—Poetry by Kimberly Bolton, Jefferson City, MO
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
SHARING
The long enduring heat of summer has come,
bringing with it the voice of the river singing
its summer song as it winds its way down
from up north to while away the hours under
our very own blue Missouri sky;
To laze in the deep green shade of trees,
clotting both sides of the river’s sodden,
mud-mired shores.
If you stay long enough, as I do sometimes,
you’ll catch the light falling onto its silver-
backed surface, breaking up into spangles of light
that dance a jig, as if happy to be exactly
where they are at that particular moment.
Whatever else my life may be,
it is also this river with its clusters of light,
moved by the life beneath it,
and the trees bending their green ears close to
the water,
like old men hard of hearing and not wanting to
miss a thing said, to listen to whatever poetry
or song the river deems to share on any given day,
and that the trees, in their turn, take the time
to share with me.
The long enduring heat of summer has come,
bringing with it the voice of the river singing
its summer song as it winds its way down
from up north to while away the hours under
our very own blue Missouri sky;
To laze in the deep green shade of trees,
clotting both sides of the river’s sodden,
mud-mired shores.
If you stay long enough, as I do sometimes,
you’ll catch the light falling onto its silver-
backed surface, breaking up into spangles of light
that dance a jig, as if happy to be exactly
where they are at that particular moment.
Whatever else my life may be,
it is also this river with its clusters of light,
moved by the life beneath it,
and the trees bending their green ears close to
the water,
like old men hard of hearing and not wanting to
miss a thing said, to listen to whatever poetry
or song the river deems to share on any given day,
and that the trees, in their turn, take the time
to share with me.
A LAST SONG
After Joy Harjo
How can you stand these hot humid
Missouri summers? My relatives, who live
out past the Rockies ask, when they come for
a visit.
They are wilting in the heat.
This is the kind of summer I grew up with,
I tell them.
The kind of heat our own kin knew intimately
out in the fields, digging into the hardpan earth,
to make something out of nothing,
attuned to the songs of the crickets and cicadas
who thrive in this hot land.
And the subtler songs, too, of grasshoppers
swaying atop tall grass stems,
the chickens scratching in the dirt,
the wind kicking up dust out on the road,
and glasses of sweet tea beading with moisture
on the porch step.
From somewhere far off, fiddle strings sketch out
a song.
Missouri will be the last song I will ever sing.
After Joy Harjo
How can you stand these hot humid
Missouri summers? My relatives, who live
out past the Rockies ask, when they come for
a visit.
They are wilting in the heat.
This is the kind of summer I grew up with,
I tell them.
The kind of heat our own kin knew intimately
out in the fields, digging into the hardpan earth,
to make something out of nothing,
attuned to the songs of the crickets and cicadas
who thrive in this hot land.
And the subtler songs, too, of grasshoppers
swaying atop tall grass stems,
the chickens scratching in the dirt,
the wind kicking up dust out on the road,
and glasses of sweet tea beading with moisture
on the porch step.
From somewhere far off, fiddle strings sketch out
a song.
Missouri will be the last song I will ever sing.
HISTORY SITS UNDER A TREE AND
WATCHES AS WE PASS BY
Roads here are not paved for anything
but a rough ride, nor are there dividing lines,
or sign posts to tell you that you are going
in the right direction.
Your guess would be as good as mine.
The roads here are rocky and narrow,
barely allowing two cars, each traveling
in the opposite direction, to pass each other
without scraping metal.
But the history in this place,
is not the kind you would find
in any history book.
The history out here sits under the trees in
the shadows,
watching as we pass by,
The long-abandoned houses alive only with ghosts,
and they are mum.
The wind out here whispers over the hills,
trails a finger in the cool creek
WATCHES AS WE PASS BY
Roads here are not paved for anything
but a rough ride, nor are there dividing lines,
or sign posts to tell you that you are going
in the right direction.
Your guess would be as good as mine.
The roads here are rocky and narrow,
barely allowing two cars, each traveling
in the opposite direction, to pass each other
without scraping metal.
But the history in this place,
is not the kind you would find
in any history book.
