When Will You Have Time?

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of
Roberta Beach Jacobson
—Poetry by Roberta Beach Jacobson,
Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Sayanı Mukherjee, Joe Nolan
and Gabriel Bates
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Roberta Beach Jacobson and
Joe Nolan

—Piggy Photo by Tom Goldstone

MAMA
—Roberta Beach Jacobson, Indianola, IA

Sunday dinner
draws to a chaotic close
so now
she heads to the kitchen
to clean up the family mess

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of
Roberta Beach Jacobson

 

BALLS THAT MATTER
—Roberta Beach Jacobson

Snowballs and beach balls
  tennis balls or basketballs
    golf balls, goofballs
      softballs & hardballs

Soccer balls or stress balls
  fireballs & footballs
    fast balls, foul balls
       billiard balls and bowling balls

Cricket balls, volleyballs
  rugby balls and baseballs
    . . . all important balls
Alas, not yours

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of
Roberta Beach Jacobson

 

WHERE’S THE MONEY?
—Roberta Beach Jacobson
 
banks
keep our paychecks safe
until
bill collectors show up
with their greedy hands

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of
Roberta Beach Jacobson

 

EXERCISING MY FASHION SENSE
—Roberta Beach Jacobson

I spin
regularly at the gym
wearing
my torn workout outfits
always with mismatched socks

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

ALMOST
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

I sew my body where it tore,
I’m almost back together.
I ripped it walking by the entrance
to the workshop of my life.
If there’s a test to get it right,
I’m pretty sure I failed.
I’d almost bet I’d have to take
this workshop once again.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

WORKSHOP
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Workshop, workshy, what’s to buy,
except the crafty hand or eye,
maybe sweat or perhaps dry,
it’s time my ego had a try,
ergonomics, not a sigh?
But proof of useful, ending nigh,
so if alive, then do or die;
custom, usage, still I’m spry,
tell us age, but don’t deny.

Make space for holiday, a break,
but holy day, for Christ’s sake,
holistic rest, winddown, take
the time to quell the snake,
whose hiss insinuates it’s fake
that grace is free, as by the lake,
when ethic tells us, earn your stake.
So shake a leg, thus he spake,
work or prodigal, party, cake.

Now workup worksheet, what’s been stirred,
this balance sheet, strange kingdom’s Word,
but work out how sustained, what’s heard,
for blurred, philosophy that erred—
and workmanlike is cancelled word—
when world thinks workout-fit preferred
and learning grace the more absurd.
So does it chime, or strike averred,
the wages bartered, or deferred?

So who has credit in this tale,
if there is here no love here for sale?
As one who’s frail and knows they fail,
the past path rubbish, litter trail,
back to the mall without retail—
is workaday still workable?
We may approach, hearty and hale,
but soon bail out as round us flail.
Sum human debt paid on the nail? 

 

 

 

—Photo by Tom Goldstone, Son of Tim

 

 

WHAT NONSENSE

—Stephen Kingsnorth

Hogs on rough cider—and before—
night on the tiles, all be it grass,
I fear the sow—seed of the week—
will have him roasted—what a bore.

I drank it as west country teen—
like clouded, wishy hogwash beer,
not knowing power beyond the sweet,
naïvety, teetotal youth.

But then if one’s a rescue pig
with troubled childhood, being poked,
a brittle, pig iron, outward steel,
poor preparation, stable life.

Add insult then to injury,
our boys in blue too pigs referred,
as if the swine are breathalysed,
some selfie test, no phone involved.

Who’s in the middle now, one thinks
and does it snore or snort the breath?
Despite MacDonald and his farm
I never herd such beasts to oink.

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

AUGUST
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India

Teal blue of my fairy strands
The murderous blues
The hauntings of sun-dried cuts
Kill your belongings
It's August
They said
But I'm still
Hooking my drunken soul
My red-wined Coolings
Can't
Your own dealing
Homicides across globe
My spirits a childish grimace
Enjoy your youth
Sip be merry
A good-natured wife
Milk of human kindness
Halted on
London bridges
Cycling through ages
Your white-coloured tie
Pattern of your very being
Still my child's sweater
Warm sipping
A home-cooked meal
But
The city's on fire
A Phoenix Soul
Soon a torpedo glory
Sky high nebulae
I screamed through
Be drunken white
Your own patterns
Still it's August
They said
And My. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

CATS CAN AND CAN’T
(compared to dogs)
—Joe Nolan, Stocktton, CA
 
Cats can’t run in marathons,
Unlike running-dogs.
Cats can’t even run a mile—
They get out of breath.
But cats can jump
A six-foot fence
By bouncing off a wall.
Cats are not
The same as dogs,
After all.

