Smiling in Buttercups

 

 

—Poetry by Sue Crisp, Joseph Nolan, Michael Ceraolo, 

Caschwa (Carl Schwartz)

—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA 

 

SURVIVAL
—Sue Crisp, Shingle Springs, CA

Peace and tranquility
can be as fleeting as a
white dove in flight at
the shadow of a Hawk
from above.

sky shadow on ground
wings of white flare upward bound
talons miss their mark

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo, Medusa’s Kitchen's
Seed of the Week (2/15-21/2021), "Peace"

 

DUCK, FLOATING SMOOTHLY
 —Joseph Nolan

I’m just floating smoothly
Atop the water’s sheen
Like a duck
Whose webbed-feet
Blow idle-minded wishes
Into underneath,
Where green weeds grow.
 
As I swim
Across this lake
Water will record
My tiny wake
That time
Will soon forsake
And smoothness,
Soon retake.  

 

 

 

 

 

THE HONEST ACCOUNTANT
—Joseph Nolan

There was an honest accountant
Who could never find any work.
Everyone wanted to lie and cheat
To keep all they could
From the government.
No amount of money
Was too small
Over which to defraud:

“It all adds up, you know,
And you must grab
For all that you can!
Did you see our noble Governor
Eating the best at French Laundry?
And he did it all mask-less,
As though he had no shame!
One of two things
Must be true:
Either our taxes were being wasted
Or the people were being screwed,
Since it was just bribery
If the rich-guys were paying the bill.
Our taxes just go
To pay for this shit
And they always will,”
Said the client.

 

 

 

 

 

THE DISAPPEARING MAN
—Joseph Nolan

He learned that he was nothing
When he disappeared.
His friends, too, all gone far away.
The business patrons he used to see
Come, not, anymore.
Even Tule fog
That used to fill his Valley
In the winter
Finds things, now, too warm
To hang around.

It’s been hard
Watching things shut down.
There’s no place left to go.
The world’s all full of fear. 

 

 

 

 

 

THE SLAUGHTER OF THE BUFFALO
—Joseph Nolan

I slaughtered a thousand buffalo
Shooting from passing trains,
Leaving them rotting
In August sunshine,
On Indian Country’s plains.

I never felt
Any regret
For starving the Indians out,
Since I was one of the White Men,
Manifest Destiny was all about.

What we wanted
That’s theirs,
We took it.

Whatever was theirs,
We broke it.
 
That’s the way it goes
When you swallow
A continent, whole,
From shore to shining shore

And have to disperse
All those who would curse
Your national,
Crushing reverse. 

  

 

Our sympathies to the residents of Texas for 

the weather problems and shortages they're

suffering from right now.

 

 

 

UPON THE EARTH FOR BUT A DAY
—Joseph Nolan

I, who smile
In buttercups,
Across a brilliant
Landscape,
Framed in gold
And green,
Upon the hills,

Beckon any traveler
To brush against
Bright florid bushes
In the heat of
Summer’s day

And let
Come what may,
Upon his weary travels,
As though
He could only
Stay one day,
Upon the Earth,

So his sacred duty
Was to live that solo day
For all that it was worth!

 

 

 

 

TWO POEMS FROM DUGOUT ANTHOLOGY
A Poetry Collection by Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH

Ring Lardner

You know me as the author of stories,
many of them about baseball
A popular game that I never wrote about
is trying to figure out real-life models for fictional characters,
so I want to clear this up once and for all:
Jack Keefe was not based on any one player
Though such a thing is frowned upon now,
I was friendly with a few ballplayers I covered:
Doc White and I wrote a few songs together,
and I considered Eddie Cicotte a friend,
which made the events of 1919 hard to swallow
I was already moving away from baseball
when The Great Betrayal occurred,
so it wasn't a sudden disillusionment
but more the final straw that broke my fandom

* * *

Guy Harris White

I was a dentist,
so like anyone with any medical training
I was called Doc
I am proud of my five straight shutouts,
but glad I lived long enough to see Mr. Drysdale beat it
And I thought Ring's and my Gee, It's a Wonderful Game
was better than Von Tilzer and Norworth's work,
but they had a catchier chorus so they've lasted longer
I think there's room enough for both our songs

