A Poet is a Verb

—Photo by Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

STREET FOOTBALL
—Craig Steiger, Nevada City

We’d squeeze between parked cars when trucks would pass, and when the coast was clear, resume our street football game.
The Park was too far for TV halftime, so we’d line up with the ball on the manhole cover, first down.
There were just two to a side, but sometimes when we had guests we connived & conned them to run down the pavement for long passes.
But usually, the hiker was also the receiver, and every pass was a Hail Mary. Occasionally they were actually caught!
The rusher was obliged to count three alligators but if he shouted it too quickly, a big argument would break out.
During any actual play, the pet terrier would go out of his mind, not knowing what was going on,
But it sure looked like trouble.


(for Lew & the boys)

 —Photo by Caschwa

SIX CLEVELAND HAIKU
—Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH

Cleveland Haiku #508

Leftovers—
last year's leaf dangling,
closed in a car door

* * *

Cleveland Haiku #509

Seen for the first time---
a black squirrel
in the park

* * *

Cleveland Haiku #510

Bush in the yard—
temporarily laid low
by heavy snow

* * *

Cleveland Haiku #511

Even leafless trees
provide enough shade to keep
some snow from melting

* * *

Cleveland Haiku #512

Temporary lakes—
waves rippling across
uneven asphalt

* * *

Cleveland Haiku #513

All-day rain—
temporary creeks
pour down hillsides

 —Photo by Caschwa

LOVE OR APPETITE
—Caschwa

(Inspired by the words of
James Lee Jobe:
“Try to live for just today.”
“I am the universe, the universe is me.”
—Medusa’s Kitchen April 21, 2018)

Hungry for knowledge, I was at the
Taxonomy King drive thru,
waiting in the long division line
pondering whether to call the class
to order the family size pizza

when the fellow ahead of me exited
his car, knelt down on one knee,
and I heard him propose adding the
rank of “dough main”. Later he would
learn to just say “Super size it!”

which works for me, who after much
careful, deep dish, scientific research
found that this whole reverie of
ranking bakes down to me caring
about me, today, right now. Yum!

________________

EYES WIDE OPEN
—Caschwa

"I, Mr. Self-made Man, take you to be my
fourth or fifth lawfully wedded trophy-wife.

Before these witnesses I vow to love you
and care for you as long as your market
value exceeds the Index.

I take you with all your beauty and your
poise as I offer myself to you with my
Daddy’s money and clout.

You will help me when I need help, and
I will turn to you whenever I feel the
moment is right.

I choose you as the person with whom
I will spend the rest of my petty cash."

 —Photo by Caschwa

PEACE AND JUSTICE WILL PREVAIL
—Caschwa
 
If the governor of Michigan
was taken to Flint and
forced to use only
local water

If every time we hear a complaint
about moocher citizens getting
entitlements, the ability of large
corporations to easily avoid paying
taxes was lowered by
one percent

If businesses convicted of
false advertising had to
start back at square one
to qualify for business
licenses and loans all
over again

If power to the major stock
exchanges was suspended
until power to Puerto Rico is
fully restored

if business as usual,
corruption as usual,
partisanship a usual
racism as usual
are no longer the
normal narrative

If the bad guy could not
get a gun in the
first place

__________________

TREASURE TROVE
—Caschwa

Modern America can learn
from the ancient Egyptians
who had no lawyers but
relied on common sense

and their faith in a higher power. 
It was never their purpose to
leave behind a bunch of
negotiated settlements or

redacted stipulated agreements
to indicate what valuable
assets were contained in
what sectors of a pyramid.

Fast forward to the present-
day debacle where swarming
pundits share endless unfounded
insights as to what they think

the odds are that witnesses who
know secrets will flip to spare
their families?  Skip the talk,
follow the money, and publicly

display all the evidence.  This
is not new science, but we may
at least be able to unearth
some old common sense.

 —Photo by Caschwa

MISSING
—Caschwa

We were sitting on the sled
holding on against strong winds
biting cold smashing our faces
and then we noticed
something wrong
very wrong

No runners!

