Welcome, Sagittarius!

 —Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
JoyAnne O’Donnell, Victor Kennedy, 

Joe Nolan, and Caschwa

—Original Photo Courtesy of Victor Kennedy
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa

DON’T TALK TO ME ABOUT MORNINGS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Some mornings my thinking
shrinks embryonic when
coffee is out of my reach.
Brain cells don’t spark.
My eyeballs go dark.
I’m a danger to all in my way.
Give me some time
to squirt caffeine in veins
and my brain starts
to grow to full size.
When my husband wakes up
I’m my normal old self.
He calls out Hi Babe.
He has no idea
that he’s righter
than he’d ever know.

 

 

 

EGG PLANT
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Here’s brave new world, concern, whose health? —
that embryo afloat, sac space,
its harbour, womb protecting it,
or mother ship sustaining it,
new questions raised by science’s wealth?

It is the acorn to the oak,
potential, yet but wrought in thought,
still wrapped, awaiting ripcord, bloom,
for ready landing in its field,
its teleology uncloaked.

There’s classic claim, yet powder keg,
seen jelly caught in scrambling whisk
when yolk, glair albumen are mixed,
as chicken out on purpose, cause,
with white wisp in cracked breakfast egg.

Why slight unease at sight, cells’ gel,
when viable is never scene?
Distaste that I should eat what might
in other worlds be scratching dust,
but dust to dust, I leave but shell?

 

 

 

 

CARDINALS IN THE EVENING
—JoyAnne O’Donnell, Emmitsburg, MD

I noticed cardinals
come around near dark
they feel safe
they love to eat sunflowers
then take a rain shower. 

 

 

 

 

AUTUMN’S EMBRACES
—JoyAnne O’Donnell

The cool air
feels great
the colors
of the stars
in the tree leaves
whispering then falling
yellow and tan
a place to relax
in the mountains
and the splashing brook’s fountains.

 

 

 

 Vanesa’s Tattoo (by Rebecca)

—Photo by Victor Kennedy

VANESA’S EYES
—Victor Kennedy, Maribor, Slovenia

Vanesa’s eyes are something like the sun.
She may not be a raging furnace of nuclear fusion
hurtling through space at 370 km/s
with respect to the cosmic microwave background
radiation,
but they do bring warmth and light to the room
she’s in.

 

 

 

TIDDLY-WINKS
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

The object of
Tiddly-winks
Is to make a flat disc
Hop across a table
By fiddling with its edge.

Perhaps it embodies
All our border-wars,
As invasion after invasion
Makes them hop across our maps.

Who gets these ideas
To make borders hop
Across a map,
Washed along
By rivers of blood?

It must be those
Who profit, therefrom—
Wise to ask,
“Qui bono.”

 

 

 

NO MIDDLE GROUND
—Joe Nolan

We tried to meet
Somewhere in the middle,
But found there was no middle—
Only separate
Gravity fields
Separated by huge vacuums
In which nothing could survive.

The gravity fields
Were only there
To suck you in
To a violent incineration
As you entered the atmosphere
At blinding speed.

There was no place
For comfort or need,
Only the grabbing
Ways of greed.

 

 

 

 

HOLLOWNESS
—Joe Nolan

You should
Try to address her
Emptiness,
Address, or else
Refrain,
From fool’s errands
That never end,
That only cause you pain.

If you address
Her emptiness,
The hollowness
That makes her rage,
Remember those
Who’ve gone before
Who tried to carry
Whatever for
To try to fulfill
Their duty.

Remember well
The living hell
Of perpetual servitude—
The slow decline,
The years that tell,
The descent of
Ending’s curtain.

Understand
There’s no remorse,
No contrition,
No forgiveness—
No center there
To be forlorn
When you walk away.

 

 

 

 

 

PAST MY “BEST-BY” DATE
—Joe Nolan

Twenty years past
My “best by” date
Or maybe it’s
Thirty or forty,
Getting ready
To meet my fate
In my quiet
Retirement.

How rust never sleeps
Becomes clear—
Conveyor belts
Raise chunks of coal
Higher and higher
Until they all drop off
Into a coal-car’s bin.

