Cherry Blossoms & Bone Crackers

 —Fifteen Untitled Haiku, Senryu and Gendai
by Robert Beveridge, Akron, OH
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

chilly autumn rain
rolls into my collar: scent
of rotting apples

* * *

condolences flat
against the pavement: wildfire
moves closer to Weed

* * *

almond joy deer smells first snow in the air

 

 

 

 

ten minutes of rain
tarmac steam gives rise to shadows

* * *

train roars above
me
       Septembersummer bank
of nameless lake

* * *

inked face on one side,
carved on the other: oven
roasts the salted guts

 

 

 

 

rock turned over
the invisible holes
of the ants’ nest

* * *

two swallows quibble
in an ocean of red dust:
fat worm camouflage

* * *

cherry blossoms…
wind blows discarded
mask down the street

 

 

 

 

summer morning
the lake sings mist
my lungs answer

* * *

bone crackers:
between his teeth
the sleepy eel

* * *

geese return to pond
toddler throws bread, expects fish
April thieves honk

 

 

 

acres plowed, donkey
stops to rest in April sun
the corn will be sweet

* * *

Michaelmas summer
rain drips from orchid leaves
bitter cherries

* * *

november rain in september sky

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The only problem
with Haiku is that you just
get started and then

—Roger McGough

__________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Robert Beveridge for his fine exercises in brevity today!

 

 

 

 ". . . two swallows quibble . . ."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For future 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—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the 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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!

 

The corn will be sweet . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Spiral, Ever Spiral

 

To Dance

* * *
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Original Artwork and Photos by Joyce Odam

 

 

THE POET BEFORE SUNUP
—Robin Gale Odam

The child would collect books at
Every chance, pouring through the
Pages and guarding the angst of all the
Times of wishing she could say goodbye,

Of moving once again, of selecting
Only one or two—and maybe the skates,

Or the doll—so as to fit everything
Important onto the back seat of the old
Car and then turn the corner and vanish
Before sunup.

 

 

 

Full Awake

      
     
There once was a girl

who stared all night through the shining rain,
through ways she would go
and the ways she came

through room after room of shudder shawls,
up flights of stairs, down one-way halls,
past swaying lights on closing walls.

She lay on the shafts of memory
and felt her body lift and fade
and felt herself become opaque.

Dark light shone through and found her soul,
made of thought and made of sorrow
now she can haunt herself again,

mark the night
with sleepless praying,
watch the window of her life

open,
open into being,
where sleep will enter to her name.


—Joyce Odam

 

 

 

Back to Sleep

HUSH
—Joyce Odam

Now in the dream of the bed, on the raft of night,
the child remembers the slowness of the day—

the quietness of the mother, the rustlings in the 

other room. The bed floats on the dark fear. The 

child lies beside the mother and tries to sleep. 

The mother whispers to the child . . .

Now in the memory of the dream, in the dream
of the raft, which tries to float out of the room
and down the stair; out of the day, which has
lengthened from night; out of the dream, which
tries to release her—the chance is exciting, but
the walls impede . . .

Now in the dream of the mother which tries to
release the child from the fear—from the raft—
from the rustlings of the other room, from the
whispering, comes the secret door of instruction :
Be patient.  Be quiet.  Be still.  Tomorrow
we will leave here.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/23/21) 

 

 

 

 Gathering

RESEMBLING A DREAM
—Robin Gale Odam
After The Surrealists by Bridget Tichenor, 1956

the children
the ones who came along
clothed in remnants of clouds
singing hymns of darkest hours

fixed in our memory and singing

singing memories of darkest hours
clothed in remnants of clouds
the ones who ushered us
the children 

 

 

 

 Visiting

                     
THE ANGEL OF COMMON DESPAIR
—Joyce Odam

Oh,
Angel—
pensive as stone—
 
shadowless
against a muted wall,
the winter light surrounding you,

your massive wings at rest—
how lost you seem—how without power
to persuade or frighten

—just another figure caught
in some
indecisive moment.

How pale you are
against the cathedral dark—
ghost in tragic stance,

one foot upon the stair as if to enter
—saddened there
as though some Love has befallen you.
                                       

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/10/13; 8/31/21)

 

 

 

To A Day Dream

SPIRAL STAIRCASE
—Joyce Odam

          spiral
      ever spiral
   ceiling height
 viral
if fear
of heights
or breath
deprival
what
dizzy urge
what
altitudinal
denial
does one confront
 with such an endless
  staircase
    spiral
       ever spiral

 

 

 

To The Park

FAME, DESCENDING A STAIRCASE
—Joyce Odam
After Art Descending a Staircase
by Elaine B. Rothwell

When we disguised ourselves we were not old.
We were famous. Runways loved us.