A riot without tension
a script with no lines
a greenhouse minus plants

What are we ever to do?

A dozen death grips
clutching that poor, little sled
snow bound, no hound
hell bent to follow a scent

Just waiting for the storm
to subside
for the sled
to glide

For the facts
to finally
conform
with our
memories.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

A poet is a verb that blossoms light in gardens of dawn, or sometimes midnight.

—Aberjhani

___________________

Many thanks to our fine collection of artists today: welcome back to Craig Steiger, and thanks to Michael Ceraolo, whose book of 500 Cleveland Haiku is available at www.amazon.com/500-Cleveland-Haiku-Michael-Ceraolo/dp/198744275X/. And thanks also to Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) for his fine poems and riversome photos!

Cynthia Linville writes that the Spring 18 Issue of Convergence is now online at www.convergence-journal.com/spring18/.

Gail Entrekin writes: “Today we announce the release of Issue 5.1 of Sisyphus: Change: What is Normal and What is Not. The authors on these pages explored change—personal, societal, and environmental. This issue features poetry, essays, humor, memoir, philosophy, flash fiction, short story, and photography. We appreciate your comments and readership and encourage you to hit the button at the top of Sisyphuslitmag.org to subscribe. As always, it’s free, we never share your information, and a subscriber can begin a discussion with an author who sparks your interest. If you have an essay, poem, prose, or visual art, submissions are open at Submittable for Issue 5.2: Communication.”

A.D. Winans writes about your chance to buy D.R. Wagner's new book from Cold River Press, The Order of Events, and receive a free copy of Winans’ latest, Crazy John Poems—both with free shipping! D.R. Wagner and Brock Alexander's book, The Order of Events, due out late May, 2018, is sixty poems accompanied by sixty illustrations (154pp, soft cover perfect bound, printed in 8 x 10 format, six sections divided by color illustrations). Special Pre-Sale pricing runs through May15 and includes The Order Of Events (free shipping within the continental United States) AND a bonus copy of A.D. Winans' newest book from Cold River Press, Crazy John Poems, featuring the first two collections of Crazy John, poems from the 1970s and 1980s with a never-before printed third collection that completes the series. Don't miss out on a tremendous bargain—The Order of Events (retail $18.95), and Crazy John Poems (retail $14.95) with FREE Shipping (a $5 value), all for only $14.95! See www.coldriverpress.com/.

Lots of workshops/food for the brain this week in area poetry, starting tonight at Sac Poetry Center, 5pm, with a reading by Steve Almond, followed by his workshop from 6-9pm. Also at SPC tonight, Brittany Perham and Kathleen Winter, plus open mic, 7:30pm. On Thursday, another workshop, this one free from 11:45am-1:30pm, presented by Cal. Lawyers for the Arts on copyright law. And get prepared for National Poem in Your Pocket Day on Thursday, too. See www.poets.org/national-poetry-month/poem-your-pocket-day/.

Davis Poet Laureate Dr. Andy Jones will read at the UC Davis Library on Thursday from 7-8pm. Then on Friday, another workshop, this one the fourth and final in the NaPoWriMo series at Sac. Poetry Center, 6pm. Also on Friday in Sacramento: Speak Up: The Art of Storytelling and Poetry presents poets/storytellers on the theme of “Coming of Age”, 7pm, Avid Reader on Broadway.

This coming weekend will bring TWO poetry conference/festivals: SPC Writers’ Conference 2018, a day of workshops in Sacramento, and the Sierra Nevada Poetry Festival 2018, with workshops, vendors and performances at Sierra College Grass Valley. (Note that Sac. Poet Laureate Indigo Moor will present a workshop in Grass Valley on Sunday as an extended part of the Festival.) Also on Saturday: Poetic License in Placerville at the Sr. Center, 2-4pm. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa

 Celebrate poetry!

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

Poetry Arrived

Image of Mystery

—Photo by Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

POETRY
—Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)
 
And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.