The history out here sits under the trees in
the shadows,
watching as we pass by,
The long-abandoned houses alive only with ghosts,
and they are mum.
The wind out here whispers over the hills,
trails a finger in the cool creek
water
on its way to the little forgotten cemetery,
where the dead are hoarded as a
collective memory
of the past.
Out here, it is the dead who know that what hurts
is not death,
but the living before the dying.
on its way to the little forgotten cemetery,
where the dead are hoarded as a
collective memory
of the past.
Out here, it is the dead who know that what hurts
is not death,
but the living before the dying.
INTO THE WOODS
I am at ease out here in these woods.
‘Comfortably lost’ as old my favorite old poet
Jim Harrison puts it.
The spring rains have come and gone.
Now I have come out to see the woods gorged
in green,
to wade in depths of green and sink into dark
green shadow,
still steeped in the fermentation of last autumn’s
leavings.
The woods for me have always held a sense of
I am at ease out here in these woods.
‘Comfortably lost’ as old my favorite old poet
Jim Harrison puts it.
The spring rains have come and gone.
Now I have come out to see the woods gorged
in green,
to wade in depths of green and sink into dark
green shadow,
still steeped in the fermentation of last autumn’s
leavings.
The woods for me have always held a sense of
‘otherness,’
as they have for Harrison,
offering me something dark and deep of the sacred
and the spiritual,
while the city’s concrete heart, beating ferociously,
is hot enough and hungry enough to eat my soul
if I let it.
I lose myself here, in these woods.
And find myself, too.
as they have for Harrison,
offering me something dark and deep of the sacred
and the spiritual,
while the city’s concrete heart, beating ferociously,
is hot enough and hungry enough to eat my soul
if I let it.
I lose myself here, in these woods.
And find myself, too.
AFTER JIM HARRISON
I believe in sudden thunderstorms,
as if I had conjured them myself,
and in the biting winds of winter,
that remind me I am alive.
I believe in the white petals of the dogwood flower
popping out from the dark green wood,
Like sweet surprises,
and in the moving waters of the earth:
Ocean tides, river flows, placid lakes,
fishing ponds, and wild creeks.
I believe also in the taste of cinnamon in autumn,
and in old farmhouses, their ghosts
watching silently
as I pass by.
In cows in peaceful pastures,
And the smell of freshly plowed fields.
I believe in the grace note of birds,
wildflowers waving along the roadside,
abandoned railroad tracks overgrown with weeds,
and the trees I’ve talked to all my life.
All our meager souls struggling to keep our
I believe in sudden thunderstorms,
as if I had conjured them myself,
and in the biting winds of winter,
that remind me I am alive.
I believe in the white petals of the dogwood flower
popping out from the dark green wood,
Like sweet surprises,
and in the moving waters of the earth:
Ocean tides, river flows, placid lakes,
fishing ponds, and wild creeks.
I believe also in the taste of cinnamon in autumn,
and in old farmhouses, their ghosts
watching silently
as I pass by.
In cows in peaceful pastures,
And the smell of freshly plowed fields.
I believe in the grace note of birds,
wildflowers waving along the roadside,
abandoned railroad tracks overgrown with weeds,
and the trees I’ve talked to all my life.
All our meager souls struggling to keep our
heads up in a world that insists on pushing us
down.
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Birds are poems I haven’t caught yet.
—Jim Harrison
_______________________
—Medusa, with thanks to mid-Western poet Kimberly Bolton for today’s fine, atmospheric poetry!
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Birds are poems I haven’t caught yet.
—Jim Harrison
_______________________
—Medusa, with thanks to mid-Western poet Kimberly Bolton for today’s fine, atmospheric poetry!
A reminder that today (11am-2pm)
Sacramento Poetry Center and
Calif. Stage will honor Angela James
with readings and other tributes
Sacramento Poetry Center and
Calif. Stage will honor Angela James
with readings and other tributes
at 25th & R Sts., Sacramento.
For info about this and other
For info about this and other
upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
cozy covey
skirts our street,
noggins
a-bobbin’~