 

 

 

FIVE-CARD DRAW
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

you ante up, you’re ready to play
the dealer deals 5 cards to each player
except you only get 4 cards

you double-check to make sure one is
not just sticking to another, no that’s
not it

you tell the dealer what the problem is
the dealer tells you to place your bet
like everyone else

the House has it all on camera to ensure
nobody cheats the House, but you are in
no position to exercise that privilege

the dealer reminds you if you leave now
you forfeit your ante and lose your bet

then you wake up…WHERE ARE YOU?

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

MAKE WHOLE GREAT AGAIN
—Caschwa

The whole is greater than the sum
of its parts.
            —Aristotle

we won’t ever improve America’s
status by scolding, shaming, or
belittling various parts; the task
before us is to bring those parts
together in harmony, so that the
sum of those parts will define our
greatness

__________________

Our thanks to today’s contributors for this fine poetry, greater than the sum of its parts. Some of today's poets worked with our current Seed of the Week, “Embryo”, as we come to the embryo of a new year. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

 JoyAnne O’Connell

 

Newcomer JoyAnne O'Donnell is the author of Winds of Time, Spring & Summers Veil. Welcome to the Kitchen, JoyAnne, and don’t be a stranger!

 

Deadline for poetry submissions to Song of the San Joaquin is next Monday, Dec. 2. Send three poems and a short bio to Jim Shuman at song.poet@global.net/. Info/guidelines: https://www.chaparralpoets.org/SSJsubmissionGuide.html/.

And NorCal poets will be saddened to learn of the passing of Kathryn Hohlwein last week. Rest in poetry, Kathryn; you will be missed.

__________________

—Medusa, with hopes for a peaceful, grateful Thanksgiving for all of us~

 

 

 

 Sagittarius~
Welcome to the days of 

The Archer! (Nov. 22-Dec. 21)

 

 

 

 

 

Just a reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center features
Eleni Sikelianos and musicians
Kai White & Joe Sikelianos
tonight, 7:30pm.
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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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!

 

 

 

 

Almost Winter

 —Poetry by Richard LeDue,
Norway House, Manitoba, Canada
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

ALMOST WINTER

Leaves yellow as a hungry lion
we're always so sure will eat someone else
while orange and red leaves
try their damnedest at being
allegorical flames
only for the only choice to be a slow descent
shaped like reluctant acceptance
that all fires eventually go out
leaving us used up like shriveled matchsticks 

 

 

 

 

NECESSITY BLUES

Shopping carts fill like graves,
and the assistant produce manager
is in love with someone he never met,
which is as safe as it gets these days.

Frozen corn begins to thaw
among days-off measured by empty shelves,
while down the toilet paper aisle,
two strangers notice each other
enough to let their silence go limp
as a white flag on a windless day,

just for a two-dollar steak to bleed
from being placed upside down
instead of being
another casualty of Tuesday. 

 

 

 

 

NEW YEAR’S EVE 2003

My case of beer left outside
on the back step because it was colder
than the fridge could ever dream of

Cigars because it was New Year’s Eve
and we were young enough not to care

Each flame from the lighter
seeming more and more like magic
filling us up with every empty bottle
only for midnight to arrive on time
our loud celebrations
swallowed up by blacked-out drunkenness
that years later reminds me
how old I am 

 

 

 

 

AN OLD MUSICIAN’S LAMENT

To write a song about dead friends
no one remembers except me
is a lot like a desert
where mirages quench bloodshot eyes

the oasis not real
the circling vultures not real
but all the skeletons familiar enough
to bring old names back to life
until I disappear
like a drunk god's magic trick

to wake up alone
arthritis silencing my hands
while darkness becomes a rehearsal
for forgetting I ever was
and winter howls hard
against my windows
so sure of its own musical genius 

 

 

 

 

A 43-YEAR-LONG TREK

The fountain of youth was a beer bottle
in my twenties
until high blood pressure drowned the buzzes
the doctor giving a lecture about walking
like someone trying to sell me shoes

Then the wrinkles in my forties
dreamed of being mirages in a famous desert
just to be so uninteresting
that they never got lost
and discovered middle age
tasted like bottled water

Old age a horizon I'm stumbling towards
so certain of the destination
I have no choice
but to stop
find a zoo in the clouds
admire how my hands are shaped
like yesterday and tomorrow
and complain about the weather
desperately hoping someone is listening 

 

 

 

 

Getting old

is a sore back
that isn't from falling down,
but a continuous condition.

is a black-and-white television
given as Christmas present
in 1989 and went all the way
up to channel 13.

is accepting the static
narrating the songs on the radio.

is writing another poem
in a dollar-store notepad
during this digital age,
when those who never learned
cursive reassure themselves
nothing will ever change. 

