—Photos by Kevin Laubacher, Portland, OR
MEDITATION ON THE MEMORY OF LOVE
(after a photograph by Kevin Laubacher,
girl against turquoise wall 11/24/2023)
She never fell in love all at once: it was slow,
moment-by-moment, in increments of attention.
She thought about this on her morning walks.
She noticed wrists (of all things!) and tone of voice.
—heard the words that someone used and
how carefully they chose them.
And laughter! How she loved making someone
laugh.
She loved if they made her laugh, too.
Memories quickened her walk, helping her
escaping them.
She resonated like a guitar string when someone
plucked an old memory, without their even
knowing.
And love? She wasn’t looking any more.
For her, the memory of having been loved
was all she needed, she told herself.
Memory was all she needed.
(after a photograph by Kevin Laubacher,
girl against turquoise wall 11/24/2023)
She never fell in love all at once: it was slow,
moment-by-moment, in increments of attention.
She thought about this on her morning walks.
She noticed wrists (of all things!) and tone of voice.
—heard the words that someone used and
how carefully they chose them.
And laughter! How she loved making someone
laugh.
She loved if they made her laugh, too.
Memories quickened her walk, helping her
escaping them.
She resonated like a guitar string when someone
plucked an old memory, without their even
knowing.
And love? She wasn’t looking any more.
For her, the memory of having been loved
was all she needed, she told herself.
Memory was all she needed.
.jpg)
ON THE BUS
The bus is silent at the end of day.
Mirrored in the windows:
reflections of bare trees claw the panes.
Every seat is taken by strangers
sitting together, lost in thought.
The bus is silent at the end of day.
One man leans against the wall,
scrolling through his phone, unaware of
reflections of bare trees that claw the panes.
His hoodie pulled up against the chill,
his free arm stretches out, relaxed.
The passengers are quiet this evening.
City sounds, muffled by the somber rain,
lull the riders into reverie,
reflecting on memory of long-forgotten pains.
Winter sends us all to shelter, warm, inside;
shedding rain and memories. Islands in the storm.
Reflections of bare trees claw the panes.
The bus is silent at the end of day.
The bus is silent at the end of day.
Mirrored in the windows:
reflections of bare trees claw the panes.
Every seat is taken by strangers
sitting together, lost in thought.
The bus is silent at the end of day.
One man leans against the wall,
scrolling through his phone, unaware of
reflections of bare trees that claw the panes.
His hoodie pulled up against the chill,
his free arm stretches out, relaxed.
The passengers are quiet this evening.
City sounds, muffled by the somber rain,
lull the riders into reverie,
reflecting on memory of long-forgotten pains.
Winter sends us all to shelter, warm, inside;
shedding rain and memories. Islands in the storm.
Reflections of bare trees claw the panes.
The bus is silent at the end of day.
.jpg)
OLD SCHOOL
You could say that I am “Old School.”
I love the old records I have from 65 years ago; and
I still have tapes for ancient audio systems.
I’ve kept old beepers and other technology
buried in neglected drawers.
I’m a living fossil in this quantum age.
I snipped the connection to my land-line;
but I’ve kept my old message recorder with its tape
so I can listen to the last words and
quick Hellos from long ago.
I’m an old woman from The Old School.
I listen to lost voices, old songs, forgotten melodies.
Sounds trick me into thinking the past is with me.
I still have recordings from outdated audio systems;
you could say I’m hopelessly “Old School.”
SHEBA
My older brother wanted to be a naturalist.
My parents tolerated his interests, as long as
the animals he collected didn’t join us for dinner:
injured hawks and owls, rattlesnakes, garter
snakes,
my Belgian Hare, and others.
Our house was an ark, of sorts.
My brother let me watch him feed the animals,
keeping me a safe distance from harm. I was three.
He was 15. I worshiped him.
I learned about animals and behavior
by watching and listening. The big hawk was best.
Sheba, a stunning, full-grown Red Tailed hawk,
injured in an encounter with a power line.
I was allowed to come to the attic room, where he
kept her, hooded, on a stand when he wasn’t
with her.
I had to be silent when I came in, standing back,
so I wouldn’t startle her. She looked taller than me.