Cats just eat
Until they’re full.
They won’t eat after that.

Dogs will eat
Until they’re round,
Roll-over and
Look fat.
 
Cats sometimes ignore you,
Avoid you and look peeved.
Maybe they
Just tolerate
And do not really need ________(you?)

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

PLASTIC JUNK

—Joe Nolan

The world is full

    1. Of little plastic pieces
That wear out
Leaving other larger things
To dump as junk
That could be repaired,
But little plastic
Replacement parts
Are hard to find.

    2. Of little plastic bottles
That pile up
In garbage piles
In our dumps,
Along our curbs—
Our throwaways.

    3. Of macro plastic people
We can’t trust,
Who rule over us.

If we haul
Them all away
Where could we
Put them
Where they’d do no harm
And no one would ever notice?

Macro trash
Just gets ug-li-er
Over time.
We shouldn’t be reminded
Whom we voted for
Or someone else did.

 

 

 

 Must be feeding time!

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

EXISTENCE
—Gabriel Bates, Tiffin, OH

I think my life would be
a lot easier
if I didn't feel the need
to create something.

It's like there's this thing
in the back of my mind
that's constantly
gnawing at me.

I wish I could get rid of it
for good.

Because I'd rather be
like everyone else.

Wake up,
make it through the day,
go to sleep,
and do it all over again.

I wouldn't need
some kind of title.

I wouldn't have to be
a writer,
or a musician,
or a painter,
or anything.

I could just be some guy
on his way home from work,
admiring the sunset
and wondering
what's for dinner tonight.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

THWACK!
—Gabriel Bates

That's the sound I hear
as I'm smoking a cigarette
on my balcony.

I look around to find
a sparrow
fluttering sideways,
trying to regain
his composure
after hitting
my living room window.

He finally lands
on a nearby roof
and jerks his head
from side to side
as if he's making sure
no one saw
what happened.

Then he flies
off into the distance.

"Damn,"
I say to myself,
"I wish I could take a hit
as well as he does."

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

WHEN WILL YOU HAVE TIME?
—Joe Nolan

Can you feel a drifting cloud
When it’s near your skin?

The buzzing of a beehive
Underneath your grin?

Hear a dripping melon
Too full of juice within?

When will you have time
To taste, to feel, to listen?

_____________________

Shrinking wages, shrinking perks—Carl Sandburg would be appalled at what is happening to our work force these days. But still we celebrate those who work for us:

After the farmer, the miner, the shop man, the
factory hand, the fireman and the teamster,
Have all been remembered with bronze memorials,
Shaping them on the job of getting all of us
Something to eat and something to wear...

—Excerpted from “Ready To Kill” by Carl Sandburg

* * *

Thanks to our contributors today for poems and pix, including those about our Labor Day Seed of the Week, “Workshop”. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week. Stephen Kingsnorth's "What Nonsense" is in reference to Tim Goldstone's story yesterday about rogue pigs in his neighborhood that got drunk on fermented apples: see http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/09/on-this-rainy-star.html/. Both Tim and Stephen are living in Wales. Sounds like Welsh pigs are on the saucy side...

This weekend has always been an end to summer and the informal beginning of autumn, and the NorCal poetry scene seems to be revving up for a new year this week—Cal. Poet Laureate Lee Herrick will be in the Placerville area on Friday to help celebrate the new El Dorado County Poet Laureate Stephen Meadows, for example. And next weekend, Sept. 8-10, will be particularly packed! Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about this and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.

Speaking of calendars, the Sept. issue of Poet News is available at https://www.sacpoetrycenter.org/poetnews/, loaded with news and resources and listings of events to be relished, thanks to Editor Pat Grizzell. Check it out.

And as always, Labor Day weekend means the annual Chalk It Up Art & Music Festival in Sacramento; see https://chalkitup.org AND/OR https://www.facebook.com/chalkitupsac/, or head on down there. It runs through today.