 

 

 

TREACHEROUS WATERS
(Or a Swimming Lesson From a Widow)

A last kiss is not really a last kiss
unless you're dead
because others will land afterwards
except they'll be disappointed by a flag
someone else they never met
planted on the shoreline in a soul
they were sure was an undiscovered country
waiting for their footprints and names
only for “It's me, not you”
to drown them
their fear of dying alone just
another rising tide

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

You can’t help getting older, but you don’t have to get old.

—George Burns

____________________

—Medusa, welcoming Richard LeDue and his fine poetry back to the Kitchen!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that 

El Dorado County Poet Laureate
Stephen Meadows
will be reading today
in Camino, 2pm.
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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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!

 

 

 

 

 

Postcards From Nottingham

—Poetry by Hongwei Bao, Nottingham, England
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

RISTES PLACE

Gloomy sky overcasts the grey city.
Red bricks glisten under orange streetlights.
Sodden cobblestones grin with their broken teeth.
Black bins laugh their guts out, proudly exhibiting
pizza boxes, beer bottles, crisp packets, dated 

newspapers
A homeless hoody here, a divorced white trainer
there.

Cabinets of lights above.
Some windows open, proudly announcing
pure happiness with the blast of dance music,
the fragrance of cooked curry.  
Some curtains down, foreshadowing
mysterious sexual liaisons or fierce domestic rows.
There may also be countless
sleepless nights by the shimmering screen.

Every day, I fall asleep in the refrain
of the neighbour’s computer games
and wake up at the beeping sound
from bin lorry alarms.
This is not the peace and tranquillity
I was looking for.
It is nonetheless an urban life
full of rhythm and vitality. 

 

 

 

 

PLUMPTRE STREET

There’s no plum tree on Plumptre Street,
just as there’s no lace in Lace Market.

One day I lock myself out of my rented
flat, the whole building in fact, the red-
brick architecture converted from a Victorian
lace warehouse. Its big windows, arched
and single-glazed. A tourist attraction
in the daytime, a shudder to think about
at night, like tonight.

I pace along the empty street. Orange
lights flood my hollow body, its shadow
my only company. A car drives past,
red taillights flicker like inquisitive eyes.
Silence resumes. Illuminated windows
high above, here and there, though no one
that I know, no window will open for me.

It’s the first winter since my arrival in the city.
There’s no plum tree on Plumptre Street. 

 

 

 

 

RATCLIFFE POWER STATION

The UK’s last coal-fired power station has ceased
generating energy after more than 50 years of
powering Nottinghamshire. The closure of Ratcliffe-
on-Soar power station marks an end to the country’s 142-year reliance on coal.                   
        —Notts TV, 30 September 2024  
                         

Before your eternal disappearance, how shall I 

remember you?
Your gigantic bodies, towering the sky, dwarfing
the sun and the moon.
Your concrete chimneys and cooling towers, like
greedy mouths, inhaling fogs, exhaling clouds.
Your alarming red eyes piercing through the thick-
ness of the fog, a lighthouse for nocturnal pilots
and birds.
The highways and railways that surround you like
ribbons. The trees and houses that adorn you like
garlands.
The workers who tamed you. The climate change
activists who sabotaged you. The developers who
eyed on you. The pristine vision of an East Mid-
lands Freeport that will stand in your place.
Wherever I am in Notts, I know you are not far
away.
A solid anchor. A reassuring company.
Whenever I’m away, I trust you’ll be there for me,
waving Welcome home at East Midlands Parkway.
Now you’ll vanish soon. The sky will be cleaner.
The trees will be greener. Will I miss you? 

 

 

 

 

CHIPPY

All other shops and restaurants have closed.
I walk into the chip shop near the train station.
A place I first visited a decade ago
for a job interview. I hadn’t expected
to stay so long. I’ve stayed.

White strobe lights, crispy chips, battered
fish, sugared fizzy drinks. Bar stools
in front of a long bench table. Facing
the wall, each customer an island.

