So Soon . . .

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down to
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Nolcha Fox, Lynn White,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Claire J. Baker
and Caschwa

 

 

THE REST OF THE STORY
(Upon reading “A Small King: A Mystical
Rewilding Along Portugal’s Rio Côa”
 by Nicholas Triolo)

This walk isn’t about rewilding,
though sidewalks laid years ago in plans
for development are cracked
by what we call weeds, a small green rebirth
of storks-bill, dandelion, thistle, clover.
Vacant field rejoices in spring,
it’s Easter. I walk for my health,
regeneration, rest for the soul. By the pond
edged with willow and cottonwood,
a great egret
in its motionless hunt for fish.
I left my dog in the car;
he’s had his walk, leash-bound
but electric-focused in every sense
for prey. Now he’s napping.
This is my rest,
senses alert like a dog on-hunt,
for what I don’t know. 

 

 

 

 

APRIL 12, 2025

Dawn
touched pasture gone wild
without sheep, wilder now
with spring, with sky-blue lupine
watercolor-wash this morning’s
dawn. 

 

 

 

 

FANTASTIC?
from Western Forests

Put up a bird feeder anywhere west of the Rockies
some feathered friend will grace you with its visit.
A squirrel has no feathers; tell it to go home to its
oak tree. And ants in squadrons will rappel down
the string that holds a hummingbird feeder—
you can’t stop them. One morning (I’ll admit,
it was eldritch twilight, sun just climbing the Sierra)
I saw an angel swinging from the feeder, wings
spread, fingers holding the edges. At first I took it
for a woodpecker. But dawn music is pure harp. 

 

 

 

 

ON THE GALLERY WALL
framed metal print by Lynell Phillips

It floats in timeless suspension
over an eroding world—
a blue-green globe nested in canopies
of trees, shrubs, grasses,
with what appear to be graceful
city spires
as if lit from within.
No, that’s the glare of gallery lights
reflected off its surface.
Beyond, a sky of indeterminate
hue, puffy white clouds showing their
dark undersides.
It’s titled Peaceful Earth. 

 

 

 

UNEXPECTED GUEST

It’s dark time
outside. Mountain
lion sticks
its head thru
pet-door trying to get in
to visit the pet.

Camera
catches big cat’s head
which is all
that fits thru.
A neighbor has lost eight sheep
in the last two weeks. 

 

 

 

 

SO SOON

Fairground apple trees
white blossoms shedding petals
declare end of spring.

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

HISTORICAL NO MORE
from Mountain Democrat (4/24/17)
—Taylor Graham

Patrons with heavy equipment came
to eat a large vanity mirror
on the second floor, and a hot spot
for reflection of things that were not.

___________________

So soon… spring is so short here in Northern California; Taylor Graham’s fine photos and poems are capturing it for us before it slips away, and our thanks to her for that. Forms TG has used this week include an Ekphrastic Poem (“On the Gallery Wall”); a Ganta (“April 12, 2025”); a Haiku (“So Soon”); a Borrowed First Line (“Fantastic?”); a Shadorma (“Unexpected Guest”); and a Found Poem using Normative Syllabics (“Historical No More”). “An Unexpected Guest” was a Response Poem for our Seed of the Week by the same name.  The Found Poem was one of last week’s Triple-F Challenges.

In El Dorado County poetry this week, the Arts in Nature Fest takes place in Georgetown this Sunday, and EDC Poet Laureate Stephen Meadows will read in South Lake Tahoe on Wednesday. Also, 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 such events and about EDC poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado Poetry on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry. 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!  
 
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

Poets who sent responses to last week’s Ekphrastic photo were Nolcha Fox, Lynn White, Stephen Kingsnorth, and Caschwa:



OLD CASSETTE TAPES
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Interviews of mother’s father,
taped exchanges between
father’s parents and us goofs,
all too scratchy, voices missing,
cassettes worn and talks now lost.
So far, my mind remembers
all the love we shared between us.
But one day, like those
old cassettes, my memories
may be wiped clean.