 

 

 

 

 

THEY MARCH TO THE CONUNDRUM
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

the drunken driver
who had no license
no insurance
no permission from
the owner’s son to
drive his pickup truck

had already failed the test,
seen and dismissed all
helpful signs that displayed
rules of the road

had already disavowed
role models
exemplary drivers
good driver discounts
any and all efforts to
reach and teach drivers
who appeared to be at risk

that was the kind of fellow who
didn’t slow when traffic slowed
and careened into my family car,
then rolled the truck over several
times, ending upside down on a
frontage road beside an orchard

the police collared him and the
owner’s son when they sought
medical treatment for their injuries,
but the driver still presented
nothing to work with when it came
to rehabilitative plans: he is and
will always be a scorpion, armed
and ready to sting any learning
curve that dares to confront him

 

 

 

 

 

DEXTER
—Caschwa

headliner appears
resonating reed sings out
erases our fears

behind the dark curtains
sit music cases battered by
rough modes of travel, holding

empty candy wrappers because
blacks weren’t allowed to step
inside and sit at the counter

but we invited their music into
the deepest chambers of our
hearts, held it there, locked it up

we etched grooves on black, vinyl
disks, poured a drink, lit a smoke
hugged each other and danced

all hours through the night with
no limits as long as there were
coins in our pockets, and music 

 

 

 

 

ONE WISH
—Caschwa

was walking along the shore
bare feet in water at low tide
and suddenly a lamp bumps
into my ankles

couldn’t resist, I rubbed the
neck of the lamp and out
springs this smiling genie
who offers me the world

          you get one wish, so
          be very careful what
          words you choose

and so I stood there frozen in
time thinking about my wish

I pondered asking for world peace,
but feared the outcome might be
a most peaceful cemetery, made
that way because everyone in the

whole world is now dead; former
lively places are ghost towns
where all people have returned
to ashes and dust

on second thought, I opted to tone
it down and wish for something else,
and then I thought of it, and blurted
out: I want a stud finder!

____________________________

Today’s LittleNip:

REAL PEACE
—Caschwa

you may be lucky to experience
love at first sight
but you will never taste real peace on the
very first bite

it’s one of those existential things to
grow day and night
were you paying close attention? if not
go fly a kite

_____________________________

Many thanks to today’s contributors for starting off the last week of February! I’m still pleased to remember the work of last Saturday’s poets from Jefferson City, MO—but am very sorry to say that I misspelled Cory Adamson’s first name. It’s Cory, not Corey. My apologies, Cory—as someone whose last name is so often misspelled (as Keith when it should be Kieth), I do know the annoyance of such things.

San Francisco’s Dancing Poetry Contest is open for submissions until April 15. Three Grand Prize winners’ poems will be danced by the Poetic Dance Theater Company, either on Zoom or in the SF Palace of the Legion of Honor in the Fall of 2021. See www.dancingpoetry.com for info.

Tonight at 7:30pm, Sac. Poetry Center’s Socially Distant Verse presents a night of three emerging Latina Voices: Angelica Flores, Maria Padilla, Laura Serratos, hosted by Diana Medina on Zoom at us04web.zoom.us/j/7638733462/. Join Zoom at 7:15 pm, reading starts at 7:30 pm; Password: spcsdv2020/. Facebook info: www.facebook.com/events/205284214686412/.

Your best source for Sac. Poetry Center info these days is www.facebook.com/sacpoetrycenter/. The website is permanently closed.

If the weather and other conditions permit, this weekend, Weds.-Sun. (Feb. 24-28), Public Poetry in Houston, TX (www.facebook.com/PublicPoetryUSA) presents REELpoetry, a 5-day online international festival of poetry films and video poems. See www.publicpoetry.net/?fbclid=IwAR3nxqxz7y4lZmibDtsIX69BmzDo3CWkIOcRAw_ukVvuHPMcpB-l6joe_j8 for info and to reg. Tix: Give what you can. Schedule and details: www.publicpoetry.net/?fbclid=IwAR3nxqxz7y4lZmibDtsIX69BmzDo3CWkIOcRAw_ukVvuHPMcpB-l6joe_j8#SE/.

