Journey With Me

 

—Poetry and Original Photos and Artwork by
Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, West Covina, CA

 

 

JOURNEY WITH ME

Journey with me
in pursuit of truth.
I fall and I rise.
It is always like this.
Journey with me.
Maybe we could go
in other directions 
and come full circle.
Journey with me.
I have found truth
and many people
don’t see it when
it is in front of them.
They know the lie.
They hear it often
as the country burns.

 

 

 

A MURAL IN LOS ANGELES

I saw a mural
in Los Angeles
of a bearded
man who looked
like me staring
straight ahead
and next to me
was a man in
an LA Dodger
cap that looked
like my younger
brother. It was
on a way road
on Olive Street.
I saw the mural
from a red light
on Pico Boulevard.
If it was not for my
friend I would
have never seen
it. She laughed
so hard it startled
me. I looked at
her as she said
that looks like you
and your brother.
I kept driving,
but I took the same
route again a day
later just to make
sure the mural
of the men
that looked like me
and my brother
was still there.
This time I snapped
a photo to show
my brother and
my family. There
was more laughter
at home when they
saw the photo.
Our mural was there
in Los Angeles
for everyone to see.

 

 

 

 

HEADLINE NEWS (WHICH ONE IS MADE UP?)

Hammerhead Falls From The Skies;
Sasquatch Marries A Gorilla;
Police Found Missing Person, After
60 Years She Disappeared, She Wants To
Stay Hidden;
Authorities Say A Babysitter Checked
Under The Bed For Monsters,
She Found Someone; 
John Lennon Love Letter Bemoaning
Paul’s Snoring Goes On Sale;
Man Who Lets Snake Bite Him 200
Times Spurs A New Anti-Venom Hope;
Supermarket Chain Says Polish Workers
Found Cocaine In Banana Boxes

 

 

 

 

MY EYES

Before the hours
Took my eyes
And made me blind 
I cursed the light 
With all my might
I heard shovels
My legs buckled
Everything was high
I fell on my face 
And bloodied my eyes 
And my hair; the blood
Felt like slime
And red rain
I laid down and
Slept for hours.

 

 

 

 

AROUND THE BLOCK

I do not get writer’s block.
If I ever feel the slightest hint
of developing writer’s block
I take a stroll around the block.
I converse with Nature; give
the flowers my blessings,
and the birds my attentive
ears. I watch the clouds in
the sky shifting ever so
slowly. I watch happy dogs
with their owners wagging
their tails. In the afternoon
light I shield my eyes from
the sun. I attack each step
with the thought of what I
am going to write next.

 

 

 

THE LAST TREE LEFT ON EARTH

I wish I could talk.
I wish I could vent.
I wish I could air
out my grievances 
against the world.

How many poems,
novels, magazines
do you need to
raise a profit out of
my decaying limbs?

At least the birds
take only so little
to build their nest.
They sing for me
of days long gone.

I wish I could walk.
I wish I could fly.
I wish I could multiply,
but I am the last tree
on earth in this life.

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

BACK AND FORTH
—Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

Back and forth
To work we go

The smells of smog
The taste of stale air

We wear our best clothes
Nothing fits me

But I get it to fit
Someway, somehow

I can’t go to work naked
I don’t want to make waves
I cover up my breasts with 2X shirts

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Luis Berriozábal for today’s fine poetry and visuals!

 

 

 

 “…what I am going to write next.”

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa 

A reminder that
Poets’ Club of Lincoln
presents
The Auburn Hip Hop Congress
today in Lincoln, 3pm,
plus open mic.
For info about this 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!

 

Luis, ready for work~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Overlooked Regrets

 —Poetry by Michael Dwayne Smith,
Apple Valley, CA
—Artwork Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

FIRST PERFECTLY, THEN ROTATING

Large scale emotional experiment here:
moo softly when they call your name.

Does the moniker Pavlov ring a bell?
You won’t like poverty, either.

Movies about women made by old men.
Repeat—ego death, ego death, ego.

I humbly apologize for any inconvenience.
If I throw a stick, will you fetch it?

But you’re saving so many animals,
you say, though you’re just an epic stoner

(it’s when you feel best as a human,
what about the rest of your life, though).