___________________

—Medusa

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

A Little Magic

Good Morning, Jobe Here

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

APRIL.

Dawn slips in easy,
Like a beautiful woman getting dressed.
The sky fades from black to gray silver to blue.
Gods pad through the heavens on bare feet.

Around the neighborhood,
The cats are already up,
But not the dogs.
Outside,
The cold air feels fine on your face.
It is beautiful,
In exactly the way fresh ice is beautiful on a pond.
Inside,
There's hot coffee.

There must be someone to thank for this life.
Face to the heavens, you do just that. 

The hand knows the pen, and greets it the way old friends do when they meet by accident on the street. The paper is there, waiting. The afternoon gets very quiet, and waits with the kind of patience that one sees in the elderly. An anxious excitement hangs in the air. Dust mites are watching as if they know, as if they understand. It is almost time. In a moment, the poem will begin.
 
_________________

How I write these damn poems—
I put some faith in the sounds of vowels,
In the strength and heart of consonants,
And in language that holds a small measure of music.
Truth? Sometimes. Not always.
There is a higher truth, with more weight than history.
I prefer verbs to adjectives, they're more fun.
And I need a little magic, from starlight,
Or sunrise, or from the sad look
That dogs give best.
And then I just write it down. 

Try to live just for today. 

Whatever it is that you are planning to do later, do it now. 

Whatever it is that you are saving for a special day, use it now. 

You are alive today, tomorrow is a roll of the dice. It might happen, and it might not. 

People often say, "Don’t live in the past." They're right, of course, but friend, don't live in the future either. 

Live for today, and enjoy it, it is the only day you can be sure of. 

Tomorrow could be the day that god calls, or it might be coincidence that calls, and you will answer. 

What good will that box of chocolate do you then? 

Brittle yellow, the moon glows across this long valley. Shadows and a cold wind. A cold feeling, too. And the question one asks in the night—did we do it all right, this life?

Lay down here beside me, my wife. We will come through this night together, as we have for so long. Take my hand. 

We have spent a lifetime trying to be good people. There is no failure, luck, or fate. What is there left to say? Just this, hold on. The long night will pass. Brittle yellow, the moon will set. Hold on. 

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Like the sky at dawn, silent and vast, let my being merge in the timeless immensity of being alive. I am the universe, the universe is me.

—James Lee Jobe

__________________

Our thanks to James Lee Jobe for this morning’s fine poems and pix! Note also that this morning, 9:30am-1pm, Writers on the Air in Sacramento features Mary McGrath, Tim McHargus and open mic at Sac. Poetry Center. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa

 —Anonymous

Celebrate poetry!

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

Entropy's Rain

Art 101

—Poems and Visuals by Smith, Cleveland, OH

MEDICINE WHEEL

The people we call Cheyenne, Crow, Sioux say instead
the Painted Arrow, the Little Black Eagle, the Brother People,
all three working walking the four ways
of the many spokes of the medicine wheel,
a one-size life-size steering wheel for all,
its living flame larger truth in water,
cloud, flight, sacred smoke,
sundanced day,
moondanced night.

Circle your water rocks on the ground
quartered east, west, north, south
each to their own master,
and follow until you see your reflection
in the mirror of your river
self to self selfless,
at last honest

Walk wheel,
work heal.

 Old Comb by Lady K

DALAI LADY

Wife church shops
spiritual smorgasbord
dips 'n sips in serve

Shaker one day
American Orthodox
Buddha in between

Seeks coven
sisters of mushroom
to brighten light

Today's UU
hymns drifting sift air
candle lit care

Not think alike
hive-hood from above
but walk together

Next? Holy Rollers?
Snake handlers? Kundalini?
Speaking tongues?

Or quiet sage
holy in hermitude
somewhere down the line

Spirit accretes
drips within absolving sin
suns rise in her eyes

 Couple

ENTROPY’S RAIN

The Garden of Eden's
now desert and blame
thorns in the roll
bugs in the hay
sweaty the skin
in down dirty game
but oh
so sweet is the sin

 Green-Eyed Lady

THE LAST RITES FOR PAST WRONGS

Who do you blame
Eve, Adam, or the snake?