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope:
I don’t like spiders, so
I won’t write about them—
not even the one spinning 

its lovely silver magic

 in our bathtub…

 

 

 

 

 

On This Rainy Star

 

—Poetry and Photos by Tim Goldstone,

Castellnewydd Emlyn, West Wales

TRADE

After the sprig of lucky heather in a
tin-foil twist
was handed to him by a nut-brown arm
with an intricately tattooed henna-
patterned hand
he had walked up the steps leading
away from the tube station erupting up
and out
into London’s hot human summer flow
and dry concrete-tasting wind
when twenty yards along
he realizes he should have given her
money and retraces his steps
to complete the ancient transaction
a jingle of silver handed to her
by his pale arm on a soft white palm
while her spreading grin at his
unexpected return
across a face the texture of parchment
and the incantation ascending from
her lips
turns the clatter and blast of an
approaching train
to the sounds of straining billowing
canvas
propelled by the oceans’ trade winds
(others hear hooves) and now
back out into the street again
his headache gone
the speeding van that would have
killed him  
misses by an inch.


(“Trade” was The July Poem of the Month
at Subsynchronous Press, 2018)

________________

UNBIDDEN
                                                                 
By now all I had left to wear
were my threadbare jeans
and a Union Jack t-shirt,
a prezzie from a mate as a joke,
both of us pale and shivering
on the cold Southampton waterfront:


I laughed, called him a monster,
we saluted with a vague impression of
the stiff upper lips
we’d seen in films.
Now from my room high up
in the hostel I am standing
in front of the window
squinting over a vista
of bright white buildings
all the way to a bright blue sea
the shimmering surface sparkling
with shoals of bouncing water-diamonds
under the strangely heavy dome of deep
blue sky.
I watch the backs of my now nut-brown
hands, resting them flat, palms-down on
the hot windowsill
where the breeze-block pattern shows
through a single layer of thin white paint,
and watch their warm skin become
covered in crawling tattoos while chicken
wire forms across the framed empty
glass-less air
as unbidden the drugs from the market I
ingested
twelve days ago begin to come on again
and this time I see
how far I am from home
dripping under the flares of a foreign
sun illuminating huge brown ants
crawling in lines up and down public
buildings
dexterously by-passing rows
of bullet holes pockmarked into exterior
walls while down in reception a black-
and-white TV is showing films I
recognize
dubbed into a language I don’t
and as I tread unsteadily past
the khaki-clad man on the screen,
he winks at me, salutes,
and blows up a bridge
along with himself.


(prev. pub. in Déraciné Magazine,
May 2018)

________________

YUGOSLAVIA
 
As The Soviet Union collapses
the swaying drunk serenades
boarding passengers with growling riffs
while armed police laugh.
Five hours later
the coach window unravels
a deep summer freedom of neverending
fields and sky, farms and wheat,
as the last of your bendy sticky black
hash places your eyes six feet in front
of your face
and you beam so widely your cheeks
ache
while over your head
the hint of the smell of tyre smoke
filters in through the malfunctioning air-
vent as a shimmering border farm
whips by
soon to be belligerent and bristling
in the murderous tumult of changing
regimes.


(prev. pub. in Rough Diamond Poetry
Journal, November 2001)

 

 

 

 

THE PROMISE AND THE SHADOW                         
 
Weeks since his bed was fit for human
habitation.


If he was strong enough he would
leave it.


He would get up—
go now to get what he needs to stop
this in an instant
   

     but his shadow has caught him up,
and pins him down,


shaking him until he hurts and cramps,
would willingly die.


As she died she’d told him she’d outrun
her shadow—


but he must let his
 
catch him.
 


 

“Promise” she said.
 


 

So he lies here now, for her,


in the horror between sleep and dream.


He closes his eyes—
 


 

Conjures against his will a rotting
wooden cabin


clinging to a putrid swamp’s


spitting side where splitting skulls


chatter and bob on the sour stinking
mud.
 


 

He slinks through a syrup of acrid mist,


wades through a nest of waiting cluster
flies


to his overdosed lover’s algae-covered
lair.
 


 

He is wearing filthy rags once his
mourning suit


over which a dripping lace of bile is
forming.
 


 

He runs under grey sky so low he must
crouch


until the muscles in his back squeeze
his spine


until tears flood his mouth


and he can no longer cry out.
 


 

Bent double he passes crumbling facades
where gargoyles of his face as a child


hiss appalling obscenities


and he bites the insides of his wrists


to still the manically bumping pulses.
 