Her height frightened me. She was towering, regal;
her wing span wider than I was tall.
When he removed her hood and she looked around,
her beak, needle sharp, pointed in my direction.
Her eyes locked with mine. I was sure she was
measuring me. How much to eat now?
How much to save for later? I shrank in fear.
For the time he had her, until her release, and
all through the years since, I bear the mark of prey.
my Belgian Hare, and others.
Our house was an ark, of sorts.
My brother let me watch him feed the animals,
keeping me a safe distance from harm. I was three.
He was 15. I worshiped him.
I learned about animals and behavior
by watching and listening. The big hawk was best.
Sheba, a stunning, full-grown Red Tailed hawk,
injured in an encounter with a power line.
I was allowed to come to the attic room, where he
kept her, hooded, on a stand when he wasn’t
with her.
I had to be silent when I came in, standing back,
so I wouldn’t startle her. She looked taller than me.
Her height frightened me. She was towering, regal;
her wing span wider than I was tall.
When he removed her hood and she looked around,
her beak, needle sharp, pointed in my direction.
Her eyes locked with mine. I was sure she was
measuring me. How much to eat now?
How much to save for later? I shrank in fear.
For the time he had her, until her release, and
all through the years since, I bear the mark of prey.
.jpg)
DOING SCIENCE
My grandkids and I occasionally do science.
We look through their magnifying glasses,
fill water bottles half-way and
look through them.
We watch seeds grow and look at the sky.
We watch bubbles float and rocks fall.
We watch clouds float overhead.
Gravity is the force that pulls things down,
I explain. Everything you see has weight.
Rocks, broken bubbles, leaves, clouds.
“Everything I see?” my grandson asks.
“Everything has weight?”
I nod.
“Leaves?” I nod.
“How much do they weigh?” Depends, I say.
“Clouds?” Yes. Water vapor has weight, too.
Then he stopped me cold.
“How much does a shadow weigh?”
_________________
Today’s LittleNip:
I'm not trying to be new school and I'm not old school—I’m classic. There's a lot of new cars and there's a lot of old cars, but I'm just classic in doing what I do.
—LL Cool J
_________________
Katy Brown
Katy Brown is a NorCal native, poet and long-time SnakePal. Her poetry has appeared in numerous journals: Tule Review, Song of San Joaquin, Brevities, Poetalk, Persimmon Tree, Harpstrings, and others, plus anthologies such as Poeming Pigeons, Sacramento Voices, California Fire and Water, and The Ina Coolbrith Society’s Gathering.
For the last seven years, Katy Brown and Taylor Graham have led (and continue to lead) quarterly “Capturing Wakamatsu” workshops, with poetry and exploration of the historic American River Conservancy's Wakamatsu Farm site. Her secret power is that she can catch a lizard with a blade of grass.
Kevin Laubacher
—Photo by Scott Campbell
Kevin Laubacher started making photographs at age 25, looking for a creative outlet while he was studying toward a career in forestry. Enthusiastic feedback from a couple of photography teachers led him to Brooks Institute of Photography, from which he graduated in 1979. Traveling widely doing client-driven commercial assignments allowed him to also create a large personal body of work. He has continuously built upon and refined his vision driven by “the serendipity of the moment” and has exhibited these very different bodies of work in many forms, including hand-bound books.
Our thanks to these fine artists for today’s collaboration, and hopes that they will join us again soon!
___________________
—Medusa
Red-Tailed Hawk
—Public Domain Photo
—Public Domain Photo
A reminder that
Poets and Writers of the Sierra Foothills
will feature the work of Mike Owens
as presented by Bob Stanley
today in Camino, 2pm; and
Sacramento Poetry Center presents
a panel on Influences of
African American Writers &
The Poetry of Protest today, 2 & 3:30pm.
For info about these and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.
Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
Poets and Writers of the Sierra Foothills
will feature the work of Mike Owens
as presented by Bob Stanley
today in Camino, 2pm; and
Sacramento Poetry Center presents
a panel on Influences of
African American Writers &
The Poetry of Protest today, 2 & 3:30pm.
For info about these and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.
Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