We had many roles with many lovers.
We floated on admiration.

We put on mask after mask,
obeying the instructions of their faces.

It was a long walk between curtains.
But we were tireless.

Spotlights followed us.
Our costumes told their own stories,

how we were the creation of
famous artists and photographers.

Again and again our youth comes brimming back
to our mirrors, shining ever so darkly.

Even now, we tell of this like conspirators :
that the art of love is what love is made of.

                                                       
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/2/10) 

 

 

 

 Where Did He Go?

PASSING
—Joyce Odam

ah,
    yes,
        you cry,
            into the
                revolving
                    world.  the
                        door opens.
                            a vast sky
                             swallows you.
                            you are dead .
                        you turn to say
                    this to me.
                you sift and
            disappear.
        I sit on the
    stair and
weep. 

 

 

 

 For a Walk

NOT DATED
—Robin Gale Odam

I’m going to go take a walk through the
mystery—I’ll be back in a long while.


(prev. pub. in Brevities, Nov.-Dec. 2020;  
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/13/22)

 

 

 

 Me To Know

MOTHER, I HAVE LEARNED
—Joyce Odam

Mother, I have learned how to hide.
I know where the shadows are.
I know where the light
shifts past.

I know how eyes
will follow such stealth as ours.
I have learned to tear evidence
of our existence.

I have learned to creep down
stairs in silence.
I have learned to stay silent
behind doors.

I have learned to veil the face
of all emotion.
I have learned that tears
are the confessions of fear—

that danger is always disguised
in the gentlest of eyes—
that no one loves us for long.
I have learned to leave

at a moment’s notice;
to go into the soft closing air
of disappearance, leaving only
a burning-dish full of wet ashes.

                                     
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/24/23)

 

 

 

 Wandering Thoughts

STAIRCASE WITH CONJURED FIGURES
—Joyce Odam

And now, these long stairs—this last poem—the
    lovers halfway down, their shadows falling
        ahead

of them. The stairs are as wide as two distances,
    there is no top or bottom to them, they are
        merely
    
steps toward a metaphor. What is the metaphor !
    What must I discern from this : two lovers
       moving
      
down the stairs without a sign of apprehension.
    Why am I afraid for them? The stairs are half-
        toned

with shadow and dull sunlight, rock texture in
    relief; and they, themselves, diminished against
        the length

and width of this stair-path that is so steep, with
    no one else going up or down. They are so
        trusting of

these lines that writes them there. How long it 

    takes to reach to one stone from another, the 

        same slow

motion that is felt in waiting for what one can 

    never face. I make them mysterious. I give 

        them choice,

a way to alter fate’s design : they are halfway up  

    and halfway down : time to go on, time to turn 

        around.

                                                                 
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/23/18)

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

RITUALS
—Joyce Odam   

For all things willing
and all things sad
I lay this small gift
beside the empty place.
.
I bring in my basket of
prayers.
Take one, I say to everyone
till it is empty.
.
Ever so softly
for it is night
and everyone is sleeping
I go up and down the stairs with
my lullaby and candle.

       
(prev. pub. in California State Poetry Society
Quarterly, 1975; The Dividing Self [mini-book],
1989; and Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/3/12; 6/5/12)

___________________

“Down the back staircase” is our Seed of the Week which Joyce and Robin Gale Odam have so gracefully written about today, and many thanks to them for that and for visuals supplied  by Joyce. 

 

Our new Seed of the Week is “Frustration”. 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. And see every Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Los Surrealistas (The Surrealists)
—Bridget Tichenor

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For future 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—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the 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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column at the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones  by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!

 

“. . . youth comes brimming back
to our mirrors . . .”        

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This N' That & Oh Yeah—That Too~

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa
* * *
—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Caschwa, Joe Nolan, Sayani Mukherjee,
and Devyanshi Neupane
—Public Domain Visuals Courtesy of
Joe Nolan and Medusa

 

 

PARTY HEARTY
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

A party to celebrate my life surprises me in the kitchen. Time and Death place bets on who will get me first. My dead grandfather and dead mother argue about her poor choices. At least they’re not talking about mine. The dogs bake a cake, but are too small to reach the dial to turn off the oven. The oven explodes, showering pieces of sweet over all the guests. The guests drink and dance around the fire that used to be an oven. They don’t care if the house burns down. It’s my life after all, not theirs.