 

In the slime his bare footprints scuttle
ahead of him


filling with rainwater that immediately
teems with squirming larvae.
 


 

He reaches a barn that clatters and
groans against the furious wind


spies on her through the heavy stale
incense drifting low where she swings
upside down


from a fraying hangman’s rope creaking
as it twists—        


the noose fastened around her ankles.


She is catching rats with her teeth by
their tails


as swifts flap by with unusual and ex-
quisite leisure


spitting on him.
 


 

She has put out her blood in saucers for
fleas and he laps from them so they can
be close again.


Clots in the blood make it bitter and
chewy.


He swallows and retches.
 


 

She has attached a cat to a church bell
to prevent its creeping up on dragonflies                                         
on whose wings are tattooed ‘fuck’ and
‘you’                       


and because only dead flowers grow
here in the permanent cloying gloom


he is wearing hawthorn as his button-
hole


which gnaws at his clammy skin,


waking him on soiled sheets


where on a spool of looped agony


he yearns for the days 


when again and again, hand in hand,


their elongated shadows streaming out
behind them,


they ran across rooftops to score—


glamorous, ecstatic, invincible.


(prev. pub. in Anti-Heroin Chic,
May 2017)

_________________

WOLFHOUNDS

On this planet, this rainy star:
big grey skies over free Stonehenge,
flags fluttering as veils of thin drizzle
move in from the east
and the first rumours of Hawkwind
travel from tent to tent and someone
whispers their witch-dancer is here.
Twilight comes drawn by two
wolfhounds—
brother and sister racing in gulps
across the mud. Their big hearts  
drumming through shoals of wind-driven
rain these dogs are releasing
The Between
where a nanosecond gap in this light
can haul in the past of different stars—  
and now, at last, where once
they burnt the snow-white corpses,
Hawkwind can begin, and Stacia dances.


(prev. pub. in Toil & Trouble,
February 2023)

________________

THE ARTIST BEFORE HER EXHIBITION
 
In intense convulsions of nerves
she looks through a quivering
pulsing canvas
to light-years away in the distance
until a microdot containing
all the colours she knows
hurtles all that way
back to her at breakneck speed
through millennia
of millennia of infinity
towards the bullseye
of her bullseye
in the frame of herself
that spots its flying approach
just in time to prevent it
filling her entire vision for ever
and with a split second to go
her artist’s eyes dive her down
into an unfathomable  
gulping ocean
where she sinks
sighing with relief
at the abatement of the noise
of the storm of her thoughts above
and she comes to rest softly
in silence at the bottom
of a great welcoming calm
consisting entirely of her favourite
colours:
massively deep reds,
miles thick creams,
profound azure,
the doors open
she shoots back up to the gallery’s
surface
quickly decompresses
swallows down her gasps
and offers her hand demurely
to each of the perfectly dressed guests
who fall upon her
emptying the bubbles in her blood
into their glasses of champagne.


(prev. pub. in Rhodora Magazine,
November 2021)

 

 

 

Datura, a poisonous hallucinagenic, is

also known as Jimson Weed, Thornapples, 

Devil's Trumpets, Moonflower, 

Devil's Weed, or Hell's Bells.

 

 

DATURA REVEALS I AM HOMESICK

In Crete datura grows in public parks,
picking it and eating it is easy,
although the creamy flowers taste bitter.
I notice everyone outside the taverna
is at their ideal mating weight—
women in stilettos
walking on their hind legs,
a couple kissing,
probing each other for nectar.
Swimming in a sea
of fluttering human eyelashes
their waves swelling and flapping
I weep because I suddenly know
all the barrels from sawn-off shotguns
are stored in a deserted aeroplane
hangar
somewhere in the west of Scotland
where spiders tenderly wrap raindrops
in webs of dangerously fraying rope.
The sky is dark dark blue
but if I don’t look at it
before I lick my lips
it doesn’t taste too bad,
like candyfloss made from dust.
Glow worms begin to go on in harbour
windows—
in one I glimpse a deflated sex doll
plucking a double-bass… and in a
butcher’s window
a pig’s head winks as I pass… in another
a woman dips her brush into a can of
film noir
and uses it to paint a wall… in the next
a line of tiny children jump from a bar
stool into a jam jar of marsh water
emerging each time speaking the
languages of the peat bog nutrient pad.
At dusk a flock of Edgar Allan Poes
flies down squawking and squabbling
back to their nests
manically flapping their black quills
together
coating each other in ink
in readiness for a very particular night.