_______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Politics

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

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

 

 

 

Chemistry

 

 

Sarcodes sanguinea (Snow Heart)

—Pubic Domain Photos

—Poetry by Jeanine Stevens, Sacramento, CA

FIRST LOVE

From kissing you, I learn chemistry,
a mix of cocktail sauce and lemon.
We eat jumbo shrimp, walk the pier,
never tire of Slaughter on 10th Avenue.
A summer of Pacific sun, baby oil,
salt spray and the bright green sea.
I didn’t know the “Winter Formal”
would be our last time,
and Blue Tango our last dance.
I didn’t know I would find
the same salt and sweet sweat with another.
We only thought about hunting
grunion in a stark black night, the only
light—a cigarette red across the bay.


(prev. pub. in Poetic Matrix, 2010)

 

 

 

 

SNOW HEART

                                            Wet, fleshy
sarcodes sanguinea, raw red neon, oblong
protrusion’s bulging seeds.

Short appearance in early spring in shade, in snow,
behind the shed. Some years, I’m too busy to notice
    
by summer, just brown stalk, stubble and husk.

Do I notice the simpler things?—
he folds laundry, picks up wine,
                       breaks up sod for my winter garden.
    
Next March, I will look again
for this breathing heart lit from within:
    
            volcanic, tropical, pushing patches
of crystal ice,
            a refresher course in love.
 
                        April, Lake Tahoe


(prev. pub. in Lucky Jefferson, 2019)

__________________

—Medusa, with many thanks to Jeanine Stevens for a taste of love and flowers today!

Today (2/21) at 3pm, Lincoln Poets will hold a Zoom Open Mic at us02web.zoom.us/j/6582994597  (Meeting ID: 658 299 4597; Passcode: U2zbk1/.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

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

 

 

 

Apricot Blossoms!

 

—Public Domain Photos 

—Poems by Maik Strosahl, Bob Boldt, Cory Adamson, 

Kimberly Bolton, Blake Adamson, Michael H. Brownstein

—all from Jefferson City, MO

ASHTAPADA
—Maik Strosahl

Gautama would not play
the eight by eight,
nor his disciples,
forbidden
even the boards of their minds—
ashtapada played on the sky—
moving through castles
haunted by Buddhist ghosts
not sure where they will be reborn.

But the Rajah
glides across the battlefield
with his ship, a horse, an elephant,
foot soldiers sacrificed
by the cast of the die,
rules of engagement fluid
as the fields became checkered,
royalty replacing the Hindus,
Christians pushing across the land—

a dark bishop
rising from the left and countered,
the knight advancing in evening hours,
moonlight to F3.

 

 

 

SLEEP, MAMA, SLEEP
—Maik Strosahl

She made me promise—
said if I really loved her,
I would spare her
the lonely shadows
that swallow the mind,
sweeping the halls clean
long before the current tenant
has had a chance
to pack up and move on.

It was my weakness
in honoring her wishes
that let her
lose the grandchildren,
her daughter’s face,
even the last good years
of her husband.
She still found me
familiar enough at least
to help her bathe,
pick out her dresses,
brush her hair.

I wonder,
as she now lies so peaceful,
if her last thoughts
were of polyester fluff
and betrayal,
or were they exhaled
with a sigh of relief
unknown to the hands
that fought me
for one more breath.

 

 

 

 

 

HER FIRST CRO-MAGNON
—Bob Boldt

I never forgot the day I first saw him,
sinew and muscle stretched thin over bone,
like the rabbit’s shank, and a long shank it was.

Black against the squinting sky, he was looking
down into me. A curved stick in his hand,
he moved like a deer, leaping among the rocks, 
stalking in the trees along Snow Bear Lake.
I ran back to tell my kin.
I tried to show them how he leapt,
but I couldn’t.

