.
      

     and the patter of squirrels on the green moss;


The fall of an acorn on the ground, the pattering of nuts on 
      

     the hazel branches as they fall from ripeness;


The flirt of the groundlark's wing from the stubbles—
       

     how sweet such pictures on dewy mornings, when the


dew flashes from its brown feathers.

__________________

Today at 1pm, Poetry of the Sierra Foothills presents Adam Soldofsky, Alamgir Hashmi plus open mic at Caffé Santoro in Diamond Springs, 493 Pleasant Valley Road. And at 2pm, Davis Arts Center Poetry Series will be featuring Mischa Kuszynski plus open mic at Davis Arts Center on F Street in Davis. 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 more about John Clare, go to www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/john-clare/.

—Medusa, celebrating the poetry of autumn sounds ~

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.

The Calm Sea of the Night

—Poems by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA
—Photos Courtesy of James Lee Jobe

Somewhere, there is an oasis. Which way? I don't know. This way, that way, any way. Every direction leads to an endless wasteland of dust and death. An unforgiving sun. Thorns like knives, like sorrow. And in the city people live with little hatreds eating up their souls. Fools might say that this one prays wrong, that one looks wrong, another loves wrong. So many different hatreds, like heart-worms, like maggots. Like death. Darkened souls that wither, and burn, and cry out, and damn them all anyway. Which way? I have never known. This way, that way, any way at all. But there is no point in staying here even one more day. Brother, sister, protect your soul. A thorny desert surrounds the city. Let's start walking. There is an oasis out there, somewhere, probably within each of us, and I am damn well going.

Drinking good coffee and listening to Antonio Sanchez play the drums like thunder against the roof of the world. What is tomorrow? I don’t know.

________________

Respect the dead, even when your body is full of crows, and coffins line the bitter streets like people waiting for a parade to pass by. Respect the dead, even when your body is full of snow and the sidewalk inside you is impassable. Tonight the crows are cawing and the snow is thick. Hold your hand out in the air, watch the snowflakes land and melt on your warm skin. Respect the dead and pray for peace. Just drop to your knees and speak your truth. When the sun returns again, you and the crows will be far away, but the snow and the dead will remain.

Let us span the Sacramento River with a bridge that we build from joy and kindness. Let every person that crosses this bridge be blessed.

_______________

Forgiveness was not for sale at the marketplace. A priest mentioned forgiveness while tugging at his wispy beard, but he didn't actually say anything specific. The cobblestones of this old street have darkened somewhat with age and feel hard against the feet. And anyway, where is there to go? The sins committed are clear. Some kind of atonement is owed, and remorse is painted across the acrimonious omens in the sky. The blue dove of the evening has long since flown away. One step follows another and eventually the street becomes a dirt lane, and then a field, and then goes up the side of the hill that leads to the far side of the world. What is there to do but keep faith and climb? 

Yes. The smiles of the stars across the sleeping face of this earth. The clean, fresh breeze from the wings of hawks to cool the brows of the children at rest, and of the lovers at their best.

Yes. How sweet and pure, this darkness of time and ease, this darkness of hope and renewal. The cornflowers of night. This darkness complete and untroubled. 

 
Yes. The people raise up their most innocent dreams up to the stars, to taste the thanks and the holy blessings of life, those gifts that life offers so freely.  

 
Yes. Oh the calm sea of the night. Oh the million lanterns of the night. Those soft cornflowers. Those hawk wings.

Yes.    

Today’s LittleNip:

The morning rainstorm fed the trees, the garden, and the grass. The afternoon sun then broke through and fed my soul.

—James Lee Jobe

____________________

Our thanks to James Lee Jobe this morning for his questions that leave us room to answer, and his reminders that there are calm seas and a million lanterns of the night. James will be hosting the monthly Davis Arts Center Poetry Series reading this Sunday, 2pm, featuring Mischa Kuszynski plus open mic. That's on F Street in Davis. But this afternoon, don’t forget the cowboy poetry at Hoot ’N Holler today in Angels Camp, either! 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 good coffee, good poetry, and "the smiles of the stars" ~

 “Somewhere, there is an oasis.”

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.

Let There Be Light, Momma!

Aliensmith
—A Poem by Smith and Lady of Cleveland, OH
—Visuals by Smith

GIVE ME SEVEN

Standing in an old shack store
in Memphis

I waited while the black proprietor
sold a couple records
to an old black man

After he left
the guy said,
That was Rufus Thomas

You mean the guy that sang,
Walking the Dog?