(prev. pub. in The Sparrow's Trombone,
November 2021)

________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose, or paint can manage to escape the madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation.

―Graham Greene, Ways of Escape

________________

Newcomer Tim Goldstone has roamed widely and currently lives in Wales, where he says he lives “a few miles out of Castellnewydd Emlyn, a delightfully weird rural outpost deep in West Wales between the mountains and the sea.” His work has been published internationally in a variety of print and online journals and anthologies, from 11 Mag Berlin to The California Poppy Times… from The Mechanics’ Institute Review Anthology to The Daily Drunk, and numerous venues in between. His prose sequence was read on stage at The Hay Festival, and his poetry presented on Digging for Wales. He also has scriptwriting credits for TV, radio, theatre. Welcome to the Kitchen, Tim, and don’t be a stranger. (Tim loiters suspiciously in twitter @muddygold/.)  

 

 

 

—Photo by Tom Goldstone, Son of Tim

 

Tim sends us this addendum: “Thought you might like to know that our neighbours up the road have a couple of rescue pigs that escaped last night and were found in the early hours of the morning passed out and snoring thunderously under an elderly couple’s old apple trees. The consensus of opinion was that they’d gorged themselves on fermenting windfall apples and should be left to sleep it off. Also they are very heavy and this has happened before.”

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Tim Goldstone

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page.

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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope:
snoring amid
the apple cores~
rascally runaways
drunk on cider

Dancing With Valentina Ringo

 

—Poetry by H.L. Dowless, 

Southeastern USA

—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

Her name is Valentina Ringo
And she dances across this land.
In daytime or at midnight
She dreams the life she leads is so grand.
Parties come and good times go,
Then she lays nude by the surging water side
Displaying to them all she can.

She has the poses
As she rocks hard in every position.
Men give her expensive champagne with
bouquets of roses
And brown envelopes filled with thousands
of dollars,
No matter about her sober condition.
In the water hoses
And staged strawberry-lemon meringue
Tossed in bed before the camera
She knows no hesitation nor moral limits.

Her name is Valentina Ringo
And she dances across this land.
Her flesh is smooth vanilla coco  
And when she’s in the light of the sun
It's tan.
She is such a bedazzling mystery
Nobody can believe the hard truth,
‘Cause in the limelight and the stage bedroom
She really glistens
Where all morality is totally forsooth.

She hears the call to action
And answers with her own special flair,
She will allow the others to fall
While she lives up to every requested dare.
Two on one,
Or one on three,
It really doesn’t matter much to her;
To her it's really loads of fun
When they all eagerly gratify her every
carnal need.

Her name is Valentina Ringo
She is known from midtown HillCrest
All the way down to Durango.
She really shines
when she gives it her very best,
This egg-soaked star of the picarona.
She’s danced and loved,
Excelling in every test;
Show everybody what you’ve got
Go-Go
Queen of the starlite doves!

When the hammers are big and really long,
She skillfully does them all,
Knowing where she can never go wrong.
She hides behind a painted face
While so bravely singing her tainted song.

 

 

 

 

 

My boat crashed ashore on this uninhabited
island,
Running around in circles,
Don’t know where I’m going to go;
I’ve been on it a month already,
Time isn’t moving all that slow.

No matter what I try
I don’t find my way off,
I am walking around like a child who’s lost.
I feel like I want to cry,
But sweet freedom has its blessed cost.

There are monsters on this island,
A giant irritated raging snake,
It tries to take my boat sitting here in the sand
And every raft I make,
It personifies the greed of man.

I searched every inch,
I walked every mile,
And finally found two people there I knew;
So I talked,
And laughed,
And sat around for awhile,
Then I went out for a despairing walk.

I saw a ship far out at sea,
So I built myself a great big bon-fire.
I jumped,
And yelled,
And waved my arms,
But it ne’er came to shore for me.

Another soon came past
And I did the same.
It flashes its lights,
It sounds its horn,
While I waved my arms
With all of my might.
Am I the one who is to blame?
Alas,
No matter how hard I try,
They all sail on to pass me by.

Here I am sitting around,
There’s shelter,
There’s food,
But what do I do?
My woman has flown,
Where did I go wrong?