Later they came upon us. They were as beautiful
as their weapons, except their eyes—
cold and mad,
not like any animal’s eyes we had seen.

All this was many suns ago—
many hunts and many deaths.
Yet, I remember that day I first saw him,
dark and thin, stretched against the rising sun. 

 

 

 

Lucky Money in Yellow Apricot Tree

Vietnam, Tet Lunar Festival 

 

 

 

HER NAME MEANS APRICOT BLOSSOM
—Bob Boldt

Hong Hanh stops to rest
on the road to Ho Chi Minh City
Through the heavy afternoon air,
she carries her son—
a legless, armless trunk of a boy—
in an improvised backpack.

The war is nearly forgotten now.
What is its memory
next to tired feet,
choking dust,
the weight of her beloved burden?

Robed monks pass in silence.
She drops a coin in their bowl.

The gods are now as remote from her
as the men who mixed the poisons—
who killed the crops, made the animals sick,
birthed all the misshapen children.

Slowly she rises to complaining joints.
If she makes her cousin’s before nightfall
There will be rice and a warm place to sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

UNCLE JUAN
—Cory Adamson
 
Couldn’t keep his hands
off that one type of woman.
Gave his nephew a whole
colony of aunts. Revolution
was inevitable, and copper-
headed Juan was overthrown.
Next month will be lined
with skeleton hand trees.
A sharp, snowy beard calls
him “Blowfish” but forgets
how Juan played the trumpet
with ballooned cheeks, riding
the pendulum between brassy
classics and sexy low notes.
Auntie umpteen brags about
her Diamond district broach
before Pentecostal war cries
conquer the lectern. Applause
is like a teenage kiss. Inapt
quotations and greeting-card
goodbyes do not put bullets
back in the chamber. A conga
line that could link Hong Kong
to Spanish Harlem files past.
He’s still ruddy-faced after
the blood loss. We bury
Uncle Juan with his scarlet
tie and a rose in his lapel.
Long day? Sleep under
a winter blanket and you shall
fear no evil. There are two
cardinals in the snow. Proof
God knows how to paint.

 

 

 

 

 

CLAIMS OF CLAUSTROPHOBIA
—Cory Adamson

Always a gravel rough embrace preceding suffocation.
            “But what if I need something?”
Leading, leading, leading to that underwater cave.
            “Because I have a problem, Honey.”
The one you squeeze through. More mole rat than monk fish.
            “You remember how you just couldn’t part with your toys?”
Squeeze between two rough rocks spaced like molars.
            “I could never do that.”
Not through the hole. not down into the water I’ve heard you say.
            “You know how excited I get when I find something.”
Charming, Southern belle life with a wide yard and scenes from
a Grecian urn and the Hallmark Channel.
Hello. I see you’re down here already.

 

 

 

 

 

THE NEIGHBORHOOD
—Kimberly Bolton
             (After Billy Collins)
 
A child’s face peers out the window,
Tiny nose mashed against the pane of glass
In the house across the street.
Then she quickly turns her head,
As something or someone inside has drawn her attention.
Maybe an older sibling insisting she come play,
Or her mother, stirring up cake batter in the kitchen, perhaps,
Offering the spoon to lick.
 
A few doors down, two roofers are atop
The two-story Victorian brick
Tearing away the old roof tiles and
Flinging them onto a pile on the ground below,
Preparing it for the new roof it deserves.
Ever since moving into this neighborhood,
I’ve been dying to meet the woman who lives in that house,
Just so I could get a peek inside.
 
Around the block, in the church of the Immaculate Conception,
The young Virgin, dressed in blue and trimmed in gold-leaf,
Holds out her arms in complete supplication and acceptance
Of what is to come to her,
Eyes uplifted in serene docility to the heavens.
 
Now, the church bells toll the hour.
Deep bell tones echo on the still air,
And I am sitting here next to my window,
Spiral notebook on my lap, fingers curled around my pen,
And a poem comes to me.
A poem comes to me.