Better to slink
down the back staircase
for a glass of wine.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo

Courtesy of Medusa

BACKSTAIRS AFFRONTED
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

I’ve been descending back staircase,
then up, back down, to meet the cast,
in image, notes, my history,
both folk and stories of my past.
The back suggests not in front line,
a rearguard action in defence,
full frontal not in best of taste—
here’s rich man’s castle, poor man’s fence.

And as I search, each storey through,
recall back story, each I peek,
I smile, cry out, name, signature,
those folk I had forgot, still speak.
The front steps carpeted and plush
in contrast to bare climbing stair,
where butler, maids and housekeeper
must bear their trays and silverware.

Relations that had passed, renewed,
each case reopened to inspect,
to tread where they themselves had stepped,
the paths of friendship, labour trekked.
They’re cobblers, blacksmiths, governess.
from census records, sheaves ‘ag lab’,
who laboured daily in the fields,
and poorhouse, ‘destitute’, as tab.

Of them, the backstairs, privilege,
a decent meal, below-stairs food,
unlike the weavers, chimney sweeps,
with little cash to feed their brood.
As class predominated passed,
I’m schooled through learning in this class—
belief, estate, ordered by God—
backstairs affronted, if trespass. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

ON THE LEVEL
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

While attending UCLA I got
daily exercise ascending and
descending the numerous
stairways and stone steps
topping the Hills of Westwood

Now I have a 1-story house with
no basement and only a hint of a
crawl space to access the attic

So for me, the notion of a back
staircase requires formation of
some kind of metaphor or symbolic
expression

maybe that is the route taken by all
those multitude of things I have been
told but can’t remember, which have
succeeded in reaching the Welcome
Mat only to be ushered away down
the back staircase

Or is it those semi-annual medical tasks
I am expected to initiate on my own?

Could be dance steps, how to tie an
apron behind my back, or how to do in
a hundred years what a computer whiz
can do in a few seconds

I used to be prolific riding a 10-speed
bicycle, operating both a foot pedal and a
hand lever to change gears on a motorcycle,
and driving a stick shift automobile

now my time is taken up with pushing the
Up or Down button to remotely raise or lower
the footrest on my recliner, and all of those
elusive things, thoughts, memories, instructions,
facts, jokes, comments, etc. have obediently
stayed put somewhere down the back staircase 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo 

Courtesy of Joe Nolan

NO VACANCY
—Caschwa

If you want to park your
great idea in my head I
will have to charge you
a rental fee

Things are already pretty
crowded up there where
useless ideas are blocking
avenues of clear thinking

And don’t try double-parking
your great idea alongside my
precious and dear memories
or you will also pay towing
and impound charges

Here is my graduated fee schedule:
review your great idea $150/hr
edit your great idea $200/hr
if it offends me $300/hr
if it puts me to sleep $400/hr
research and fact check $1,000/hr
if it requires legal counsel $1,500/hr
agree not to harm you, flat fee $5,000

There is also a failed-to-graduate,
dropped-out fee schedule that can
best be described as “mob rule” 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

SENIOR, FIXED INCOME
—Caschwa

cannot sponsor a pro athletic team
I’m barely making ends meet
they want a subscription

****

the cars always race so very fast here
and we post speed limit signs
which might as well read: Speed

****

I’m ready to celebrate every day
birthday comes just once a year
so I stretch it out some

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

THIS N’ THAT
—Caschwa

(in response to MK SOW:  “In nature there is darkness as well as light, and all shades 

in between . . .")

sticks and stones
may break my bones
but I’ll take big bites
out of cheese sticks

*****

Boxer briefs
(name any dog breed briefs)
Dog wood
(any and all timber)
Chimney sweep
(getting all the presents left by Santa)
DOGE
(Dept. of Genital Exuberance)

*****

I’m not prejudiced.
(foreign food is a regular on my menu) 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

OH YEAH, THAT TOO
—Caschwa

A Walk in the Woods

Some people experience memories triggered
by sensory stimuli, such as seeing, hearing, or
smelling something that suddenly takes them
back many years to another event when that same
sensory stimulus was present

I prepare a shopping list before visiting the grocery
store, and might forget to add an item to the list,
but once in the store, literally surrounded by
groceries, my mind can be triggered to remember
that missing item.