* * *

QUALITY
—Lynn White, Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales


I was pleased with my reel to reel recorder.
It was four tracks which was good,
as tapes were expensive
but quality was poor

My source of music was the radio,
an ancient transistor
Radio Luxembourg
fading
in and out
with lots of crackles
so quality was poor.

Then the age of affluence
caught up with me.
The reel to reel became an amp
for my boyfriend’s guitar
Now was the age of the cassette,
better quality but at a cost!

* * *

WALK ON
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

How old the Walkman type once scene,
with orange, headphones and cassettes,
technology that passed me by,
as swot in academics, me.
I wondered those who passed me by,
oblivious of all around,
jay walking where no place to be,
but spared by drivers, hoot unheard;
at least the shouldered ghetto blast,
alert, one shell-like, might have heard.
How many, those magnetic strips,
set stuck or crumpled, pencil wound,
a first aid for the damaged tape,
forever after, squeaky themed.

I still hold some in memory bank,
unwilling to abandon tracks,
though youngsters think a foolish hold,
but I’ll not chuck that precious gold,
of protest, Dylan, Baez songs
with Guthrie, Seeger, Prine I heard,
and Simon, Joni Mitchell too,
and Julie Felix, of the tribe.
They represent my seventies,
though gobbledegook when played, I’ve found,
but that was how so much of life
with flower power and Vietnam,
stems planted, barrel of a gun,
street sitting down, Grosvenor Square.

Those days were good, with Woodstock care,
in pilgrimage, President scares,
as I walked rugby boycott lines—
South African, white women scoffed.
I’d pride, anti-apartheid signs,
amongst my fellow Methodists,
though staff from school took a dim view.
Companions of my student years,
imprisoned in Pretoria,
to whom I wrote, their prison cells,
and to their wives, important, more,
spoke gratitude in later years,
as leaders of the church, their day.
Was I a Walkman for the truth?

* * *

DAILY COMMUTE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

In a 6-year span beginning over 4 decades
ago, I would travel from my 2nd-story
apartment in Mar Vista to a 27-story office
building in Miracle Mile to report to work
as a teller at a Savings & Loan

Left my house each morning, walked a
couple blocks to the bus stop, rode the bus
most of the way, then walked the last mile
to work. Reverse for coming home.

I carried a cassette player usually loaded
with Classical favorites, heard privately
over headphones. Each new day I needed
every last bit of power that a full charge
provided, to last me the roughly 2 hours
of one round trip.

* * *

Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) has sent us a List Poem:

 

 

  

NOT SO MUCH TROUBLED
—Caschwa

that someone will take my guns away,
but that they will take away:

clean air
Constitutional Rights
duly elected local office holders
safe drinking water
citizenship
right to vote
nation’s adequate defense against hostile foreign
    attacks
good neighbors
the balance of power that has heretofore preserved
    our democracy
    Social Security and other programs that the
    People have faithfully put money into over
    the years
the very blessings that God has bestowed on this land
you name it

* * *

A Nonce from Carl:

 

 

 

 

RHYTHM OF THE WORDS
—Caschwa

Preachers start the call
Harmony to all
Bible, Gospel, Lord of Angels
Organ stirs the hall

~~~

I have seen the worst
Soon become the best
All one needs is strength and courage
Money in your fist

~~~

Changes are the force
Running future’s course
How that works we’ll never conjure
We just tap the source

* * *

And what Carl calls a “silly Haiku”:

 

 

 

Q AND A
—Caschwa

Does no. mean number?
Obviously it does not.
No. no. no. no. no.