Let’s make you a schedule so hectic
you’ll never need anything normal again.

My god, giving up is beautiful. Like
waxwings floating across a toxic breeze.

For me, transcendence by brute force.
Live in the existential trash of questions.

 

 

 

 

THERE’S NO LIMIT TO THIS WOMAN’S
ABILITY TO DECONSTRUCT
A FREQUENCY OR SHAPE

Drove all night to Sparkle,
West Virginia, a town I just made up,
in a fictional rental car.
Couldn’t remember her name.
She’s got a fentanyl-patch-addicted,
ex-cop foster daddy, a real
down-with-Jesus fellow who wears

tangerine eye shadow,
is filled with a violent contentment,
bounding as a jackrabbit,
slashing like an Exacto knife,
all nervousness and chatter trapped
in a damp sweater his
grandma knitted him on her deathbed.

His daughter, adorable in her floppy
felt autistic rainbow hat,
used to pinch me hard and say,
My heart’s been paralyzed, but my
synaptic willow tree’s been redeemed,
then she’d turn the TV up to a
scream. Justine. Justine, where are you?

 

 

 

 

NOT YET

And we’re eating fur, silky, sticky
with flesh, tendons strings for the
keyboard of our teeth

when afternoon comes to rest as a
coy bitch, we in her lap, fall
swirling leaves into paper sonatas,

us cloudy and wet, drenched in lush
errors which fill Cathedral Lake
with our overlooked regrets,

not washed, not clean, not free, not
yet done, still hunting, still
feeding on mangy coyote elegies.

 

 

 

 

END OF THE LINE

What is the molecular structure for
disappointment? Ouroboros?
Still-born calf? Feels like a reptile

trapped in the bottom half of my body.
It’s like I caught my own semen
up to no good. Bad, bad tadpoles,

sprung from the volcano, headed
downstream with nowhere to hide.
No safe pouch, no egg, no future.

I can’t find the seams to throw this
fastball I owe, right over the plate,
swing and a miss, maybe a foul tip

if I keep my shoulder down.
Not touching any bases either way.
Not big and beautiful, not old-time

religion, not down by the creek
with a dog, not driving a school bus
at sunset, not inventing moons or

frogs, not progenitor, not a cherry
on top, not peeling young sunburnt
skin, not apologetic, not even a smile.

 

 

 

 

TINY URNS

I bounce from one mind camp to another
(there are many), camps within camps even,
some I’ve pitched a tent in for years, but
the one among them in my mind today
is spartan, packing light: minimalism—
to be free from my obsessive compulsions,
to be clean, polished, unafraid to toss an it
(or you) in the trash for happy-go-lucky
garbage collectors to chuck in the back of a
smoke-chugging truck. Still, as I don’t keep
diaries, I’m riven by a need to leave a map
behind me: books, music, clothing, bar
ware, DVDs, low art, removable hard drives,
photos, and yes, friends. One can try to off-
load onto doctors, partners, pals, sobering
drunk rabbit-hole conversations in a tavern,
one can try every spring dragging in sad
cardboard boxes to coax hordes of ghost
tears out of drawers and closets, one can try
to enjoy dandelion tea, ignore brain glitch,
creeping ache, one can tongue every bitter
root or leaf one finds, dream the iron taste
of childhood blood, coma through booms
and torrents, un-hear the word cancer, cough,
stretch, so for now my poems are holding,
like tiny shiny urns of radiant pre-dementia.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Make the most of your regrets; never smother your sorrow, but tend and cherish it till it comes to have a separate and integral interest. To regret deeply is to live afresh.

—Henry David Thoreau

___________________

Michael Dwayne Smith is back with us today, and we’re always glad to have him and his fine poetry. Be sure to pre-order his new book, Shaking Music from the Angry Air (Sheila-Na-Gig Inc., https://sheilanagigblog.com/), for a pre-order discount of 20% through August 15th, 2025. The page for info, blurbs, purchase is:
https://sheilanagigblog.com/shop-sheila-na-gig-editions/michael-dwayne-smith-music/. Congratulations, Michael, on your latest project!