Surrounding the shop, tectonic shifts.
The tramline hovers over a railway bridge.
The train station has a gleaming atrium.
Broadmarsh is now a park surrounded by ruins.
A brand-new library and bus station nearby.
Glass facades of office buildings and student
residence.  

I’ve also grown from a slim and innocent-
looking lad to a middle-aged man, with
a beer belly, thick spectacles, peppered hair.
Once a timid stranger, now a proud local,
knowing every corner and cobblestone.
Where has the time gone?

Only the chip shop
stands still, guarded by the canal a few yards
away,
listening to the time and tide flowing by.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

OLD MARKET SQUARE
—Hongwei Bao

The clock strikes. Its chimes
dissolve a hundred pigeons
into the bright sunlight.

__________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Hongwei Bao for today’s lovely poems—what he calls "postcards"—about Nottingham, UK, the bustling borough where he and his family live. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that 

Stanislaus County Youth Poet Laureate

Zoe Byron will read in Oakdale

today, 12pm. 

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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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!

 

Where has the time gone?
 

 

 

Rain!

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
and Joyce Odam

 

 

ASSESSMENT

Let’s get out of home’s leftover warmth
of woodstove and winter comforters,
out of the house and onto the trail.

The morning’s brisk and wet
from downpour, a cleansing drench
washing the trail of wanderers.

My dog and I are all alone
with black oaks letting their leaves
go yellow before they fall.

Bigleaf maple’s wearing pale gold
against the dark of forest green
and the canyon’s silent deep.

A single stroke of sun
illuminates tree-of-heaven,
crimson in its autumn glory.

I was OK before we started
on this morning’s trail,
but I’m so much better now.

 

 

 

 

NEIGHBORHOOD
    for Haley

Mowed trails disappear in wildland
     here at our northern edge
and you show me signs that I can’t read,
     left by unnamed creatures
and you name them: coyote, fox, bear—
     neighbors since long before us.

 

 

 

 

AUTUMN GIVENS

In these November woods, is it shadow
I crave or the sudden low slant of sun
illuminating for only a blink
what’s hidden in the bramble, blackberries
long gone to summer, vines held together
with thorns? Towhee sings her song of shelter
among those thorns, song of seeds and acorns,
of making do with all that is given.

 

 

 

DISSOLVING SKIES   

Our whispering equanimity
of evening eased in color of night
too beautiful, you said, to be real—
the moon, the stars, and a cooling breeze

abruptly gone. Clouds of a black sea
slashed by one tremendous flash of light,
zigzag hieroglyphics cold as steel
and wind’s chaotic gallop through trees.

Rain! Now might the old dry creek run free?
Lightning, and again—a second sight
as if dissolution breaks the seal.
Wind in our face, muddy to the knees—

what a fresh new world the skies reveal
at dawn—for hard work, a new heart’s-ease.

 

 

 

 

RAINBOW, THUNDER

The birds
flew away,
the clouds in herds
yellow gray
waiting to break free
in rainbow array
and I could see
vultures flown otherwards.

 

 

 

 .M. Otis, Le Chien Étonnant

COQUETTE?

If my cat Latches and my dog Otis
(both neutered as young homeless lads)
spoke French, they might admit
to being coquette. They take assiduous
care of themselves, cleaning their
shiny black coats with diligent tongues.
But they speak neither French
nor English, and right now they busy
themselves with their morning toilette—
they’re about to appear in a poem!

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

CLIMBING UNDER CLOUDED SKY
—Taylor Graham

How tiny the city looks
from these switchback crooks—
vista more real than in books.

____________________

Rain! The skies have opened up for us here in the Sierra foothills, and Taylor Graham has celebrated the occasion this week with her poetry. Our thanks to her, and our thanks for the rain, of course. Forms TG has used this week include a Rimas Dissolutas (“Dissolving Skies”); a Triversen (“Assessment”); a Sijo (“Neighborhood”); a Verselle (“Rainbow, Thunder”); some Blank Verse (“Autumn Givens”); and a Ukiah (“Climbing under Clouded Sky”). The Verselle and the Ukiah were last week’s Triple-F Challenges, and “Coquette” was our recent Seed of the Week.