* * *

Our Tuesday Seed of the Week is Bugs. Here are two Response Poems about bugs from Stephen Kingsnorth:

 

 

 

MATT OR GLOSS?
—Stephen Kingsnorth

Can fleas jump through the icepack melt,
deep buried matt in polar fur,
or hide, wide in the penguin stir,
caught bubble, air, as water thump?
Working though clumps to find the derm,
then holding on for all their worth,
despite the preening beaks as comb;
not gloss as seals escape the whales,
thick skinned, unsuitable to fleas

* * *

IN VAIN
—Stephen Kingsnorth

Flies like fresh fruit, though past their best,
blood orange, rotten to the core;
yet fleas for flesh, as mashed in mess,
drinking vessels, capillaries,
their platelet dish, corpuscle quiz.
Old fools’ gold from prospectors’ hunch,
in vein, a seam of red from blue.
as stake their claim, rare, bloody hue.
Are chips laid down, accompanied,
salt in the wound to irritate?

* * *

We close with Claire Baker’s fine Double Cinquain about her socks:

 

 

 

MY ANGEL AMID HOLEY SOCKS
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

Kneeling
by my darning
needle, she inhales socks
dried under sun & wind, fragrant
cotton

as we
did when mother,
weary, brought laundry in
from backyard line, sun-dried, still warm—
childhood.

__________________

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.) Spring is still here—and yet to come, in some areas!—so take on a Florette, with its little “flower” in the middle:

•••Florette: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/essence.html

•••AND/OR a Florette #2:

•••Florette #2: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/florette2.html

•••AND/OR borrow from Taylor Graham’s “Borrowed First Line” form (can be borrowed from anywhere)~

•••Borrowed First Line: Just what it says…

•••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 “Bugs”.

____________________

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

•••Borrowed First Line: Just what it says…
•••Cinquain (Crapsey): poets.org/glossary/cinquain AND/OR www.poewar.com/poetry-in-forms-series-cinquain/. See www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/adelaide-crapsey for info about its inventor, Adelaide Crapsey.
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Florette: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/essence.html
•••Florette #2: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/florette2.html
•••Found Poem: www.writersdigest.com/personal-updates/found-poetry-converting-or-stealing-the-words-of-others AND/OR poets.org/glossary/found-poem
•••Ganta: https://medium.com/@Internationalpoetrynewsletter/modern-ganta-poems-and-how-to-write-ganta-poems-a6b08b655078
•••Haiku: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/haiku-or-hokku AND/OR www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••List Poem: clpe.org.uk/poetryline/poeticforms/list-poem
•••Nonce Poetry Forms: www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/nonce-forms-what-they-are-and-how-to-write-them

•••Normative Syllabics: hellopoetry.com/collection/108/normative-syllabic-free-verse AND/OR lewisturco.typepad.com/poetics/normative-syllabic-verse
•••Response Poem: creativetalentsunleashed.com/2015/11/18/writing-tip-response-poems
•••Shadorma: www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/poets/shadorma-a-highly-addictive-poetic-form-from-spain
•••Tuesday Seed of the Week: a prompt listed in Medusa’s Kitchen every Tuesday; poems may be any shape or size, form or no form. No deadlines; past ones are listed at http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/calliopes-closet.html/. Send results to kathykieth#hotmail.com/.

__________________

—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
 

 
 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center
presents
Celebrating Our Fallen Inspirers
tonight in Sacramento, 7pm.
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.

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Life of a Reptile

 —Reptilian Poems by Lynn White,
Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales

—Today's LittleNip by Michael H. Brownstein
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain 

LIZARD

The lizard ran out
quickly.
He sat on a rock
and looked up
slowly
checking the progress
of the sun.
It suited him
so he stayed
and stayed
soaking up the warmth
relaxing.
Relaxed
but alert
only moving when disturbed
by food
or danger
moving quickly then
back
into his hideaway.


(First published in Blognostics, Feb/March 2019)

 

 

 

 

NEWT

I can understand
why
on a hot, hot day,
Lawrence’s snake appeared thirstily
at his water trough.
And why his lizard ran out
onto a rock
to flaunt himself in the sunshine.
But why
on a wet, wet day,
a newt should leave
her splendidly moist habitat
and venture hazardously
into the dry warmth of my kitchen,
that
I cannot understand.
And, of course she couldn’t explain.