 

Michael will be reading for Sheila-Na-Gig from his new book next Friday, August 15, 7pm EST, 4pm PDT). For info on signing up to hear his reading, go to https://sheilanagigblog.com/2025/05/26/save-the-date-connie-johnson-sheila-na-gig-reading/?fbclid=IwY2xjawMDXOVleHRuA2FlbQIxMQABHk_e9tuIR8X36X9M5Ox3j30ZgchnsxZ1XilDJcU6d-NwQrUDa06lfluihiMc_aem_fDQY6j5s8YgNJjZ6WtiyfQ/.

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Susan Cohen and Jeanne Wagner
read today, 4pm, at
Sacramento Poetry Alliance;
and The VIP Affair Show
takes place in Sacramento
tonight, 8pm.
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!

 

. . .when afternoon comes to rest 

as a coy bitch. . .”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Half-Moon Whispers

 Coco
—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Lynn White, Nolcha Fox, Claire J. Baker,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Andrew Brindle,
and Christina Chin

 

 

COCO

Dog eyes hold me like deep wells in desert—
two dark brown aughts encompassing the world.
She spent most of her young life in a crate.
Just let her out, she’s game for anything,
appreciating an oak leaf’s free-fall,
the possibilities of two humans
walking from ranch gate to her kennel door.

 

 

 

 

 

DIXIE

She doesn’t shiver, but her tail won’t wag.
I rub her chest, a spot behind her ear.
She doesn’t flinch nor ease. She’s frozen stiff,
ignoring the treats I offer. She was
dropped at the shelter just the day before
she whelped puppies, but she’s practically
a pup herself. Now she’s at this rescue.
She’s mine to mind for a few moments. Might
I become her friend? How could I tempt her
not to fear me and the world? to believe?

 

 

 

 

RHAPSODY AT 8000 FT

Big red Indian paintbrush,
white coyote mint & blue delphinium
mountain meadow National Forest—
public land belongs to all of us and no one.
No fences or locked gates, no signs against
trespass. Red bandanna, white clouds
in a deep blue sky. We walk
among lodgepole pine and aspen coming
back after fire, its leaves vibrating the wind’s
music. Listen for the song of chickadee,
call of nutcracker and raven.
Here’s scarlet gilia, white snow in patches
higher up, melting to blue creek
that winds through willow. Bountiful
nature plays its rhapsody for all
of us and no one.

 

 

 

 

STILL LIFE WITH BOOT

A study in static angles:
a walled open-air corner with used
cardboard boxes flattened, not
neatly stacked but one atop another
tossed at random. A single
work boot. Does someone sleep here
lonely, unseen by truckers at the
loading dock? Does this boot
whisper in the night for its
lost mate?

 

 

 

 

HALF-MOON WHISPERS

A lone boot dreams beside the trail
beneath a moon that’s half and pale.

What can it whisper with a tongue
of leather, though it has no lung

to call its mate, to join it here
before the dawn comes cold and clear?

 

 

 

 

“RAGE AGAINST THE REGIME”

Here we are on the bridge
with our flags and our protest placards.

“Veterans Are Not Suckers or Losers”
“Save Our Democracy”

Some drivers wave, thumbs-up, honk—
horn blast from an 18-wheeler.

One driver stops:
“It’s horrible to call someone a Fascist!”

Motorcycle guy gives us
a two-finger Victory.

That truck’s full speed ahead
spewing black exhaust in our faces.

I’m between a flag and the sign
“Peaceful Protest—We Live Here”

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

WHISPER DUAS
—Taylor Graham


bedtime with open windows

breeze whispers the owl’s hunt

*

cat whiskers against my cheek

dog’s asleep at foot of bed

*

what do the ghosts say

always in whispers, surprise

___________________

Taylor Graham writes that she’s been searching for a rescue housemate for Otis, and Coco and Dixie are two of the candidates.

Forms TG has used this week include some Blank Verse (“Coco”; “Dixie”); some Dua in Response to our Tuesday Seed of the Week, Whispers in the Night (“Whisper Duas”); a Nocturnette (“Half-Moon Whispers”); a Rhapsody (“Rhapsody at 8000 Ft”); and a Just 15s ("Rage Against the Regime”). The Nocturnette was one of last week’s Triple-F Challenges.