We started talking about
soul music and I told him
one of my favorite songs was
Behave Yourself, by Booker T
and the MGs
Once I said, Behave Yourself
the proprietor's
whole attitude
changed

he started talking to me

I told him,
I used to lie on the floor
in the dark
on the rug
my head under the speakers
in high school
in early ‘60s
playing it over and over

He pointed out back, said,
See that shack?

Booker T recorded Green Onions
there. They worked all night,
over and over, drinking, recording,
perfecting Behave Yourself

Come dawn,
drunk and tired,
they decided they needed a
B-side
and in 5 minutes,
threw together
Green Onions

(their biggest hit)

 Brainsmith

Early ‘70s
I was writing
concert reviews
for a Baltimore weekly

Went backstage to interview
Bill Haley of the Comets

The usher took me up
and said, Excuse me, Mr. Haley,
this man's here to interview you
for the paper

Haley looked up at me,
said, Go away, kid.
I'm counting my money.

And that was it.

And the sad part of this
I could've interviewed Little Richard instead,
whom I've never met,
instead of a used car salesman

 Haggardsmith
 

Same newspaper,
I was at a radio station
to interview Alice Cooper

who was there with his opening act,
Flo & Eddy, who were
half of the Turtles, and had
also played on some
Frank Zappa albums

Radio station supplied the dope

we all got wonderfully stoned

Alice was rather a drag
as he insulted fans who called him up
on the phone

But Flo & Eddy, who also recorded as
Phosphorescent Leech and Eddy,
were warm, funny,
friendly, marvelous folk,
magic

As I left the radio station
without my interview with Alice Cooper
(I was really good at not getting the interview)
a parking lot full of teenyboppers
started SCREAMing

and one little girl ran up to me
and said,
Are you somebody?

I had to say,
No, I'm nobody

 Hellfiresmith

I interviewed Tiny Tim for 45 minutes
same newspaper
Tim was broke, touring these
little tiny honkytonks

And I watched his act
as he went through all the normal stuff,
Tiptoe thru the Tulips and all the
vaudeville jokey stuff
and then he went into a
50-song medley
and sometimes a song would be from 1890,
sometimes it'd be Creedence Clearwater Revival,

went back after the show
and told him I was blown away
I thought he was a genius

and he was so hungry for
recognition
he actually took my tape recorder
out of my hand
and for 45 minutes,
he talked and sang into it

He did a Bob Dylan song
in Rudy Vallee's voice
and he did a Rudy Vallee song
in Bob Dylan's voice

He told me about being in
a party somewhere and he opened
a closet somewhere
and there was George Harrison
in a cloud of marijuana smoke

Told me how he was totally
ripped off by his managers
he was broke
they stole everything
and every now and then his wife,
Miss Vicky,
would try to get him to do something else

after the tape was up
the manager came in,
said, Mr. Tim, There's only about
6 people out there for the next show.
Do you want to cancel?

Said he didn't care if there was only one,
he was going to go on

And now for another bit of
one of my shame things,
he wrote his address
in my notebook, my journal
and made me promise to send him
the review, the interview,
which turned out to be a front-page piece
and I wrote a real good review
saying what a genius he was,

a totally honest, but good review
and I never mailed it to him

Man needed it
I promised it
I didn't deliver it
and it still bothers me a little bit

Shame never goes away

 Ozsmith

I got drunk with Paul Williams
but that doesn't really matter much,
we talked about hobbits

He wanted to play a hobbit
in the movies

He wrote a bunch of hit songs
for other people like perhaps
We've Only Just Begun for the Carpenters
and he'd had a couple hits himself
and he had a role in some movie
and he toured with his band,

He was funny,
short

He ordered up a box of
white wine,
tore it open,
and we started talking about hobbits.

Like I said,
I'm not real good at getting the interview.

 Plasticsmith

Jack Dangers
from Meat Beat Manifesto has
actually been here
but that's a whole complicated story
it hasn't jelled

* * *

In fact I think 4 of 5 of
Meat Beat Manifesto has
been here—
some twice—

After the second time
I walked into Joe's Deli
and he said,
You're gonna be famous,
Smith

I said, I'm already famous,
just waiting for folk
to notice

 Screamsmith

I smoked liquid
synthetic hashish
with Alex Patterson
of the Orb

I met him backstage
at one of the Meat Beat
concerts

At one point the drugs
were wearing off,
I was tired,
I was sitting on the stairs
weary and leaned over
on my knees

And he walked back,
and patted my shoulder twice,
said, You'll be OK

The tour bus had a
videotape I'd made
of Mom's and my art

And Alex had seen it
and the second time I met him
I was in the car taking him
to the radio station

and before he got in,
the person said,
Smith's here
and Alex said in his
British accent,
Ooh, Smiff and his Mum