 

 

 

 

 

SONG OF MY ANCESTORS
—Kimberly Bolton
           (After Nikki Giovanni  and Walt Whitman)
 
If ever there were leaves of grass,
It was those female ancestors of mine,
Who planted and plowed and sowed their roots
In this land,
And bringing forth grandmothers, mothers, and daughters,
Exactly like themselves.
 
If ever there was a song of myself,
It came from the souls of these women,
Who survived and thrived in hard times,
And worse times.
Who felt beaten down on occasion by a lack
Of palatable comfort in their lives,
Who pulled themselves up by their bootstraps,
With a genetically inherited resiliency
That has made its mark on my own life.
They got on with it,
Because it was all they could do.
 
These were women who traversed the Nile Valley
Every Sunday morning on their way to church,
To thank a beneficent God for all that they had,
Which was little enough.
 
In their own way and in their own time,
They became a part of the hills and the land
Surrounding them.
Like a piecework quilt, they patched together
The intimate pieces of their lives,
Threaded through with a hard history
That would have browbeat them into submission,
If they had allowed it.
It was a quilt held together by tears and laughter
And work-worn hands that never stopped moving
Because of the work to be done.
 
They only needed the sunshine,
And a bit of rain now and then,
Along with a little luck on their side,
To see them through to the next day.
 
 
Note: The Nile Valley is what the folk of Cotton, homeplace of my ancestors, called the little rutted road at the base of a large hill which they followed, either on foot, on horseback, or by wagon each Sunday morning on their way to church.

 

 

 

 

 

BY OPHELIA
—Blake Adamson

Forget-me-nots in my heart
For you, I grew them special
Gardenia for your hibiscus
For your Edelweiss I brought fennel
And your Geranium is art

An iris of spring crocus
Of Coriander and clematis
But where’s your white chrysanthemum?
You bring me Lavenders clenched in a fist
And is this Purple Hyacinth us?

A hyssop you made my father
A marigold you gave my mind
This flower in my heart
Was it a Columbine?
For that, I’ll be a lotus on the water

 

 

 

Fabric

 

 

 THE UNEVEN LINE
—Blake Adamson

It’s only gone when you notice
Like the stop of a breeze
Where did it go?
How’d it go?
Why?
Is it back?
Where is it?
Will I find it again?
Can I even find it again?
I can see it, nearly taste it, but…
The feeling’s back again
Roosting in my mind
Its nails are in me
Whispers fill me
Where is it?
Where?
I just can’t!
I can’t take it
I have to find it!
I need to find it right now!
Where did I leave it?
How did I lose it?
Why did I lose it?
Can I find it?
It was so long ago!
Words are getting harder?
Memories are fuzzier!
The feeling won’t leave!
It roosts in my mind!
Like an uneven line!

 

 

 

Spring Apricot Cocktail

 

 

THE LAUREL TREE
—Michael H. Brownstein

(Because Daphne Prayed to the Gods for Help When Apollo Wouldn’t Take No for an Answer)

This is how magic works against us—
how being in hell is not always necessarily a bad thing—
how the odor from the man sitting nearby decomposes oxygen—
how the feral cat bites the hand that feeds it—
how newspaper headlines promise to lie
and skin sickness spreads into leaves of hair—
sorrow bends tears into strings of bark—
a minute slaves into an hour, the lecturer going on and on,
an hour becoming a day, a day a week, the pen out of ink,
the pencil lead broken, a time to sleep, a time to stretch,
a heart stone, the grain in laminate, rings of tile,
the number of seats in one row, the moon, the sun,
the moon, the sun, the moon, the sun, the moon,
clouds, rain, snow, frost, the moon, the sun, the moon,
the sun and the man at the lectern still speaking
clears his throat finally, swallows an imaginary wind,
begins to sing—the sweat of swamp, the swamp of musk,
a triage of lips/tongue/throat: an eczema of wood.