In El Dorado County poetry this week, Poetic License meets on Monday in Placerville, and info about El Dorado Country’s regular workshops is listed on Medusa’s calendar (if you scroll down on http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html/). For more news about such events and about EDC poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado Poetry on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry. Or see Lara Gularte’s Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077/. And you can always click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html). Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!  
 
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.)


Check out our recently-refurbed 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 and other ways of poetry. 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

Poets who sent responses to last week’s Ekphrastic photo were Lynn White, Nolcha Fox, Claire J Baker, and Stephen Kingsnorth:


WEIGHING IT UP
—Lynn White, Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales


The weight is threatening
to overcome me
so much pressure
I can hardly breathe
I know I need to turn the scales
and shift the weight
to rebalance
it all
and lift the threat
from the weight
to grow a pear
or take a bite
of an apple.

* * *

WAITS AND MEASURES
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

She measures out
the time she’ll spend
to nourish mind and body.
She waits with baited
breath to see if scales
match reality. Most often,
measurements fall short.
She packs her bag
with books and fruit
and runs to her
appointments.

* * *

AS A VICTIM OF PETTY THEFT
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

I’m not prepared to weigh-in just yet.
I need more light wine than fight whine.

I’ll try to forget that my door area
was vandalized, my plant stand

and speaks-volumes Mobile Poets sign
stolen in a kind of night-shade shade

one calls dapple. And the misbegotten
rotten didn’t even leave an apple!

* * *

CARROT CAKE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

It’s less the volume, but mass, weight,
the physics of those kitchen scales,
blind justice that the cake should be
not guesswork of ingredients,
but measured as per recipe.

The brew will stand, as rising bread,
if based on wisdom of those books,
the combined learning from the past—
of motherhood and apple pie—
not just some tart of radicals.

I’ll not deny part volume plays;
the number, stops at coffee shops
where weight and volume intersect.
Result of calories consumed,
though nod to veg in carrot cake.

A core problem I do foresee:
appealing apples, stalked, still pipped,
weighed cauliflower not just florets,
or peas without their podding first,
and pears yet resting in their skins.

I cannot see the dial employed—
if, as exam, convert required—
but upper storey with its fruit
must less than lower level be;
the lower should read higher, see?

So magnifier out at length
to focus on appointed hands;
and sure enough the readings fair.
Ten units mark the set above;
beneath scores twenty in its ring.

So Better Homes and Gardens claim
attention for their magazine,
with homegrown produce in the mix.

* * *

Today we have three Tan-Renga from Andrew Brindle of Taiwan (plain text) and Christina Chin of Malaysia (italics): 

 

 

 

white lotus
in a field of mud
petals of silence
she struggles
in tight flip-flops

    ~ ~ ~


farmyard rooster crows
in early morning light
dew stirs in the grass
he stumbles home
the smell of stale beer


    ~ ~ ~

climbing step
to the mountain temple
Easter lilies wilt
letting go she lit
sandalwood joss

* * *

And here is an Ekphrastic poem from Stephen Kingsnorth: “The choice is ours in looking glass/to see or not how we to be . . ."

 

 

 

GATHERING EVIDENCE
—Stephen Kingsnorth

Include the sun’s sphere in the frame,
but, joined up thinking, shadows lie.
When orbits, orbs come into play,
what eye see may print licensed plate.
The least we have is question marked,
as where am I, this frontispiece?
And what the title, deed in space,
for where my place if core misdeeds?
So I must gather evidence
and court the thought, not all is well;
‘A Murder is Announced’ I fear—
though Agatha is always near.

Her window, opportunity,
as ransomed with a transom face,
from shuttered dark with lowly sill,
a fall so easy to achieve.
Can billow hue of chimney cloud
suggest fire smoulders flames within?
Oppressive storey uppermost,
but downcast, carefree—with intent?
Does he prepare for her descent,
a decent lounge once cushions laid,
or has he had enough of her,
determined stride, haul dragged behind?