 Seersmith

One final thing,
Alex sent me a postcard
saying he wanted me to do a collage
for the cover of his record

Wrote back,
said, I'd love to

Ain't heard since

but I understand

life is complicated

* * *

Jack Dangers also said
we'd work together someday

and maybe we will

* * *

At that time
I wasn't more interesting
than most of those people

I do respect
Rufus Thomas
Yes, that man had some cools

Oh yes ma'am
tonight we have
sex, drugs and
rock'n'roll

And the baby boomers
just gonna keep doing
what they always done

Only
more badly

 Wicksmith

I've never wanted to be anybody
but me

But I would like to get stoned
with Willie Nelson
That's one of my dreams

That, and go into
outer space
be a member of the human race

I got mutant jive,
give me five,
Baby Lady

Oohh, yeah, oohhh, yeah
Let there be light, momma
let there be light
Give me 4 and a half, momma
Give me 4 and a half

________________________

Today’s LittleNip:

A plethora
(hot bath, black coffee, a toke)
of pleasure

—Smith

________________________

Today Smith (Steven B. Smith) sends us his ode to his interview career, full of his usual bump and grind and look-backs into the past—rosy and not-so-rosy—with the help of his fine Lady. Thanks, Smith and Lady; you two kids keep ‘em coming! (And thanks for the pre-Halloween visions of yourself, Steven! Spooooky!)

Tonight, The Other Voice in Davis features Vincent Kobelt and Ann G. Walker plus open mic, 7:30pm, at the Unitarian Universalist Church on Patwin Road in 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.

—Medusa, still bumpin' and grindin' with the best of ‘em!

Captain Smith 

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.

Star Power

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

CONSOLATION

5 a.m. by my cellphone. No radio alarm,
no lights. PG&E warned us:
Be Prepared. I’ve got my LED lantern,
one bright point in a dark house.
Tinder-kindling-branchlets all ready
for a match in the woodstove.
Turn the tap—EID’s still working.
Miracle of running water!
Tea kettle on the stove, instant coffee.
No morning news on TV,
but the neighbor’s rooster is awake
and crowing.
Moon’s gone west out of sight.
East horizon’s black. A few cars pass
on the county road, bound for somewhere
beyond our red-flag power-outage zone.
No lights at houses across the swale,
the fields; no lights shining through trees
on the opposite slope. No city lights
casting a distant haze on sky.
Beautiful dark.
How bright the stars! Isn’t that
why we live here? 

POWER’S OUT

Canyon’s a black hole—
no neighbor’s security
lights, no lit windows,
only some passing comets (cars)
and near-full moon, and the stars. 

POWERLESS ON WEDNESDAY

All County offices are open, says
the recording. Is it true? Our power quit
in the middle of the night. We head for the Senior
Center; fitness class at 7:30. Traffic signals
working on 50 through town (but blinking red
on Main). A few cars at the Sr Ctr,
the director steps tentatively out the door.
Open? No, sorry, no power. I guess
they couldn’t change the County recording….
He tells me a Starbucks is open,
and Raleys 20 miles down the hill. I thank him
for the most news I’ve heard all morning.
Back to my car, escorted by the pair
of resident turkey-brothers, suspicious-eyed;
why is this human disturbing
the peace of a de-electrified day?
I’m driving us home. You get one of your
Charles Bonnet figments—when eyesight fails,
the brain makes images: this time,
a file of folks marching along, keeping
pace with our car; searching for a source
of wifi? Where are they going?
Osteowoowoo? Why not? 

POETRY OFF THE SHELVES

Poetry tonight
at the library. Power’s
out all over town.
Chilly evening lantern-bright—
poems light the night. 

FAIRYTALE’S BLACK HOLE

No one goes there
trick or treating, up the long dark
curving driveway. No cluster of masked
figures in cloaks and boots, tunics
and sandals; no kids with paperbags
outstretched for treats like
deposits in a bank account of sweets.
No parent would leave children
at the chain-and-carabiner’d gate—
not for the yelp of coyote
distant out of memory,
and the darkness
pressing in like ancient oaks. 

SLASH PILES IN OCTOBER

My time for meditation among fallen oaks, picking apart the woods’ debris. Work makes firewood, helps clear the hill behind our house. Fire-season lasts all year. Work repetitious as a rosary, in the shade of living trees with sudden bursts of sun through canopy of leaves.