I know the snake had a grudge with God
and fomented unrest
in the land of ease and plenty

But Eve was certainly complicit
taking that bite
then smoozing Adam to eat

Yet Adam was dumb, weak,
or pussy-whipped to follow,
allowing good and evil

But the villain was God

He/She/It made Lucifer
and when Lucifer protested being #2
(why would anyone accept second?)
God cast him to belly hell

He/She/It made the tree
of the knowledge of good and evil

He/She/It
created man and woman with dirt
and stolen body parts

He/She/It
made Eve and Adam defective,
too weak to follow orders

Or else He/She/It
made them too well
so they thought for themselves

What God is so insecure
He/She/It would fear their knowing
right from wrong?

If You can't stand the heat
get out of the kitchen

We should hire Snake Lucifer
to sue He/She/It for malfeasance,
bad design,
and lack of faith in Its own creation

Got to break this God cycle
of guilt from above
sin from below

 East of Sun, West of Moon

THE GARDEN OF EATEN

Everything eats something
and is in turn by something eaten.

Fish eats snail,
bird eats fish.

So where's fair?

What makes this death okay,
that death not?

Seems mostly the Rule-Makers exclaiming
eating is fine, being eaten ain't.

As long as they're the eaters.

History written by winners
while the vanquished dead rot.

The do as I play say
from eater to eaten.

So, what's for dinner?

 Reality's Piano

SHADOW SHALLOW

I fight rhyme
in climb for stars
so far as I am able
in this unstable mime
of time and space
in place of other
under nights gone
to long day's decay
in way and why

why lie?

I rise from sleep refreshed
and unmesh shadow
of shallow new to study old
in mold of morrow
sorrow the price we pay
to stray upon its
summit

sticky wicket

I bubble broil as troubled toil
roils rest
to best this earthly route
with shout of mirth to make rebirth
worth the walk about

in and out

Angry Bird

THE POETRY THIEVES OF BARCELONA

In Bezier train station waiting for Barcelona
an Arab showed me a xerox
of his 2 children who were hungry.

Not believing
I gave him a couple Francs anyway
because it was cheap
and better to be taken
than too hard of heart.

Hour later I watched him
hand the xerox to another man
who eventually showed me his starving kids.

It was their job.

Punch in
show folk fake hunger for a shift
punch out.

Professional liars.

Just like the young men
walking the Moroccan beach
with trays of cookies
all handmade by their mother named Fatimah.

Half-dozen young men
same time same tray same cookies
handmade by same Fatima
who must have had one big rumpled bed
and a heck of a kitchen.

I wrote their act in a small notebook
I carried in my back pocket for poetry.

Down the line
boarding Barcelona subway
man bumped me sideways
as door tried to close
between my back and pack
hitting and retracting
with each bump
he pushing me back into the door
in counter bounce
while he looked up to read the route
which must have been wrong
because he left.

Watching him and his friend walk away
I flashed "Pickpocket"
felt my empty back pocket
and laughed.

My money was in my front pocket
so he'd taken my poetry notebook instead.

Perhaps not a total loss for them
since my notes on the Bezier station scam
might give them some new wrongs.

I wonder what they thought of my poems.

 The Red and Black

BAD BLUES BOY

Hello Big Fingers Brown, I'm Blind Money Davis
heard you been singing some blues
about how I spouted a shout-out at Buddy's
before I done paid enough dues

Well Daddy No Know your psych slip's been showing
like Stinky Eye Thompkin’s down patch
that dude do showed you harmonica blowing
his wife helped you scratching that itch   

There’s blues in the brambles
Blues in the byway
Blues in the city too
Strange ramble and amble and gambling damsel
I do pay my dues when I do