Enquiries of suspicious mind,
is not the poet of a kind;
but know hopes, fears grow from within,
so what I see tells who I am?
Those sunny dispositions I
mistrust; diseased unease I say.
A veil of tears and pain I see;
but glory, there, love’s victory.
The choice is ours in looking glass
to see or not how we to be;
façade in view, but magnify;
to fore suspect a bloodied arm…

__________________

Many thanks to today’s writers for their lively contributions! Wouldn’t you like to join them? 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 challenges, and send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.) ’Tis the season for dragonflies:

•••Dragonfly (devised by Edna St. Vincent Millay): rhymes a b b a b a |  c d d c d c with the first line’s end-word repeated at the end of the last line of each stanza

•••AND/OR drift off, summer dreaming:

•••Dream Poem: https://www.bing.com/search?q=dream+poem+form&pc=cosp&ptag=C999N1234A316A5D3C6E&form=0A1010&conlogo=CT3210127&showconv=1

 

•••AND/OR you could take a cue from TG's Rhapsody and rhapsodize about something. . .

 

•••Rhapsody: https://www.oxfordreference.com/display/10.1093/oi/authority.20110803100418381

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

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

____________________

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

•••Blank Verse: literarydevices.net/blank-verse AND/OR www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-the-difference-between-blank-verse-and-free-verse#quiz-0
•••Dragonfly (devised by Edna St. Vincent Millay): rhymes a b b a b a |  c d d c d c with the first line’s end-word repeated at the end of the last line of each stanza
•••Dream Poem: https://www.bing.com/search?q=dream+poem+form&pc=cosp&ptag=C999N1234A316A5D3C6E&form=0A1010&conlogo=CT3210127&showconv=1
•••Dua (devised by Ai Li): a two-line poems with two spaces between each line, no periods and no titles
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Just 15s (devised by Sarah Harding): poem or stanza of 15 syllables
•••Nocturnette: 6 lines broken into 3 couplets; each couplet rhymed aa bb cc; 4 iambic feet to a line
•••Response Poem: creativetalentsunleashed.com/2015/11/18/writing-tip-response-poems
•••Rhapsody: https://www.oxfordreference.com/display/10.1093/oi/authority.20110803100418381
•••Tan-Renga: https://www.graceguts.com/essays/an-introduction-to-tan-renga
•••Tuesday Seed of the Week: a prompt listed in Medusa’s Kitchen every Tuesday; poems may be any shape or size, form or no form. No deadlines; past ones are listed at http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/calliopes-closet.html/. Send results to kathykieth#hotmail.com/.
•••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
picture, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)

* * *

—Artwork Courtesy of Public Domain

 
 
 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For info about
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!

 

 

 

Poets in Disguise

 —Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth,
Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Stephen Kingsnorth and Medusa

 

 

SEERS

We know they’re filtered, coffee grounds—
the same for sound bites that we hear,
now with AI, the site’s not clear,
but open-eyed—save tromp l’oeil?
For fear, deception, anchor points,
like verify on broadcast news,
so, spot what differs, puzzle page,
my belt and braces, shapes compared.
When talking to the colour blind,
I know their blue is brown to me,
so labels differ, spectrum’s range,
but they still know when autumn dressed.
One may be day—a sunny beach—
the other night with limelight shift;
but reason and experience
suggests art trickery afoot.
We need our seers, with second sight—
I call them poets in disguise—
who see beyond first glancing show,
wait long enough for afterglow.
Perhaps it’s back to stand and stare,
maybe reflect what’s really there,
the tree from Eden to the skull,
or Bhodi lore, to contemplate.
The more I see of canopy,
the acorn with inherent growth,
webbed mycorrhiza underneath,
I see tree teleology.
For if alone, this tree in pose,
unsettles me with eroteme,
the Greenman has fulfilled his cause,
and pilgrimage for me begun.

 

 

 

 —Image by Marie-Michèle Bouchard

CARBON CAPTURE

A pile-up for sum petrolhead,
here’s clash of crash, less colour clash,
for pastel paintjob in the sky,
a canopy without the green.
like campanile where bells toll
both steel and steal, stealth killing us.

A nut tree, shells and husks array,
with buries of that paler hue,
this headstone over graver seen,
its trunk, whose memory outlasts
all flow of living xylem, phloem.