 

 

 

 

Can we really be apart,
My love?
Does separation truly make the heart
Grow fonder?
How could such a notion ever be,
When all I want to do
Is to fly away with you,
My sweet dove.

Does distance
Only equal an impassable transcendence?
Nothing can contain one’s spirit,
No container,
No special room,
No magic potion,
Not even the surging ocean;
No flying broom.
It's not a mystery when
A banshee remains in our company.

What about us,
My love?
Can a berating tongue
Lash the spirit until it buries itself in the sand?
Might it beat the sweltering heat
Of determined passion down?
A downward gaze might glare to a point
Where it bends a spellbound spoon,
And it beats the spirit into a conviction
Where it would rather find itself somewhere
Way up on the moon!

Six months of constant condemnation
Can drive twenty years
All the way across a huge nation!
Still
Therein lies this constant longing,
A yearning for what was,
When we twain possessed a sense of belonging.
Where were you?
Where was your heart?
What are you beholding too?
If you could catch a falling star,
My darling morning rose,
Might you hang on and remain true
As you did from the moment of the great
journey’s start,
I would suppose? 

 

 

 

 

 

JACK-A-ROO!
WHERE ARE YOU?

Jack-A-Roo,
Where are you?
On the hillside by the hay,
hunting rabbits on this clear fall day?

Jack-A Roo!
Where are you?

Might you be standing by the seaside
at high tide,
riding a whale and ringing her bell?
Or catching a shark
by the time of dark,
so you can hang him up high in the yard
by the dockside park?

Jack-A-Roo!
Where are you?

Are you hunting ducks in the dale,
with a good scatter gun and shell?
Might you be at the State Fair just as well,
riding a colorful carousel?

Jack-A-Roo!
Where are you?

I recently heard
at the time of new bloom,
some seven men shall fly away
to the moon!
Will you be one among them,
oh so soon,
out catching stardust with a spoon?

Jack-A-Roo,
we love you!

Are you laboring to be president?
At this time votes shall not be hesitant.
I say,
millions shall think you were heaven-sent!

My dear
Jack-A-Roo,
oh so many are counting on you!

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Every single soul is a poem.

—Michael Franti

___________________

Today we are welcoming H.L. Dowless to the Kitchen, national & international academic/ESL Instructor, for his first visit. He has been a writer for over thirty years; his latest publications have been two books of nonfiction with Algora Publishing; a fictional novel by Atmosphere Press; and fictional publications with combo e-zines and print magazines: Leaves Of Ink, CC&D Magazine, a novel with Atmosphere press, Short Story Lovers, The Fear Of Monkeys, and Frontier Tales. He recently signed three contracts with Pen it Publications.

H.L. Dowless has enjoyed a lifetime of outdoor activities from big game hunting, camping, fishing, and trapping, to archaeological field work in various exotic locations. What he enjoys most of all is meeting freedom- loving, interesting, creative people who are also regular dedicated fans of his publications. Welcome to the Kitchen, H.L., and don’t be a stranger! (See more of H.L.’s work at https://www.booksie.com/users/h.l.-dowless-196043/.)

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

“My boat crashed…”

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy

of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

A reminder that
 Natomas’s Harvest The Arts
will take place today in Sacramento;
for info about this and other
upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page.

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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—

for poetry, of course!

 

LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope:
fragile, these
days of our lives—
handle with care…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Magic's Where You Find It

 

—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,

Placerville, CA
—Then scroll down to
Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry by
Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth, 

and Joyce Odam

 

 

 

BLACKBIRD PIE

The Muse’s chair sits out in all weathers
gathering wisps of cloud-thoughts passing by
and some iridescent shades of feathers
she’s caught with glimpses of birds on the fly.
You’ve been inside pondering which-where-why
her chair is empty, waiting for a word.
She’s left her post, she’s musing on the sly—
is she practicing dawn-song of a bird?

Could this be her sport of all-togethers?
the baited hook on line, a verse to fry?
iridescent fish with scales, not feathers?
What can that empty Muse’s chair belie?
It’s season’s change, a Muse’s alibi.
And what’s that wildwood warble you just heard?
From canopies of oak—oh way up high—
she’s been practicing dawn-song of a bird.

Now all around her chair, the leaf-rot gathers
for shining rings of toadstools (eat-and-die)—
all iridescent in the way of fungi feathers.
Lovely lethal Nature—she winks an eye.
Art is where you find it; she wouldn’t lie.
You wonder if this Muse has gone absurd
or eaten metaphor like blackbird pie.
She’s just practicing dawn-song of a bird.