Twig and branch, tinder, kindling,
keep us warm in winter,
keep us fire-safe at home.

I’ve been reading about black holes and climate change: we mortal humans awestruck at a gravitational vortex 55 million light years away, but disbelieving of catastrophe right here on earth. Record floods and hurricanes, year-round wildfire-season in these hills we roam.

Twig and branch, tinder, kindling,
keep us warm in winter,
keep us fire-safe at home. 

Today’s LittleNip:

RECONNECTING
—Taylor Graham

Home-power’s back on—
lights, phone, email messages
and the TV news…
It’s too much. Turn it all off.
O blessed shadow, silence.

____________________

Thanks today to Taylor Graham for her paeans to the power being shut off: the good, the bad and the ugly. About Jane Blue’s passing, she writes, “So sorry to hear about Jane Blue. A sweet, inspired lady. I hardly knew her, but I remember way back when—my first visit to an SPC event—she was so quietly welcoming.” Indeed; that was Jane.

Planning to be at Harvard University this coming Monday, October 21? Sacramento poet/writer Mary Mackey will be reading there from her collection of poetry, The Jaguars That Prowl Our Dreams, as part of the Harvard Authors Speakers’ Series. That’s at 7pm at The Harvard Coop, 1400 Massachusetts Ave, Cambridge, MA. See more about Mary’s reading at www.facebook.com/mary.mackey.313/.

Closer to home, today at noon, Third Thursdays in the Sacramento Room of the Central Library will meet for a read-around at the library on I St. in Sacramento; bring poems by someone other than yourself. Then tonight, Poetry in Davis presents Margaret Ronda plus open mic at the John Natsoulas Gallery on First St. in Davis, 8pm. And of course Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar will feature readers and open mic on 16th St. in Sacramento, also at 8pm. 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 of starlight ~

 “…poems light the night.”
—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.

Footprints

—Poems by Michael Lee Johnson, Itasca, IL
—Photos Courtesy of Michael Lee Johnson

MICHELANGELO:
PAINTER AND POET
 
Michelangelo
with steel balls
and a wire brush
wishing he was
wearing motorcycle leathers,
going wild and crazy,
stares cross-eyed at the
Sistine Chapel ceiling—
nose touching moist paint,
body stretched out on a plank,
bones held by ropes from falling—
delirious, painting that face of Jesus
and the Prophets
with a camel hair brush;
in such a position, transition
a genie emerges as a poet—
words, not paint
starts writing his sonnets,
a second career is born—
nails and thorns
digging at his words,
flashing red paint:
it's finished.

ROSE PETALS IN A DARK ROOM

I walk through this poem one step at a time.
I walk in a mastery of this night and light
my money changers walk behind me
they’re fools like clowns in a shadow of sin,
they’re busy as bees as drunken lovers,
Sodom and Gomorrah before this salt pillar falls.

In a shadow of red rose pedals
drunken lovers walk changing Greek and Roman
currency to Jewish money or Tyrian shekels—
they’re fools, all fools, at what they do.
Everyone’s life is a conflict.
They’re my lovers and my sinners
I can’t sleep at night without them
by my grass bed near that sea of Galilee.
Fish in my cloth nets beget my friends, my converts.
I pray in this garden alone, sweat
while my disciples whitewash their dreams.

The rose has a tender thorn compared to my arrest,
and soon crucifixion.

It’s here this morning and this night come together,
where this sea and this land depart,
where these villages stone and mortar crumble.

I’m but a poet of this ministry,
rose petals in a dark room fall.
Everyone’s life is a conflict.
But mine is mastery of light and neon night
and I walk behind these footsteps of no one.

RAIN

In the rain,
this thunder
on his way home
he rebelled.
He a disco dancer,
single Friday night award winner
on the floor.  High school dropout.
He drove off the road edge.
He was drunk, Jack Daniel’s
was his driving instructor.
Jack Daniel bottle left at grave.
It never rains in a dry casket.
Shelter under this roof,
no worries about cops—
anymore.

WALTZ; FOOTPRINTS IN SNOW

December 24th, I find footprints in this snow, yours frozen, our broken dreams.
Will your lawyer Grinch my wallet, fleece me while I pray to Jesus Christ tonight?
Even the devil stoked in flames has standards, jukebox baby.
Even Jesus suffers with the poor, feels lonely on winter moon distant planets.
Don’t torture me, let me drive you home in our old Mack dump truck.
Hear these sounds, new records on this old radio.
Care to dance a new waltz
renew, no mirages just free no chains—
or drift back to those old vintage footprints—
fog covering over old snow?