But Beetles thrive to rove the land
from rings of growth now sadly capped.
Was this Sequoia, Zephyr stripped,
once haunt of Spider, Hornet nest,
where Robin, Skylark, Tercel preyed
with Rabbit, Ram and Fox displayed?

Here’s trunk topped trunks, storage to boot,
with bonnets, hoods, though poor for rain,
will rain forest reign, pour again?
Hear heavy metal funeral songs,
totemic of that death we face?

 

 

 

FLORIOGRAPHY OF WAR

Find hips and haws, where might, arose,
hung over row of lane-edge hedge,
hair of the dogs, trimmed farmer’s scythe;
where derring-do from primrose banks,
and scarlet pimpernel lies too.

There’s deadly nightshade, nettle rash
for those who creep, preparing war
on Dover’s cliff top, Kentish ways,
past dents de lions, sycamore
blades, time, tide blowing in the wind.

For airmen, dogfights in the skies,
above Kent cotts they to defend,
right royal battle of Britain
for cottage gardens, lupin swoops,
for cornflower, kingcup, our set ways.

Their funerals, Canterbury
bells, tolling ’neath that battlefield
of clouded skies where interweave
the Spitfires in snapdragon mode
above the Weald of Churchill’s pose.

Red poppies, trench art for our lost,
the soiled earth rising to new birth;
a peony for paeon praise
where victors parade on the stage
as hop poles fruit to carry bier.

 

 

 

The Reverie of Mr. James
—Painting by Rene Magritte (Belgium) 1943

TO BE OR NOT, A COMPLEMENT?

Regret masters Réne Magritte.

Analysis he would reject;
the boy’s lost mother, suicide—
Régina, queen, face-covered, drowned—
all blamed each other’s escapades.

To cap it all, she milliner,
devoted as a Catholic,
yet father anticlerical.
For roses, thorns go hand in hand
in wispy, wristy floral tryst.

An egg, drawn bird with outstretched wings,
to liquidate conventional;
the mirror glass that sees behind,
or handiwork for trellis growth—
so many questions framed for us.

His meet to marry, seven years,
that butcher’s daughter at the fair,
the girl Georgette his later muse,
for first exhibits, critics rose,
but piled abuse served, moved him on.

The Rêverie, entitled dream,
but did our Monsieur James think so?
And would he care, or others dare?
He did not look outside the box—
denied the box was ever there.

Through periods, and phases, styles,
the occupation, war, mind more,
those forgeries of headline names
and currency in leaner years,
but were notes printed cash for real?

Try Ceci n’est pas, for a line,
the pipe as concrete through the gap
to what stand painted, poster pen,
when artist seen and not the thing;
surrealist in play-along.

His oeuvre, time and time again,
by repetition, trauma marked,
but each unique though looked the same
for image seen not image been,
a complement in every scene.

 

 

 

Ceiling Toadstools in Porcelain
—Painting by Carsten Höller

FLY AGARIC!

But fly agaric, not so fast.
I think that you misunderstand—
I spoke your name, but not command;
as ‘hang in there’ is your reply,
with hint of magic mushroom speak,
I’m keeping my feet on the ground.

It cost me, sixties, £sd,
those flights of fancy, Kubla Khan,
my extraterrestrial mind,
as psychedelic orbits found
around my skull within my head
before black holes became the norm.

Above your bulb, though underneath,
in ceiling sunk, mycelium;
I root my worldview, gravity.
These humans stand too stable here
to be space station sentinels
afloat, as upside down, in fact.

I doubt those floor lights might be fans;
more likely planned exhibit scams.
But few harms done by second look,
another scan, fresh point of view,    
in changed perspective, new field probed.
That is a rôle of poetry.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

In some Native languages the term for plants translates to “those who take care of us”.

―Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

. . .new field probed. That is the  rôle of poetry. . .

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Poetry Night in Davis
features
Keith Ekiss and Robin Ekiss
tonight, 7pm.
For info about this 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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poems On Italy

Egyptian Pyramid/Front of Basilica/San Giovanni

—Poetry and Photos by Mitali Chakravarty,
Singapore 

ROME…

Monuments drip in
   every nook of Rome.