(First published in Foxglove, January 2018)

 

 

 

 

TURTLE


Well, my turtle you may be slow
but you get there in the end
determinedly.
And you’ll walk through fire to do it
and survive the flames
and anything else
that the devil
may conjure up
you’ll survive
it.
He won’t ever make soup of you
however hard he tries
you’ll survive.


(First published in Peach Velvet, Tarot, November 2018)

 

 

 

 



BRENDA’S TURTLE


When I was a child,
Brenda’s turtle walked
into the hot, hot embers.
No one knew why.
So badly burned
we thought him ready
for an easeful, sleepy death.
“No, no” said the vet,
“very resilient, turtles,
could live to be a hundred.”

I would like to tell you
that he made the hundred,
but he’s not quite there yet,
though he still seems happy enough.



(First published in Vox Poetic, May 2017)

 

 

 


THE LIZARD

The lizard loves abandoned places.
They make for an exciting life,
so many nooks
and crannies
to seek out
for shelter
or snacks
from the creatures
ill-advised to shelter there.

There’s compost to scrabble through,
rustic brickwork to climb,
even a tightrope to practice balance.
And the sun
shining through it all
to be soaked up with joy.


Such a haven of perfection!



(First published in Spillwords, 8/27/22)

 

 

 

COUPLED

Every year in March
our frogs have a party,
more of an orgy really.
But this year
there were two late comers,
a loving couple
who waited
until after the party was over.
Lily and Henry were their given names
and come the summer
we delighted to see
their offspring
swimming
up and down our pond,
all those tiny Lilys and Henrys
growing ready for next year’s party.



(First published in Spectrum, Summer Love, June 2022)

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

IN HONOR OF HOLOCAUST REMEMBRANCE DAY
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO, USA

too many hollow
costs never wanting to end:
it's time for world peace

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Lynn White for today’s fine poems about reptiles, and to Michael Brownstein for today’s remembrance.

 

 

 

 

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.

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!

 

 

Symphony

 —Poetry by Mitali Chakravarty, Singapore
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Mitali Chakravarty

—Photo by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, 

West Covina, CA

 

 

MORNING—

Birdcalls each dawn
welcome the day. In
Johannesburg, hadidas
cackle strutting on lawns.

In Singapore, roosters, koels,
parakeets and unknown calls
harmonise in a choral symphony
despite interruptions by the traffic.

Bird songs awaken the sky.
Overwhelmed, it blushes at the
applause. The sun intercedes
as humans recede to work. 

 

 

 

—Photo by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

 

PUDDLE

Oh Sun, caught in a puddle,
shine, sparkle like a bit of art,
convert the mundane to evoke
a mirror glued to the path.

We walk looking down at the sun,
and smile at the glitter that reflects
the strangeness of the universe—
where the sky often surfs waves.

In the day, the sun glitters on water.
At night, the moon sprinkles silver
and smiles quavering out of a river.
Has this puddle captured the sky?

 

 

 

 

EVOLUTION?

There was a time when
birds had no names. They
were free to fly.

Pterodactyls soared. Dinos
walked. The moon had already
formed but had no name.

There was no human to give
birds or the moon their names, divide
species, families, genus and more—
classify into boxes to store.

Birds continue free to fly as they please. 

 

 

 

HARMONISING

Parakeets flit from tree to tree,
chattering in raucous voices.
Few peep from holes while
others pirouette on their toes.

Orioles silently fly among the
golden angsanas in bloom.
They rise like flowers in flight,
a streak of golden light.
A yellow butterfly crosses
the street to mingle with
the angsana-orioles and
the noisy parakeets.

The newsreel blares
conflicts, climate crises,
tariffs, wars—all
human constructs. 

 

 

 

 

KINGFISHERS, SKIES AND SEAS

Royal blue streaks across the azure
dotted with cottony white clouds as
kingfishers fly from tree to tree.