Adept trial lawyers find ways to employ such
memory triggers when questioning a witness,
painting a picture with all the triggers of sights,
sounds, smells, tastes, and textures.

My mind follows that pattern to the point of
often requiring some sort of trigger to bring to
mind what I need to remember; probably why I
failed History class, because I didn’t have triggers
to retrieve all those recorded facts and data from
centuries before I was born that would later be
the crux of questions appearing on a test. Who
am I to know details about what famous pioneer
influenced what other famous pioneer?

Oh sure, rote repetition can be very useful for 

things like practicing Bach 2-part Inventions, but for
someone to remember certain un-named islands of
knowledge peering out from oceans of words, that
trigger is sure helpful 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Joe Nolan

THAT’S THAT
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

It doesn’t take much.
We’ve got it down, pat
How to play
A game of
Tit-for-tat.

You do this thing.
I’ll do that.

Eventually,
It ends with a spat
And that’s that.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

NOT IN THAT CUP
—Joe Nolan

....and the cup overflowed
because it was too full
and the water drained away
and ran back up the hill
all the way to glacier
from which the water came
and turned itself
back into ice
because it would not be tamed
Or contained 

In that cup.  

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

AIDS QUILTS
—Joe Nolan

We couldn’t quite remember
How all the stricken died
So we sewed together
Patchwork quilts
We hung against the sky.

We couldn’t quite remember
Who were the stricken-died
So we patched together
Tufts of cloth
With all the knots we tied.

We tried.
We really tried.
Tried to remember
And tried to forget
Tried to forgive ourselves,

Try to not be bereft
When we watch our quilts
All waving
In the burning rays of the sun.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

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

There's burden in the smiling
Like raindrops it flinches
Like yesterday the ghosts come true
My flickering plastic summer days
The yellow bird is near me
The shortness of the very minute
The roses of short summer afternoon
Afterwards it was the darling summer
The garlands of birdsong days
My glory of new-edged sorrow
A pink promise of cut-throat spring
As the memories cut open the morning sun.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE SKY
—Devyanshi Neupane, Age 5,
Melbourne, Australia

I see sky
It is very high
Where the eagles fly
I see with my eyes.

__________________

—Medusa, with thanks to today’s contributors, some of whom responded to our Seed of the Week, “Down the back staircase”. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

SnakePal Joe Nolan will be reading at Mosaic of Voices in Lodi next Saturday, 2/8.

 

The February issue of Sacramento Poetry Center's Poet News is now available at https://www.sacpoetrycenter.org/poetnews/. Check it out for area poetry events (including the Bay Area), poetry, submissions, workshops and more!

  

The Poetry Box Chapbook Contest is now open for submissions. Go to ThePoetryBox.com/chapbook-prize for details.

 

And now for something completely different and, well, thought-provoking:

 

 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Poetic License meets in
Placerville today, 10:30am;
and Sacramento Poetry Center
presents
Anthony Xavier Jackson
tonight, 7:30pm.
For info about these and other
future 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—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the 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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!

 

Gotta love them sausages . . .
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Color of Broken Hearts

 —Poetry by Eileen Patterson, Cudahy, WI
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

MOVING

into my dream, brown-skinned
boxes, big and small, surround me.
I own this white siding, the green trim.

In the backyard, two lilac trees
wait for Spring. They ache to burst in
bloom, to show me colors, to fill my nostrils
with purple scent.  

The lilacs picked for mother
came from other backyards.    
Their branches overhanging fences
begging us to take them.
We snatched them like thieves.
Mother put the stolen goods on her kitchen
table, in large jars or old vases, castoff
treasures from other homes.
Nothing was ever new.

But in Spring the purple blooms will be mine.
I can pick them till my fingers bleed.

****

My lover’s eyes filled with hope, this man
who fathered my child thought the move
a fresh start, another new beginning
but I knocked him to his knees saying,
 

"You can leave now.”

sounding light, full of mischief but we both knew
the raw-edged truth of it all.
I wanted him gone.
The relationship broken.
We seesawed back and forth into each other's lives.
The goddess cocaine was his passion
and the poems in me, breathless.

But there was hope, excitement in his eyes

until my mouth opened, and I tasted his raw skin.

 

 

 

 

MOURNING MOUNT SINAI

Night. I am marooned


on this quiet brooding island.