In El Dorado County’s poetry events this week, Poets of the Sierra Foothills features Stephen Meadows in Camino this Sunday, 2pm. And El Dorado County’s regular workshops are listed on Medusa’s calendar if you scroll down on http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html). For more news about EDC poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado Poetry on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry. (She recently posted some fine poetry and photos from the recent Wakamatsu workshop.) 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!

 

Just a note: Deadline for poetry submissions to Song of the San Joaquin is Monday, Dec. 2. Send three poems and a short bio to Jim Shuman at song.poet@global.net/. Info/guidelines: https://www.chaparralpoets.org/SSJsubmissionGuide.html/.

 
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

Last week’s photo inspired Nolcha Fox and Stephen Kingsnorth. One thought it was a chinchilla, and the other thought (like I did) that it was a rabbit:

CHINNY-CHIN
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

I hold my pet chinchilla.
She sleeps in my two hands.
I have to leave for somewhere
that won’t take any pets.
I could set her free and let
her burrow where she will.
Or she and I could run away.
My parents are too busy fighting.
They will never care.

* * *

 

PALM ONE DAY
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Is it for cute, vulnerable,
that such appeals—to some at least?
For opportunity to love
and not to be loved—quest assumed—
more powerful as human draw.

Not so if hungry, rabbit stew—
unless more meat on bone desired—
or those sadistic to inflict
some pain on weaker victim prey,
to maim the helpless, sickness kicks.

And not if vivisection caged,
or dog pack, red dressed food indeed,
though myxomatosis, postwar bar;
the baby rabbit, bunny termed,
endearment from our bedtime reads.

Would this be Bugs, Bunnicula,
a member down from Watership,
in Wonderland, that Alice White,
or Peter with his Flopsy crew,
from Uttley, my stock, Little Grey?

Set Parsley in the Potter mould,
then Roger in his screen debut,
see Harvey in imagined rôle.
or Br’er, tar-tangled, metaphor
for exploitation of the slave?

It’s in our hands, for good or ill
our treatment of these cottontails,
an Easter imprint, cultural;
laid palms may welcome entry time,
but that may turn as weak proceeds?
 

* * *

Joyce Odam has sent us a Termelay (she doesn't count stars):

 

 

 

ON RECKONING
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

The stars won't fall.
I knew that once.
I don't count stars.
The sky has nothing to refute.
My idle thoughts. My counted tears.
I don't count stars.

                               
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/20/20)

* * *

And here is an Ars Poetica from Stephen Kingsnorth, as he celebrates those handy synonyms in the poet’s toolbox:

 

 

 

PARALLELISM
—Stephen Kingsnorth

That a comprehensive range
may understand what is read, heard
then synonyms are the major weapon
in this comprehension armoury;
one locution, term, expression, word
may hit target.

The glossary grows, the lexicon enlarges,         
the vocabulary expands, stretches, spreads
while mouth mould, muscle deployment
and tongue twist is of added aid.

The wordsmith might become
a worthy wordwright,
coining new mint,
tempting the intuitive,
stimulating by suggestive, siren seeds
the mind's readiness to resolve.

A festival of words.

____________________

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.) How about a Sept:

•••Sept: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/sept

•••AND/OR Rick’s 32:

•••Rick’s 32: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/ricks-32

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

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

____________________

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

•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••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
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Rick’s 32: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/ricks-32
•••Rimas Dissolutas: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/rimas-dissolutas-poetic-form
•••Sept: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/sept
•••Sijo: www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/sijo-poetic-form
•••Termelay: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/termelay
•••Triversen: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/triversen-poetic-form
•••Ukiah: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/ukiah
•••Verselle: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/varselle

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

  Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!
 
 Make what you can of today's
picture, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)

* * *

—Photo 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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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!