Sea waves lap the ocean floor
moving from turquoise to green with
foamy restless edges of white.

The shushing waves dance to
the rush of the breeze. The
undulating skies blend gold-grey.

And yet, the dead are dug up from
rubble torn graves in distant lands,
worn by earthquakes, or war missiles
that fly arbitrarily taking innocent lives.

Safe here amidst the lush green,
sand, seas, birds and butterflies,
I wonder—was all of Earth meant
    to be a non-violent Paradise?

 

 

 

 

CHERRY BLOSSOMS WEEP

Cherry blossoms weep
tears of black snow.
The mandarin duck loses
its colours as doors close

tightened by hate. Guanyin
begs clemency, compassion
for those that had broken
walls to soar the open skies.

But birds still fly uninhibited
singing songs in myriad notes
of freedom, compassion and love. 

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:
 

UNNAMED
—Mitali Chakravarty

I surround myself with
artifacts from around
the world and make my
home amidst these.

I am of the whole world.
And the whole world belongs to me.  

__________________

—Medusa, thanking Mitali Chakravarty for her fine poetry and photos today, and for the intriguing photo by SnakePal Luis Berriozábal, who Mitali knows through her online journal, borderlessjournal.com/. Small world...

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Julia Connor, Kit Dwyer
& Maris Juwono read at
Amatoria Fine Art Books
in Sacramento today, 5pm.
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.

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Moments of Surprise

 

The Rabbit On Black

* * *

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Visuals by Joyce Odam

 

 

BAD MEMORIES 

—Joyce Odam

Not to be forgotten
for memory is
the last place they will go.

And you will go there, too,
and suffer for them,
having caught up with yourself,

a suffocation of thoughts,
remorse tweaking your mind
at unexpected moments

until you ask,
of no god but yourself,
forgive…. forgive…. forgive….

                          
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/17/12; 6/1/21;
4/16/24; 5/28/24)

 

 

 

The Designer

 

THE DESPOILMENT
—Joyce Odam

To note a scribble on a page
and deplore that scribble
as a spoilage of intention,
or accidental blemish—

or some perfection unexpectedly
loved,
as holy words are loved—
words you read as wisdom,

and then to ponder them as willful,
as defacement,
followed by
a second-thought reaction :

should you erase them,
leave them be,
white them out, if ink—
or trust as something learned,

a thought-barrier of interpretation,
the otherness of it—apart from you—
or sense the bemusement that you
might be the one who put them there.

                                                 
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/10/18; 5/5/20;
4/16/24; 7/30/24)

 

 

 

The Curator

 

THE SCRATCH OF A DRAFT
—Robin Gale Odam  

Outside in the garden, only the
morning—the sheet of plain paper, the
birds in blue feathers.

The hum of the laundry, the comfort of
dishes piled up in the kitchen—the short list
of something to do before nighttime.

The plain sheet of paper. Eight birds
in blue feathers.
                             

(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, Spring 2019;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/26/23; 11/26/24) 

 

 

 

The Dream in Black and White

 

SALOMES
—Joyce Odam

Ladies of dark dresses,
what do you know of
our naked dance;
what do you know of our
delicate fat under the music?
The music is upon us
and we are free for it.
How we shimmer and bounce.
We do not need makeup and bindings.

Ladies of dark dresses,
your eyes so frozen,
what do we care that you tell on us
or that you stand at our windows with
whispers and cameras.
We look at our hips in the mirror,
our round bellies,
our round legs.
We love the feel of our heavy breasts
in our own hands.
We are sensual at last.
We let the hair grow under our arms.

Ladies in dark dresses,
we do not approve of you.
We are the nudists of self-pleasure.
We do not have to be young to dance.
What do you know of our husbands
who weep with praise
and regret for all time wasted?
We are their lovers now.
We are safe for them at last.
They hold us when we dance.
They let us go
when we demand it.