 

 

 

 

 

FRIDAY MORNING
—Michael H. Brownstein
           (for Ryllis of St. Kitts)

Cum. E be clear fishin’ an day bright,
sun up strong breath an fresh light.
Me friend, paw paw an water nut for you.
Morn come a crowin’. Milky milky. Love vine. Bamboo.
E’ryting ripe breadfruit green, sugar cane tie togeder,
lime, palm leaf, a shadow of heather.
Silence de ocean an large birds of prey,
one by one de lamps tickle out across de bay.
E be time, me luv, time to waken,
time to prayin’, time to tellin’, time for bakin’.
Cum. E be clear start an day clear bright,
early o’clock strong breath an fresh light.

 

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

LOVE GAINED
—Michael H. Brownstein

The rhyme of heartbeats,
a mountain stream full of devotion,
rainbows and clear skies.

Then a simple kiss,
an avalanche of affection,
arcs of love on fire.

______________________

Our thanks to Michael H. Brownstein for this lovely post-Valentine’s gift: poetry from his colleagues in Jefferson City, MO! A whole gaggle of ‘em, each one a gem: Bob Boldt, Maik Strosahl, Cory Adamson, Kimberly Bolton, Blake Adamson, and Michael Brownstein himself. Some of these poets have been featured in the Kitchen; some are due to be in the future, hopefully. Thanks to all of you, and to Michael or curating this fine collection!

I chose apricot blossoms for today’s photos in hope of spreading some good cheer and pungent scents, and in reference to Bob Boldt’s painful poem, “Her Name Means Apricot Blossoms”. The season is almost upon us! I can smell the flowers already, hear the bees, see the pollen all over my car…

______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

For more about Ashtapada, go to 

allaboutfunandgames.com/the-ancient-game-of-ashtapada/.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

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

 

 

 

 

Latches in Love

 

—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

—And scroll down for Form Fiddlers’ Friday!

THE BOY WHO LOVES BLUE

hunts sapphire dragonflies along the creek
and searches for the turtle blue as sea.
He knows a string of stories, azure beads
be-speckled with the dust of every land;

so many fables, all of them quite true
in a young boy’s mind, vibrant as a week
of Saturdays. Holes in pockets, he reads
and memorizes, tries to understand

the lessons taught at school. But every text
denies that there’s a lamb with cobalt eyes
who dares to walk among the wildest beasts.
Yet this boy holds blue heaven in his hand,

adventuring the way that larkspur leads
and loving sky-blue wind upon his cheek. 

 

 

 

 

LOVERS IN ECLIPSE

When day went dark as night
it took our breath away
like love, the pulse at bay.
We stood in awe.

Eclipse. Realm of science
and myth and history,
poem and mystery.
We were the myth.

And when the Moon passed on
and Sun again shone bright—
relief? regret? Our sight
was each to each.

And subtly we are changed
though we can’t say just why.
Did you feel we could fly
in flame-crowned dark? 

 

 

 

 

DOUBLE MASKING

Of all these covered faces, gauge the eyes—
the worry-clouded; not quite crazy-bored;
and those preoccupied with countless why?s
as if unanswered questions massed a hoard
of gold. And that one gazing with surprise
at unknowns looming if one pulls the cord.
We never thought the masquerade could last
beyond a midnight ball already past. 

 

 

 

 

 

LATCHES IN LOVE

Housecat Latches is in love with the flitter of bird, skitter-dance for leavings on our icy deck—Dark-eyed Junco, White-crowned Sparrow— for seed kicked from the hanging feeder by Oak Titmouse, House Finch and, look! a woodpecker toenail-gripping the swinging feeder’s rim. Latches is in love, chitter-shiver of delight, unrequited love—sliding-glass door pulled tight between. In between, she sharpens her cupid-hunter claws and I consult my bird guide. What kind of woodpecker, ladder-back, could it be Nuttall’s? And now a Spotted Towhee, my favorite, and White-breasted Nuthatch, another fave. Latches and I in love with the image of bird we can’t achieve, its secrets—

life on frosty limbs,
getting along on frozen
ground—its flight, its song. 