Her chair’s up-lifting as if set to fly
on inspiration’s whim. A single word
might set it wingless soaring into sky,
the Muse practicing dawn-song of a bird.


(prev. version pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen,  4/2/21)

 

 

 

 

 

BERRIES, LATE AUGUST

Summer slips away along the track that only runs
on Sundays. Ballast and ties hold things together
season after season. Pale pink blossoms
have given place to purple-black of berries
at their prime now. Pick them quick
before they’re gone—juicy with seeds that stick
between teeth, tiny seeds tough as rebirth. 

 

 

 

 

 

MAGIC’S WHERE YOU FIND IT

In the Fairgrounds is a little garden plot
with a sign that says Over Here Over There
Magic Could Be Anywhere, and a bunch of
colorful fake mushrooms, red, yellow, blue all
with white dots like rainbow ladybugs. Beside
the public restrooms was a lady not young
nor old, black dress with white dots, shopping
cart heaped high, bags hung off the sides—
full of clothes. Every fabric, color, texture,
pattern imaginable for any season of the year.
Thrift store on wheels? We exchanged
greetings and smiles—hers like sun in rain.
Is she a quilter? A peddler of apparel
for the homeless? Is she homeless? Good
day wishes. Sun and shade. I didn’t
ask where on earth she got her magic smile. 

 

 

 

 

 

INSTEAD OF A CASTLE

We have no castles here, just the County complex
on a hill with its Veterans Memorial flags waving,
its web of paved pathways, stairways climbing
to balconies, rock walls protecting the southern
exposure—a steep field sloping down to freeway.
A break between rock walls allows a single
steep and narrow flight of rock steps down
to that vacant field, in summer sun-
burned dry and brittle.
My dog and I might descend that flight but why?
It only offers weedy stickers. 

 

 

 

 

 

ROADSIDE CASTAWAYS

So much trash,
where to start?
Pick it up,
make it art!

Table leg
made of oak
might tell tales
if it spoke.

A bottle,
rusty knife—
pair ‘em up,
a still life! 

 

 

 

 

 

SUMMER’S BOUGH

We were sitting in the wilderness
with our picnic lunch beneath the bough—
what kind of tree? I don’t recall its name—
the bough—which must have needed pruning,
maybe concern for a deficiency in the cambium?—
that bough simply gave way and fell on our
picnic—bread, wine, and the famous Rubaiyat—
as if Omar had sneezed, causing the bough
to slip and fall, and you the free verse
poet sprang up, thinking (no, you said quite
out loud) that’s what you get for writing
all those rhyming quatrains. 

 

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

DAWN WALK IN LIGHT RAIN

Fragrance of golden
weed-fields ready for harvest—
come, September, soon.

___________________

Big thank-yous to Taylor Graham for joining us this morning here in the Kitchen with such a fine telling of summer’s denouement: “As Summer Slips Away”. Forms she has used this week include a Ballade (“Blackbird Pie”); a Haiku (“Dawn Walk in Light Rain”); a Word-Can Poem (“Summer's Bough”); a response to Medusa's Ekphrastic last week (“Instead of a Castle”); and a Cethramtu Rainnaigechta Moire (“Roadside Castaways”). The Ballade and the Cethramtu Rainnaigechta Moire were last week’s Triple-F Challenges.

For info about El Dorado County poetry events, past and future, go to Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado poetry on Facebook: www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry/, or click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.

And now it’s time for…  


FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!  

It’s time for more contributions from Form Fiddlers, in addition to those sent to us by Taylor Graham! Each Friday, there will be poems posted here from our readers using forms—either ones which were sent to Medusa during the previous week, or whatever else floats through the Kitchen and the perpetually stoned mind of Medusa. If these instructions are vague, it's because they're meant to be. Just fiddle around with some challenges—  Whaddaya got to lose… ? If you send ‘em, I’ll post ‘em! (See Medusa’s Form Finder at the end of this post for resources and for links to poetry terms used in today’s post.)



There’s also a page at the top of Medusa’s Kitchen called, “FORMS! OMG!!!” which expresses some of my (take ‘em or leave 'em) opinions about the use of forms in poetry writing, as well as listing some more resources to help you navigate through Form Quicksand. Got any more resources to add to our list? Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com for the benefit of all man/woman/poetkind!
 