Well you didn't do well with Boney Foot Hopkins
nor Lippy Jeff Bailey back home
guess for Foot there simply weren't enough napkins
and Bailey you did in alone

Was I you I'd be watching my waywords my friend
best remember Washboard Blue Jim
he couldn't remember his own chord in the end
and his chance of recovery's slim

Oh there’s blues in the bramble
Blues in the byway
Blues in the city too
Though gamble and amble and rambling damsel
I do pay my dues when I do

I beat Sleepy Paul Skinny with fret board phrasing
played better than Big Yella When
I certainly handle harmonic stage phrasing
way cooler than 3-Finger Lem

So back off a bit, you bitter bad blues boy
before we're set up for a tiff
I'm not trying or lying here just to be coy
just hoping to soften sad if

For there’s blues in the bramble
Blues in the byway
Blues in the city too
Though amble and gamble and rambling damsel
I do pay my dues when I do


(For music/mix/recording by Peter Ball and word&voice by Smith, 2014, go to www.reverbnation.com/mutantsmith/song/19774911-bad-blues-boy/.)

 X-ray Green

Today’s LittleNip:

HOLY WATER
—Smith

As I lie reading
Tao Te Ching drops in bathtub
I soak in Tao juice

_____________________

Many thanks to Smith (Steven B. Smith) for today’s mighty fine poems and pix! Steven has a new book out from Crisis Chronicles Press entitled, Where Never Was Already Is, which includes 244 poems—all of which have been posted in Medusa’s Kitchen. The book is 324 pages long, a big book at 6”X9”, and at $15, that’s 6¢ per poem, with 29 collages tossed in for free! Available now at ccpress.blogspot.com/2018/04/098Smith.html/. Get ‘em while they last!

Tonight at 6pm, the third of Sac. Poetry Center’s NaPoWriMo generative workshops takes place at 25th & R Sts., Sacramento. Also this evening in Davis, The Other Voice Poetry Series will be all open-mic, a fundraising event for the Interfaith Rotating Winter Shelter of Davis, and will also include a book sale. That’s at the Unitarian Universalist Church of Davis library on Patwin Road. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa

Smith and his new book

 Celebrate poetry—and new books!

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

Not Even the Bear

 Yellow!

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
 

SPRING STEPS

breeze through the meadow
silent birdbone whistle sings—
drums calling the steps

lightfoot the creekside
willow all yellow pollen’d 
dancing with a bee

grasses sway and nod
but nothing casts a shadow
not even the bear

wild cherry dances
around tepee replicas
recalling old songs

ancestral voices
dancing to the drum

POETRY

After all the questions: What kind
of intelligence is a poem? and answers:
Outside of logic. Sensory, so the body
responds, we stand up to go,

blink at August sun outside.
A raven calls from somewhere close.
Cathedral pine and cedar
vaulting on every side—a turn of image.

I don’t know raven language
but this bird is talking
to us, maybe offering impromptu
verse in Corvid.

You just have to guess
at translation, when the great black song-
bird utters one last word, rises
and puts our flights of fancy to shame.

YELLOW!

Yellow on an overcast spring morning
on a cutbank of tarnished silver-green stone
blazing yellow
how many nameless flower species
all yellow
the same ringing tone of yellow
monkeyflower
daisy with drooping petal tips
and central pompon
and is this a daisy with petals reaching
for sun? all yellow
and one bunch of poppies just opening
yellow
and these three-petal puffy little buttons
you call hens and chicks and
yes they’re yellow
all yellow
and one dandelion in midst of cutbank rock
shouting out of dull gray greenstone
shouting out to a cloudy gray morning
lost in the joy of Yellow!

OUT THE FRONT DOOR

Rush of dogs released to Spring—
flush of turkey fantail spread for flight—

from unmown grasses high into blue oak
overhanging our drive. There

he stays—dogs shut back in the house.
Does he dare come down again?

Must I call the firemen
to rescue wild turkey out of a tree?

In his own good time he
returns to earth when no one’s looking.