"Who are you?" I ask,
as Night Mother floats in the room.


"I am your night nurse,"


she replies.


How comforting, I think.


Will you sing me a lullaby


when I can't go to sleep?



 

Her white jowls and the belly


of her arms move in sync,


as she writes on her chart


her voice crackling out


rules.


"Breakfast is at six.


You can keep to your


room if you choose.


Group is at eight


and is required."


When do I weave baskets?

I ask quietly while Night Mother


maps out the hours of my life


as I stand on the cold floor


and decay. The memories weigh me


to the ground chained in the past,
and uninvited voices dance in my head.



 

Morning. I hear the chatter


of the Mothers. The slapping


and clanking of the tray

s
as the cart moves from room to room.


The voice in the hall yells:


"Somebody? I am throwing up


my life here. Won't someone help me


clean up this mess?"


Won't she be proud, I think.


This is what they want


for us to toss out our lives,


our mouths foaming like wild dogs.


Afternoon. Men and women.


Some in white armor, some in steel


suits. Impressed with their degrees


and terminology. Firing their


smiles like drug-filled spears.


Our shadows engraved on the walls


as we march to their tune and eat


their institutional green beans


and mashed potatoes.


Here on this burned-out island


the walking flesh move but don't talk.
The sedatives feed on our brains.
And the steel suit wants to bore a hole
through my mind to know what memories
I hide. But I say nothing. I crawl back
in a corner where the walking flesh
live.



 

Night. There are no lights


in the place. Only the light


from the fireflies they keep


in the jar. Their wings flickering


wildly against the glass


making the smallest of sounds.


The memories weigh me


to the ground on the night


I feel the glass break


inside me.

 

 

 

 

GROUP

We sit on the couch


like birds nesting


keeping secrets and lies


like delicate eggs.


Since I lack an identity


myself, I sit with the stand-up


man, the one with the golden


tooth and forbidden black skin,


we coo and peck at one another


and he tells me how life is for him.

 



There are six or eight or


ten of us depending on


the mood of our psyches


this morning.



 

The mute woman who sleepwalks


and follows the doctor in the hall


with the need of a breast-


feeding child. He pats her


on the head like a father.



 

The fat woman who is caught


inside the cobwebs of her fat,


and sits like a gravestone


with hands deep in her thighs


because her vagina suffers the memory


of her father and two brothers.



 

The drug addict who moans


and groans with his skeleton bones


and fondles his knife at lunch


rocking to some music


or emotion


or high


in his mind.


Clutching his stomach holding his pain,


as if giving birth to reality.



 

The woman who sits in a chair


with papers and pen and writes out


our lives is normal.


Her hair is long like


Rapunzel's, nails wing-tipped


like angels, painted blue


and jeweled with black stars.


They move with the grace


of a mime. We tell her lies


or truths or whatever she wants.



 

We bare ourselves to this long


blond stranger as if she knew


what the answers would be


to our questions, if we had them


or knew them.

 



I think she should know


something, at least the


price and place where her


manicure was done.



 

Our eyes angry as mad gods


not knowing or caring we throw out


our lives our words spill
on the table.

 

 

 

 

NINE DAYS

There was no sunlight. I couldn’t bear the harsh
reality of all the normal
out beyond the doorstep. He fell into my agora-
phobic sea, and I dragged him
down to murky waters. Seaweed everywhere.
He sacrificed himself to this unholy life and I was
greedy for everything,
his voice, his touch. I gave him my breath and he
took it.

This was not forever. Forever is too heavy for a
skeleton to carry.
He loved me, unexpectedly he said. I liked being
unexpected like a dark
figure coming out from the corner of his eye.

At night we entered the world of others. We co-
cooned ourselves at the edge of the War Memorial,
that structure of steel and glass overlooking Lake
Michigan. We kept our voices small like children
alone in the dark.
 
I looked at the sky the color of blueberry, dark and
sweet.
And right there I was about to step off the edge of
the world.

He looked back before leaving our love story,
willing me to form the words to hold him back. But
that was the world of movies and happy endings. I
never believed in that magic.

The waves cuffed the beach gently. There was no
breeze and the moon hung full in the sky, solid
and white,
the color of skull and bone,
the color of sorrow,
of broken hearts.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up.

―Neil Gaiman, The Sandman, Vol. 9: The Kindly Ones

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Eileen Patterson for her fine poetry today!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For future 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—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the 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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!

 

Happy Groundhog Day!