    Squeezed between buildings,
and dancing with wildflowers,
History, spanning the passage
   of civilisations that rose and fell,
smiles sunrises, besides modernity.

Next to the Termini,
     the temple of Minerva
        soars enclosing the sky.

The 3000-year-old obelisk
brought from Egypt stands
next to the cafe serving
breakfast to zillion worshippers,
      who gaze in awe at the city
named after a wolf child.

They gather in droves
   between the artifacts
from Egypt and Rome,
   in front of a basilica
that smiles benevolence
   at the ancient Colosseum
peeping from between
   young buildings that reside
graciously with the old. 

 

 

 

Inside the Colosseum

 

IN THE COLOSSEUM
 
On an ancient rock I sit.
Thus, must have waited
adoring fans for their
favourite gladiator.

Here they collected
water that bathed  
the muscled warriors,
watched them fight.

I sit here and wonder,
the open skies stretch
like a blue awning, as
tourists come and go.

A seagull muses in the
shade of a tree at a
distance from walls
that grew history.

It stares at streams
that pour to gape at
unyielding bricks
reminiscent of yore.

I sit and gaze at the
blue skies, waft on  
a cloud that defies
time, sprays sunshine.

 

 

 

Dome, Vatican

 

AT THE SISTINE CHAPEL

Under Michelangelo’s skies,
Hundreds of people glide.

Spellbound by the creator,
do they sigh over mortal art
or the power that inspired
devotion born of expulsion?

Do they wonder as a voice
blesses with compassion,
reviving with sonorous psalms,
ringing a sense of calm?

The Sistine smiles at the crowds
hushing to sense peace and love. 

 

 

 

River Arno, Florence

 

UNDULATING

Clouds float
    in the waters of Arno
      while parakeets
                        flit across.

On Tiber,
              seagulls swoop,
      to settle
as a lone moorhen
paddles
            against
                          the current.

Rivers flow
      with memories—
history, art, life
           —both past and present.

          Bridges that survived wars,
                  floods, over eons,
           gaze at sunbathers.

An island—linked
            by legends long ago,
and bricks—
       smiles at tourists in the sun.

     Tuscan stories mingle
with waves
          like Roman ones—
     waves that lap shores
to empty into the sea,
       undulating—but connecting—
        time, people and geographies. 

 

 

 

Flagstones/Rickshaw Tours

 

FIRENZE*

She reposes by the shores
    of Arno—ringing in stories
from the past, dreaming of life
     and Tuscan pizzas that delight.

Though known by the Nightingale’s name
  --- no nightingales ever sing here—
    only Michelangelo and Galileo
       lie buried in the silent Croce.

You can see sunbathers now,
   far from the tourist-filled basilicas
lazing in the unrelenting sun.
    Dogs swim to beat the heat.
 
Arno flows lapping distant hills
   dotted with cottages and pines.
The sun sets behind the Ufizzi
    silhouetting its magnificence.

   Calmly, Firenze glows
lost in dreams of yore.
    Life pauses by its shores.
Assimilating the past, visitors move on.


*Firenze is the Italian name of Florence.

 

 

 

 

EPIPHANY

  An epiphany rings forth—
a moment of truth as a
  benediction prays peace.

  Who is it that dares speak
 peace as wars on walls
         and ceilings of Sistine
    colour current tides?

    While people weep and die
of hunger, poverty, war, while
many are killed by bombs,
     who dares dream peace?

    Seas foment in anger.
           Climate change wreaks
havoc as flames and floods
            together ravage Earth.

  And yet, this voice speaks
peace, benediction to the few
that can make it into
      the pristine Sistine?

  Can peace be found in life?
Can it be found strewn amidst
blood and gore of battle scenes?
Oh, tell me please, where can
            I find peace?

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

IN ITALY…
—Mitali Chakravarty

Flagstones of old
watch centuries
walk the same
cobbled path.

_________________

SnakePal Mitali Chakravarty traveled to Italy recently, and when she got back, she sent us these poems—thank you, Mitali! Mitali wafted on the cloud and came to rest of the one where she found borderlessjournal.com. She also has three books of poems, the latest being, From Calcutta to Kolkata: City of Dreams.

_________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

Mitali on her cloud~

—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

 

For info about
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!