DEAD WEIGHT OF STARS

One in the morning,
awake in my mummy bag. My knee
aches from the hike, from years
of granite steps; from carrying a load.

Silent breeze through lodgepole,
shiver of aspen. Lake-water laps its shore.

In the aspen’s house, I felt angels—
the kind who guard our prints in dust,
measuring our miles. My load no lighter
but for breeze quivering aspen.

Stars cold as granite-lode
struck with light. One in the morning.
Silent voices of dead friends
like lake water lapping the shore,

not kind but wordless
with sudden joy.

DIVINING

Forward and back the dowser crosses,
re-crosses our grassy hilltop—from boulder-
heap of brown-gray rocks to gravel drive;
marching his bent coat-hangers like a researcher
scanning a slide for the telltale virus.
Our backed-up toilets. Where is the septic
tank under all this green? Is a divining
rod really to believe? Above it all, Scrub Jay
shrieks with laughter, then takes off
dipping in flight like a blue banner of spring
in sky joy. 

ALIVE IN THE SAP

The old walnut tree rises
from green of this spring’s leaves.
Green against scaly gray trunk.
He trumpets. He’s rooted here but rises
on the power of his thighs. Grafted
so long ago, the upper torso
dead above its stump. What did
Rilke say? This is a snag
for nesting birds.

The old dragon guards
his treasure, earth secret among
stone. Nested fledglings
sing their songs and fly away.
Listen, rumblings of his throat—
he trumpets. Those green
leaves springing from his limbs,
can’t you see they’re wings,
flames of change?

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

A flash of lightning:
Into the gloom
Goes the heron's cry.

—Matsuo Bashō

___________________

Thanks to Taylor Graham today for her joyful poems and photos, celebrating Joy and Yellow and Spring in general!

There’s another workshop coming up in our area, this one from writer Steve Almond this coming Monday at Sac. Poetry Center, 6-9pm, after his reading from 5-6pm. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this $95 opportunity.

Today’s poetry readings in our area begin at noon, with Third Thursdays at the Central Library on I St. in Sacramento. This evening will be the Los Escritores’ Spanish Poetry Reading at Sac. Poetry Center in Sacramento, 7pm. Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento, 8pm tonight, features Stan Padilla and Juan Manuel Carrillo plus open mic. And in Davis, also at 8pm, Dana Koster and Stella Beratlis will read (plus open mic) at John Natsoulas Gallery on 1st Street. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa
 

Celebrate Poetry!

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

Must Be A Dream...

Daffodils 
—Poems and Photos by Vicki Carroll, Sacramento, CA

 

THREE SPRING POEMS

1

A hint of fragrance
draws one closer—
to find a deep glandular odor
sweet, light and warm…
as if a heartbeat resides within.


2

Oh daffodils, I love you!
     your bright sassy color
     your formal tea party look
     your light clean fragrance
Enjoyment that lasts only a month!


3

Sun shining
cerulean sky.
Myriads of birds
plentiful water
abundant greenery.
Squawks, honks, tweets
float through the air—
it’s spring at North Laguna Creek.

North Laguna Creek

MUST BE A DREAM

An urgent voice startles me, “She is coming—She’s here!” I look around, seeing nobody. An unknown lady stands near the foot of the bed, peers between my legs. I think, “What is going on; I cannot have a baby—I was not pregnant…” I think, “Can’t happen—no equipment”. I am alone. I reach down and grab a tube that is between my legs…pulling it up to me. I see a perfectly formed tiny grown young woman. She is covered in a clear jelly-like substance. I hold her close, notice her beautiful thick long brown eyelashes, her stylish long flax colored hair. A small steepled gold tiara, centered with a ruby is perched on her head. I think, “Is she dead”? Her eyelids flutter, then open and she is talking in a language I do not understand. She is ok—
I put her back between my legs, go back to sleep.

                   I like to look close

                   hear the quiet voice of truth

                   in shadows of doubt

THE GENERATIONS

I’m a fifties girl
raised by a thirties southern lady.
My mother taught me, “to act like a lady”
     at all times.
As her mother taught her.