 

* * *

 

 

Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo

We received responses to last week’s Ekphrastic photo from Nolcha Fox and Stephen Kingsnorth:


HOUSE OF CARDS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

We built this house
believing love would
turn back time
and we would meet
on rainy streets,
hold hands beneath
wet slickers.
Desert despair
dries out our talks,
each whisper
blows a card away
until we all fall down.

* * *

BARCHESTER TOWERS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

It’s nooks and crannies, fantasy,
the archway, turrets, crooked rooms,
a quirky, lamps upon the walls,
stirs bedtime stories, fairy tales;
mine’s Hansel, Gretel brought to mind.

Here’s hotchpotch, stages for each age,
an added quip through changing years,
the marker made and laid for each
new generation, stewardship,
each wing bequeathed by eldest son.

The outline silhouette of rooves
with garrets, spire and who knows what
but whatnots architectural,
it fascinates, invites us in,
suggests we enter for a spin.

With pink sky, bird flight, tree twigs, grass
as framework, this, a curio.
How many storeys counted, mount
foundations to the summit, top,
and maybe cellars set beneath?

A plumbline from the blue-green end
suggests inclined to slope degrees;
my name, assigned to novel build,
is Barchester, where towers abound,
and Slope acts, agency profound.

* * *

Here is a Sweetbriar from Joyce Odam:

 

 

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

WHAT WE IMAGINE
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

closing, like sand
shifting over
its patterns . . . like blue air
pulling the sky
along itself . . .  
a flow from everywhere . . .

a gold humming—
dream or desert?
what is gathering there?
a far shining,
nonexistent,
dissolving as we stare

* * *

And here is an Ars Poetica by Stephen Kingsnorth:

 

 

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

 

  

DRIFTWOOD
—Stephen Kingsnorth

My scrap file filled with the stillborn,
that made a couplet, stanza, two,
but crept away, tail between legs,
like watered wine that drained away.
But in this new, recycling world,
should I lay bare what hungered soul—
and offer hibernating themes,
the may-be puns, haunt should-be lines,
those rhythms, rhymes that caught my pulse?

I gambled, that addiction steal,
with cherries, horses, roulette wheel,
the bouncing ball that jumps too far,
and even raffles in good cause,
would set me up, three pages least.
But chance and serendipity,
the happenstance on which rely
proved too much art, my naïve stance,
who never wagered, staked a thing.

And then I heard Paul Simon sing,
and heard the saint in his bedroom,
music’s goddess, Cecilia,
and knew his lyrics shamed my muse.
How difficult to excise verse,
extract the tooth that chewed so much;
use cold storage, a reduced font,
but just in case, like junk yard scrap,
its moment comes, spare sock proves pair.
                 
___________________

Many thanks to our SnakePals for their brave fiddling! Would you like to be a SnakePal? All you have to do is send poetry—forms or not—and/or photos and artwork to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post work from all over the world, including that which was previously-published. Just remember: the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

___________________

TRIPLE-F CHALLENGES! 

 

See what you can make of these challenge, and send it/them to kathykieth@hotmail.com! (No deadline.) Poetry is all about sound; try some Abstract/Sound Poetry:

•••Abstract/Sound Poetry: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/abstract-or-sound-poetry

•••AND/OR play around with letters:

•••Alphabet Poetry: https://www.writersdigest.com/personal-updates/alphabet-poetry-or-going-back-to-school

•••See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic photo.

•••And don’t forget each Tuesday’s Seed of the Week! This week it’s “Workshop”.

____________________

MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:

•••Abstract/Sound Poetry: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/abstract-or-sound-poetry
•••Alphabet Poetry: https://www.writersdigest.com/personal-updates/alphabet-poetry-or-going-back-to-school
•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Ballade: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/ballade-poetic-forms
•••Cethramtu Rannaigechta Moire: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/cethramtu-rannaigechta-moire-poetic-asides
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry 
•••Haiku: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Sweetbriar (Viola Berg): https://www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1882-syllabic-forms-found-in-pathways-for-the-poet/#sweetbriar
•••Word-Can Poem: putting random words on slips of paper into a can, then drawing out a few and making a poem out of them

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!

 
 Make what you can of today's
photo, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)

* * *

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

 
 
 
 

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.

LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope:
There he goes again!
elderly cyclist
in a tattered straw hat~