 

Coquette singin' in the rain~
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Still Dancing After All These Years

 Scan Me
—Poetry and Visuals by Smith, Cleveland, OH

 

 

I push my rock up hill
watch as hill falls down

In empty want of will
I'm too stupid to go around

Dancing light distracts me
from my terror time

Shows a better be
a finer fine to find

I turn in search of lovely
leave lonely in the lurch

Seek some truths beyond me
weigh the man . . . and church

Both are judged and wanting
says the writing on the wall

Must be sort of daunting
God's middle finger and all

Rock and hill and finger
keep messing up the page

But as long as my luck lingers
I'll survive this culture cage

 

 

 

 Hang On

 

Sisyphus and I worship
at the cat box
we kneel
bow to clumped piss
and clayed shit
when done
we smooth the sand
with Zen
then
do it again
and again
and again

we are happy
we have a steady job

it reminds us of eternity

 

 

 

Run On

Drinking the talky coffee
in pre-dawn dark
by firelight
me jabbering away
ear-sore wife suffering
dog waiting impatiently at feet
for talk to end
morning walk's begin
me in caffeine-jacked now
and there ain't no not yet next
savoring the madness of moment
since minutes tend to the mundane

which is weird
since mundane ain't
simply can't be
in this miraculous whee of life
and lights
laughter
love

so leave me be
leave me
leave
be

and somehow pay the rent
(for you of the Capitalist bent)

 

 

 

 Heart and Soul

Sometimes I wear two shoes to write a poem
sometimes none
sometimes one shoe socks two
sometimes one'll do
depends on doing
poem coming
don't know where or why
they light on I
but grateful
adds glitter to gloom
lightens doom
swoons moons
fuels fumes

 

 

 

 Because the Night

I was beast man at my wedding

My first pun? Once a pun a time

I've got quite a few pieces
but missing some bits

Quantum creatures sneak my creases
eating what fits

Betting heart as feature
not fatal bug
 
Reality's creaky cum creature
one sum slog

Listening to bonging clock
grateful we agree

Inner silences in inner silence
carry the weight for me

Are figments baby figs?
Do they grow on trees like need on knees?

There is song in silence, song in noise
lesson in both

Steeple of day steeped in night
eat until eaten not very nice

We are mouth holding scream

 

 

 

Egg In...

Raise my face to sun
suck what source I can
closed lids peach red glow
and luminous yellows
knowing if I open them
I'll be damaged

flash to last year
staring at sun
eyes open
for four minutes
of total solar eclipse
it was alien
other
that burning thing up there
fuming fusion
everyday deadly

stare now eyes closed
letting the lid light warm
skin wrap my face
in shine

fine time

 

 

 

 No 

 

Old dog wants
but doesn't know what
so stands in existential angst
glancing at door
at kitchen
at me

I am an old man with an old dog
I don't know either

 

 

 

Try Me 

 

I may look empty
but fumes still fuel my quest

Seems like it's all Go Go Americana
these days down at the
All American Gas Station Beer Stops

I drank MD 20/20 once
and once was enough
but for pure power glory
a drug dealer in low-class high rise
who cut coke at my place
cuz wife didn't understand
once brought moonshine along
and WOW
stuff glowed all the way down
then smiled

Still smiling my 33 years sober
47 years later

Now follow full-spectrum flower
to ease hours
when wind on wrong side of strong

Going on a dope run
running with the wind
then after we're done
we'll do it again

There are silences in the silence
unsilences in the unsilences
lotus grows pure from muck
while I'm more dump truck

And yet
gotta believe good would in bad water

Tickle back of neck sweat
absentmindedly rubbed
killed bug
bug being bug
sweat being sweat
me being me
bug dead

My bad?
You've no idea
I was always outlaw
rogue
approaching scoundrel
wanting better

Push myself to edge with coffee
and stress of class less ness
you know what I mean
if not
you're part of the problem
and I've no solution
cuzs problem myself

Outside silence slows
to rush of wind and wheel
red thread of siren

Where's the punch line?

 

 

 

 Bible Box

Today’s LittleNip:

Awful slippery slidery
this thing called truth
it finally settles
then WHAM
it's gone again

But thanks
for the blue skies
the green leaves
the wind

Pleasures treasures


—Smith

___________________

Smith (Steven B. Smith) reminds me that this post brings his visits to the Kitchen to nine years—and we’re all the better for his rockin’ wordplay (and truthplay!), dancing along with us for almost a decade now. (And thanks to D.R. Wagner, sadly now deceased, for, on a trip to Cleveland, giving Smith the tip that Medusa’s Kitchen might not be such a bad place to hang out.) Here’s our thanks to Steven B., looking forward to another nine and another nine and another…

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 I See You
—Visual by Smith

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Straight Out Scribes & Noa Sanaa
will read tonight in Sacramento.
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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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!

 

 Sisyphus rocks and rolls~~

and rocks~~and rolls~~