     Sit up straight
     Keep your legs crossed
     Say your prayers at meals and bedtime
     Make your bed every morning
           (corners pulled tight and tucked diagonally)
     No using curse words
     No smoking in public

My daughter is a ninety’s girl
raised by a Cali woman—
I wonder what she thinks
I taught her.

 Generations

A VISIT WITH FRIENDS

Hello my little pretties,
     how are you this fine morning?

Come have some treats,
     sit with me…

I will feed you.
Tell you stories
     of olden days.

Days when I was a beauty,
     fresh as dew on the grass.

Happy and silly,
always willing to take
a chance.

Oh, the chances I took—
reckless and free…

You’d never know it now
by the looks of me.

 Friends

WHY WORRY

                           there will be many versions of you…
don’t get too immersed in your current self.

Whatever your situation in this moment—
a moment is a bubble…
     no place to go          just be.

Be what?
That is the beauty!

Decide what is the beauty—
whatever your beauty
     follow your path…

one step
two step
     and on and on…

 North Laguna Creek

Today’s LittleNip:

Poetry is life distilled.

—Gwendolyn Brooks

_____________________

Our thanks to new SnakePal Vicki Carroll for today’s fine poems and pix! She is a Sacramento native who enjoys writing and reading poetry. Vicki belongs to the Thursday night workshop at Valley High/North Laguna Library and the monthly workshop in Davis. She says she has grown quite a bit since joining the group last February and looks forward to writing and sharing poetry. She writes, “As you can imagine, I am so excited to share my poetry in Medusa’s Kitchen. A special thanks to James Lee Jobe for the encouragement and Kathy Kieth for publishing my poems!” Welcome to the Kitchen, Vicki, and don’t be a stranger!

Want to be a SnakePal? Send poems, pix, artwork—all that good stuff—to Medusa’s Kitchen, care of kathykieth@hotmail.com/. Don’t be a stranger!—the snakes of Medusa are always hungry.

As National Poetry Month continues, Cynthia Linville and Tim Kahl will be reading this afternoon, 3pm, at CSUS in the Special Collections Room of the Library. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa

 Vicki Carroll
Celebrate poetry!

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

Love , Loss & Lollipop Trees

Anticipation

—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

ORCHARD       
(After Tree Rhythm by Paul Klee)

lollipop trees dot the landscape
a child’s depiction
dimensionless with simplicity
the far ones           the same size
as the ones in the foreground
round-topped     with trunks
straight as arms and legs of
stick-figure people going
tilt…     tilt…
over rolling ground-lines
no birds     no sky
this orchard is too abstract
has no relative significance
to the logic of
the mind’s perspective
is simply     there
plunk…   plunk…
artless     but somehow art
each round tree
leaning at a slightly
different angle
about to fall     or dance
strut…   strut…
to a child’s horizon
happy as candy

________________

HAPPY

The way everything changes color
when you look at it again, like shades
of turning light on the second day of spring,

like old moods gone crazy, becoming
new moods : a boy holds a colored scarf
in his mind, it flickers orange, then blue.

His small dog dances on hind legs;
rain patters around them
and bounces off his green umbrella.

Under his feet a small lake forms;
his shiny yellow boots
stand upside down in the water

and he is happy.  A mauve shadow
passes over and becomes a menace.
The boy is stuck in his puddle

and the small dog is barking.
The boy holds a purple world over his head
and looks for an opening in it.

His face is turned away to his new divining.
Somehow the day contains all this on a
single page; it flutters loose

then turns into a small paper boat that drifts away…
like the wish… like the dream… 
like the play come true in the small boy’s mind.

 April, Of Course

THEY WHO LOVE RISK JOY OR LOSS

They
tamper with spring
as if they were blessed, as if they were
the darlings of fate, perfected by each other in their passion.

Who
would persuade them
otherwise, they who are so willing
to forfeit their good senses to the gods of such sweet miracle?