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:
 
We writers, as we work our way deeper into our craft, learn to drop more and more personal clues. Like burglars who secretly wish to be caught, we leave our fingerprints on broken locks, our voiceprints in bugged rooms, our footprints in the wet concrete.

—Ross MacDonald

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Michael Lee Johnson for today’s fine poetry and photos!

 —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.

Black Lace, Veiled Shadow

Echo

—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

THREE BLACK CROWS IN A BARE PEAR TREE

this morning the crow, with its cold gray voice, cawed

and cawed until the second crow came to the bare pear
tree, and perched—and the first crow cawed some more,

until the third crow came, and the cawing stopped—and
there they balanced, nervously, a monochrome of winter,
three crows, passing the ornate silence back and forth

____________________

THE NECESSITY OF BLACKBERRIES

(This has nothing to do with the sonnet of
blackberry eating—the old thrill of sunlight
on the passion of berries :
the taste,
like something forbidden,
the stain on the mouth,
the hands,
the clothing,
the child who will live
because of blackberries, wild and wonderful.)

When I lie, I lie deeply :

This is about blackberries—
where they grow,
and what they know,
though I question this.
We are here for each other,
rare as life,
with its seasons, and completions,
and beginnings—meaning what it means,
since we need meaning
and offer it when needed— 
and after blackberries, why we hunger so.

 Alone

BLACK BIRD-SEED      

In the birdcage of death
the bird sits preening its flightless wing
it does not feed and
it does not look in the little mirror

sometimes it sings its sudden song
and the whole air shatters
when it stops the bars twang still
and the bird looks out of its sharpened eye

sunbeams drift through it from the window
its feathers gleam
it clenches its feet in a little dance
and a voice from somewhere says: pretty, pretty.

 Follow Me

BLACK LACE, VEILED SHADOW
After “Flapper Girl” by Alexis Rotella

Her black lips pout.
Her black eyes sorrow.
Time is too sweet for tomorrow.
Yesterday is dear, but gone.

Whatever she wants
is in the now of seeing;
whatever she wants or needs
is through the glass distance
of sweet and bitter time
that memory is freeing.

Her eyes
won’t say.
Her mouth
won’t speak.
Time is a long day
without a morning or night.

Take her back—take her back now
to the shadows, she is but a painting.
Her black lips pout, her black eyes sorrow.

 Trust

SOLIDITY
After The Black Marble Clock
(ca. 1869-70) by Paul Cézanne

The clock has numbers
but no hands,
so time is unimportant.
Light is bigger than the dark,
the trappings heavy.
What’s there is there, useful to depict.

Nothing breaks: the cup that teeters
at the edge,
the vase,
the shell,
the folds of cloth
that rumple to the floor.

The future is crowded into a lifetime,
the gold light thick and heavy,
layered to oblit the background
crowding forward,
past the clock—
the silence that is caught.

Everything is stalled,
the future given
everything it needs
from symbols of the past,
everything meticulously layered—
the subtle layers built to permanence.

 Away

 

SLIPPING THROUGH HOLES

Oh for the glow of revelation to the
frustration of those who try too hard
to comprehend—who need solution
to their dilemma, though explanation
falls apart, at once, and reasoning
is too muddy for dire situations,
with all its empty promise
in return,

if only . . . .

If only, though,
does not fit the power
of the withholders who pacify—
who preach and speak in beautiful
confusion, who would rather put their
pretty shells in your letter box, or leave
their glossy literature on doorknobs—or
slide furtive notes under the door that say
they really care for you…

 Let It Rain

KEYPUNCH

Once there were holes in cards
to be read as words—
A through Z—

And numbers—One through Zero.
Machines read them, quickly and magically.
I typed the holes, learned to read the words.

But, reading the cards was not
an exciting job, nor an occupation.
My life was outside of this—

out of the working hours.
And after this job another.
Typing. Always typing.

Outside of this I wrote poems—
songs I would sing to myself.
I was glad I could type.

Then, I bought
an electric typewriter,
used it for years—then a computer,

so complicated, so mysterious.
But I learned to use it.
I still type.    Poems.    I’ve come so far.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

This black heart

around my neck
that has no bone,

only sorrow, only
muscle that contracts—

reacts and quits—
like a broken necklace.


—Joyce Odam

_____________________

Joyce Odam has gone to black for her take on our current Seed of the Week, Black Holes, and we thank her for her fine poems and photos! “The birdcage of death”… !

In that light, our new Seed of the Week is Cages. 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, still thinking about the birdcage of death ~

"Three Black Crows in a Bare Pear Tree" 

—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.