(LittleSnake waits to fine out:

will the g-hog see his shadow?)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Forgive Us

  —Poetry by Michael H. Brownstein, 

Jefferson City, MO
—Public Domain Photos

 

 

WAITING FOR BREAKFAST

a lighthouse within the bedroom of marsupials,
rosemary finches, penguin-faced
men glorified by the boundaries of palm,
a designation of line, a value assay:

the lunch line, life line curving downward,
line of Horace fading away, heart line frag-
mented,
head line, line of stability--the line near the
bus stop,
a block away from the theater's grand
entrance.

Then there is the sigh, the open-mouthed
grab of air,
the churn of acid, the weakening of cartridge,
a need to replace a knuckle, regrow a finger-
nail,
somehow somewhere we lose who we were
not meant to be.

 

 

 

WHERE HAVE THE LIGHTNING BUGS GONE

AND A PERSONAL TRAINER IS NOT
AN OPTION
 
The muscle-bound sky
cloud-shot, blood-worn,
and my friend with rabid eyes,
a slur of lips,
everyday chews fresh sugar cane
with perfect teeth.
Some of the time he speaks for the two of us,
other times a very private man.
Everywhere contours of blue,
graying heat,
sheet lightning.
We walk to his huge ox,
he picks up a hundred-pound bale,
nods to me—
I divide mine in two.
In the distance
the slow flex of another grand summer storm
winding towards us
laughing.

 

 

 

 

JACK FROST SLEEPS WITH GOLDILOCKS
 
Cold sleeps in the room with Beauty
rearranging itself into frost giants and lumber-
jacks.
Snow White is still in development,
and Loki—well, he’s already a myth.
This I know: Beauty sleeps under twenty
blankets
and always feels the pinch of the pea—grows
her hair
long enough to cut, and cuts it—carries fresh
meat pies
through the forest to lure wolves to their death,
to skin them—and when she falls asleep in her
brass bed,
the cold remains, unremitting, a poisoned apple,
a hundred year sleep, a broken glass slipper
Humpty Dumptied into so many pieces
no prince in love wants to glue it back together
again.

 

 

 

 

DYSAUTONOMIA
 
I could not even pronounce the word,
the dog unable to feel pain in its back legs,
her tail no longer able to move
and when we brought water to her,
we had to put her mouth into the bowl.
Later pools of yellow urine spouted from her mouth
and she sighed a terrible bark, but not a bark,
a moan of terror perhaps, a loosening of the soul,
and she let out more bile.
When we called her by name, no response,
when we set her down, no response,
when we petted her, no response.
She seeped into unconsciousness
the onset so quick and brutal,
the gagging sounds from her stomach
filled the air at her throat and she sat
not comprehending anything at all.
Thirteen pounds when we got her,
under ten in the animal hospital,
not a single one of us held onto her
when the needle put her under
and she was no longer in pain.

 

 

 

 

AND THEN—

every now
another
spark
against
back
ground

a gauge
with
in
deformity

the growth
of
hair
balls

flower
of rose
mary

 

 

 

 

THEN CAME ANOTHER DAY

The eighth day, well rested,
the miracle of universe complete,
the dark dung of darkness
and sad light cleansed and organized.
Forgive us our moment
when all prayer becomes short stories,
shell shock inability to listen
to vibrations of silence,
people wading into the brakes of words—
the sharp shark shard of vowels
and their choking curves,
consonants threading into a grand forest choir
each stitch a slip in the wrong direction.
Forgive us our greed
and simple idiocy, our lists,
our tears in flesh
and psyche, our anger, our augers,
our metal plates, forgive us
for taking the deeds
holding the great desk together,
forgive us the robberies
of paper and light,
of organization and disbelief,
forgive us for stealing purity
in psalm and purity in image,
forgive us for every
nine day week after week,
forgive us for forgetting
where we are, where we come from,
where we belong, forgive us
the miracle of rest.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

SHADOWS IN THE LIGHT
—Michael H. Brownstein

in the shade, Bashō's
ghost sings its praise to blue skies—
wind imagery

* * *

THE WORLD FELL ON FLAT FEET
—Michael H. Brownstein

a bone of lime
and still
I smell poetry's fragility

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Michael Brownstein for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that today is
the MoSt Poetry Festival
in Turlock; and
Nancy Gonzalez St. Clair’s
workshop meets in Lodi, 11am.
For info about these and other
future 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—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the 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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!