 

 

 

 

 

FEBRUARY APPARITION

Sun strikes new winter grass, a jubilation
on earth, first day warm enough to walk
the hill in shirt-sleeves,
and I sense a presence—
young dog leaping a joy-dance, grabbing
a storm-fall branch lance-like, tatter
of lichen swinging from its tip—a banner.
Young dog stretching out in a long
bounding stride as if for take-off into sky
at long-last blue.
This is how I remember,
a shining day short of spring,
season of promises; a dog long gone
still joy-dancing, stretching to reach me
through the filament of time. 

 

 

 

 

 

2020, NO ROBINS

But this chill morn, past
dawn, a flurry of robins
for berries among
the thorn, berries that haven’t
plumped yet for lack of
rain. No robins last year, its
calendar torn. Birds
this dim morning sensing storm,
gorging on seed but
leaving the corn. Robins in
the field, and storming
the firethorn for its berries.
This gray dawn you’d call forlorn.
Red-breasts, red berries this morn. 

 

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

RYŪKA
—Taylor Graham

A woman in dishwater gray
on the overpass between storms
as sun broke through, touching her hair,
her dress, releasing its rainbows.

____________________

Good morning, and many thanks to Taylor Graham for lovely photos and poems, including some forms to keep us on our toes! We’re still hung over from St. Valentine’s Day, and love poems remind us to be kind to each other and try to bring some peace to our little corners of the world.

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 for awhile, there will be poems posted here from some of our readers using forms—either ones which were mentioned on 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 forms and get them posted in the Kitchen, by golly! (See Medusa’s Form Finder at the end of this post for links to definitions of the forms used this week. (From this point on, photos and illustrations are courtesy of public domain.)

Taylor’s forms today (see above) include a Bref Double (“The Boy Who Loves Blue”); an Abhanga (“Lovers in Eclipse”); an Ottava Rima (“Double Masking”); a Ryūka (“Ryūka”); a Choka (“2020, No Robins”); and a Haibun (“Latches in Love”). 

 

Joyce Odam has sent us a Cinquain today, a form which was “invented” by Adelaide Crapsey. For more about that, see www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/adelaide-crapsey/. And thank you, Joyce!


CINQUAIN FOR SAD LOVE SONGS
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

And love
is what we want
to know before we know
too much—and even then, we want
to love.

 

 

Adelaide Crapsey, 1878-1914

 

 

Claire Baker has sent us a Rubaiyat Chain, saying that it’s “after Omar Khayyam’s Quatrains. I thought it might work to string them together”:


YOSEMITE VALLEY RUBAIYATS
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

When sunrise brightens every snowy tree
and déjà vu adds ancient history,
we photograph a log’s design in frost,
envision our departure distantly.

We’re angels swishing arms in powdered snow,
creating wings in chiseled cameo.
Let’s stay forever, wrapped against the cold
within the Valley’s ivory gleam and glow…

On summer nights we watched the fire fall
in embers stark against a granite wall.
Still young and fit to climb each highest peak
one day we stood on Half Dome, proud and tall.

Snowflakes fleck our lashes, whiten hair.
May love like tree rings mark the year with care,
Back home we’d pity maples stripped of leaves,
But snow-heaped branches here are hardly bare.


(prev. pub. in Blue Unicorn, Fall 2020) 

 

 

 

Here are two Lunes from Carol Louise Moon this week:

 

 

 

 

TWO LUNES

—Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA

White Birds

icy ocean bath
Arctic Terns—
ten ice cubes bobbing

Musical

loud trumpeting call
Whooping Cranes
savannah concerts


(prev. pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine, 1996)

 

 

 

 

 

Here’s Carl Schwartz (Caschwa)’s buffet this week, starting with a Dansa:


REMOTE OUT OF CONTROL
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

we hid it far too well
completely out of sight
our senses then took flight
with no locator bell
we hid it far too well

neat sofa turned to blight
our nerves then got real tight
mere whisper became yell
we hid it far too well

we’ll never get this right
it’s sapping all our might
a storm we cannot quell
we hid it far too well 

 

 

 