Love—
their newest pain:
the mad scent of flowers on the air,
the sky’s dear birds trilling, their blissful first awareness when they would

risk
everything if
only they can have each other—this
power to transcend—too perfect to endure—this sensation of

joy
in its brief surge
of ecstasy.  And then to lose it
to the inevitabilities of time with its sabotage—

or—
how else explain
the change of heart that one will have for
the other—love’s own fickleness—that earliest of rejections?

Loss,
alas, is loss,
forever to retell
in bittersweet nostalgia—to feel again the heart’s first breaking.

 Blue Desire

THE SOUL AS CAGED BIRD

The soul is a caged bird.

Let’s say this is so.
And you want the bird to sing

and be joyous in the cage.
And you want to own this bird
and praise it—over and over—

for its singing. But
it will not always sing.
Sometimes it will claim its
own silence as a separate power.

_________________

YOU ASK WHAT SONG

This is the song. I will sing it.
Bright. Like a bird.

Morning, I will sing.
Morning and sunlight, I will sing.
New day! New day!
I will sing.
Happy, happy, happy . . .
like a silly mockingbird.

And you will call me Mad-Woman
and I will stop singing.


(first pub. in Acorn, 1995)

 

 

 Blue Reflective

A MOURN FOR MUSIC TOO BEAUTIFUL
TO HEAR

It is the music—
torn shreds of it,
its fragments
remembering back into whole pieces;

or maybe it is the lack of it,      
the wish for music
as perfect
as that . . .

indifferent music, joyous for itself,
forgetting its composer,
its poorest listener,
filling other ears with perfection,

destruction, its cost for the envy:
the torn joy
of listening—
for the ache of it,

emotions
too
small
to hold it,

so, free it,
tear its pages and
mingle them into something larger—
a cacophony to fit the tears.  

 Rebellion

THE ILLUSION OF DEATH

This is a time of place; we slip through hours and shadows
of ourselves like out-dated guests.

We are enormous in the light of vast windows
that repeat our reflections as we scan the distances.

Birds with bent wings soar in our direction.
They are slow and deliberate. Their beaks shine.

But this is a place of time. We turn back to the rooms
we occupy. We look at each other then look away.

We go to the cages and enter. Sleep receives us. We are
in vast dream worlds, flying into windows of black glass.

Our wingtips shudder as we brace for the illusion of death.
In the morning we rise into sunlight, shining and happy.

________________

NOSTALGIA IS A BITTER JOY

Nostalgia is
a bitter joy.

Returning
is a price to pay.

O then!  O then!  O then!
we reminisce

and poke around
the entered mood

for
souvenirs.

 Composure

AFTERTHOUGHTS

We’re humble.
        We are humble.
Born pure.
        With eyes for mirrors.
Born strange.
        Seeing in and out.
Into bliss and joy.
        We are sinless.
Light describes us.
        Nothing touches us.
Dark threatens us.
        We are invisible.
Our shadows are one.
        Shadows outline us.
We melt into one.
        We are landscape.
The moon absorbs us.
        We are sky.
Our form is our own.
        We are deep as mountains.
Incomprehensible.
        We are pure thought.
We are the seas.
        Our hearts hold all love.
We breathe, we breathe.
        We have messages.
Our minds form words.
        Hear us, hear us.
We are only what you are.
        If only you knew.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

HOW THERE IS JOY
—Joyce Odam

               “Religion has touched your throat.”
                                         —William Stafford

Spring now,
a bird interviews the morning :

an ordinary exchange, full of religion,
telling me,     telling me,

how there is joy in its little life.
I listen to its hymn.

__________________

Our thanks to Joyce Odam this morning as she speaks of joy and longing in response to our Seed of the Week: Lost in Joy. Our new Seed of the Week is Quicksand. Don’t get stuck in literal quicksand here; you’re poets, after all, so work those metaphors! Send your poems, photos & artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from.

—Medusa

 —Anonymous

Jumping for Joy(ce)!
(Celebrate poetry!)

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