 

Next, he brings us a bouquet of Bokettos:


PERSONIFIED
—Caschwa

old view: the clothes make the man
but now days, everybody
takes selfies focused on face
the clothes don’t show
expressions rule all

emotional state of mind
hate, anger, disgust, frenzy
get a grip

second impeachment trial
did top guy reach the bottom?
it looked like a prison riot
just a little
will set it off big

emotional state of mind
hate, anger, disgust, frenzy
get a grip

well-dressed lawyers trade praises,
barbs, slick tricks, insults, until
they pause, only to yield time
since they really
have no more to add

emotional state of mind
hate, anger, disgust, frenzy
get a grip

Civil War comes back anew
Reconstruction left its mark
the band aids have fallen off
same problem now
we didn’t fix it

emotional state of mind
hate, anger, disgust, frenzy
get a grip 

 

 

 

 

It’s almost time for the Trilliums to bloom; here are some Golden ones from Carl:


OPAQUE  (Golden Trillium Triads)
—Caschwa

Whistle

trained ears are ready
for the cue to pounce and prey
they are off the leash

Gambit

fingers do not touch
or move the King or the Queen
rather, it’s the pawns

Smug

same person who closed
the best pathway, now complains
we should have used it 

 

 

Golden Trilliums

 

Carl has written us a note about the following poem: “This Abhanga poem is about an eatery in downtown Los Angeles (right across the street from Union Station) called Philippe’s. When they were courting, my dad used to take my mom there for French Dip sandwiches, which then cost 10 cents each. Today they go for $9.25.”


LIMITS
—Caschwa

family favorite
Los Angeles diner
best French dip, no finer
everyone pleased

beware their horseradish!
hotter than most would dare
burns tongues and cheeks with flair
I say no thanks

some people just love it
use gobs and gobs no sweat
and when it’s gone they get
up and grab more

to keep my mouth intact
I choose much milder stuff
no dragon, I, with puff
of burning fire

 

 

 

 

Carl’s final poem today is an Acrostic, the answer to which is “they do arduous chores in the arctic circle”. See if you can figure out how he got that:


LIFE IS TOUGH
—Caschwa

they don’t care about library
due dates to return books,
are not particularly worried what
Jewish laws pertain to the cooking
chores at hand, they just relax
in little groups that meet at
the temple, sit beside the Torah
ark, and discuss what makes them
tick, while social distancing in a
circle

__________________

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

__________________

FIDDLERS’ CHALLENGE!  

See what you can make of this week’s poetry form, and send it to kathykieth@hotmail.com! (No deadline.) This week's challenge:

Amanda’s Pinch: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/amandas-pinch

__________________

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

•••Abhanga: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/abhanga
•••Acrostic: literarydevices.net/acrostic
•••Amanda’s Pinch: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/amandas-pinch
•••Boketto (“Listen to the Light”):
poeticbloomings2.wordpress.com2016/05/11/inform-poets-boketto
•••Bref Double: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/bref-double-poetic-form
•••Choka: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/choka OR poetscollective.org/poetryforms/choka
•••Cinquain: poets.org/glossary/cinquain OR www.poewar.com/poetry-in-forms-series-cinquain
•••Dansa: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/dansa-poetic-forms
•••Golden Trillium Triads: 3 stanzas of 3 lines each, 5-7-5; each could stand on its own as a short poem. Each has subtitle that refers to a different aspect of subject chosen, and has brief image suggested by title. Poem is unified by one-word titles.
•••Haibun: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form
•••Lune: www.masterclass.com/articles/how-to-write-lune-poetry#what-is-lune-poetry  OR
www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/poets/poetic-form-lune
•••Ottava Rima: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/ottava-rima-poetic-form
•••Quatrain: www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-a-quatrain-in-poetry-quatrain-definition-with-examples#quiz-0
•••Rubáiyát: www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/rubaiyat.htm
•••Ryūka: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryūka

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Snowing now in Saudi?? Well,
it’s a topsy-turvy world these days…
All the more to write about!
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy

 of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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