             
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/21/10)

 

 

 

Her Cat

 

  

OLD WOMEN IN A GARDEN
—Joyce Odam

After supper
the old women will walk
through the garden,
limping their way
over the knobby ground
in search of beauty.

How wearily-content
their bodies
take to evening pilgrimage
so they can stand in color
and in fragrance
in an easy wind.

One will gather
a bright bouquet of duty
for the complimenting guest.
The other will accept
with thin protest.

And for the long,
gaunt moments that they
linger, they hang
like scarecrows on their bones
and watch the Iris
bending in September.
                 

(prev. pub. in Poet and Critic,  Fall, 1966;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/18/12; 5/6/14) 

 

 

 

Her Ghost

THE ANGELS CAME GATHERING
—Robin Gale Odam

the angels came gathering—i held my
breath every time . . .

the holy whispering for hearts—i make
no ceremony, it’s their call . . .

the wolf has one—and the raptor in the
wilderness . . .

but in the holy of holies only the raising
of souls . . .


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/16/24)

 

 

 

A Distant Relative

THE VISITOR
-—Joyce Odam

She lifts her sanka-cup
to her prim-worded lips
and sips.
Her eyes smile narrow too.
And the sun
thins down
behind the window
of her mind.
Her passionate disasters
must unwind
to gray forgetting,
more unkind
than rich untelling.
She is wary of confess.
She nips
a cracker
with her careful teeth.
Taste must abstain
from eager bite.
Her blue-vein fingers
tense their grip
on life.
Her hair wisps thinly
in a trick of light,
mending her movement
still
again.
What was said
she does not hear.
Her gaze is razor thin.
She lifts her sanka-cup
to lukewarm lips
and primly sips.
             

(prev. pub. in Kansas Quarterly, 1971-72)

 

 

 

Her Story

 

HER BROKEN HOLD
—Joyce Odam

She was the pretender
of all roles,
invincible puppet, strung
to her own
manipulative hands.

Those days when she
was mother
she destroyed her children;
those nights when
she was wife
her husband cried.

She was the sadness
in the old guitar she strummed.
She plucked discord
and hummed herself
through all the listening air,
then sang the words:
Are we not happy?
Are we not aware?

She frowned. She put
her silence down and was
Child’s black crayola,
holding back
tomorrow’s undrawn art.
She made a scribble in her mind
and brooded in her heart.

That’s who I am, she smiled,
each time someone familiar
came and called, not seeing her
as some receding echo
in the haunted rooms.
That’s who I am, she purred, and was
the cat
beneath the visitor’s uneasy hand.

But once she was a dancer,
wearing motion like
a bird escaped to its lost wilderness;
and because she leaped and whirled
beyond the edge of sound
the drums were rolled—
a curtain stirred—
and music caught on time
and all her strings
were frayed and tangled
in her broken hold. 

 

 

 

The Elephant in the Room

 

HAPPENCHANCE
 —Joyce Odam

We met in a mutual memory—

stranger to each, but familiar,
one of us told the other why :

as if ordained . . . there was
a sort of sadness we shared,
tears came to our faces—

we
held
each other
in mutual sympathy.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/5/22; 9/20/22;
11/26/24)

 

 

 

Someone Knocks

 

THE UNEXPECTED WEEPING
—Joyce Odam

tears came to my eyes
and I marveled

that they were for
a fox in a poem

that got hit
by a car,

and I wept and wept
to myself

in this new grief
that I could not stop thinking of

                  
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/16/24) 

 

 

 

 The Sorrows

 

THREE RIVERS
—Robin Gale Odam

three damn poems
me standing in the dark hour

offering my interpretation
arresting the sorrows

the piper took them
the tainted rivers flowing

blah blah blah . . . it was
a memory—a simple prayer

holding my heart
and keeping them here  

an empty page
three blank lines


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/16/24)

 

 

 

The Architect

Today’s LittleNip:

THE WINDS OF CHANCE
—Joyce Odam

That balloon lost in the sky . . .

That kite stuck in the dead tree . . .

                                    
(prev. pub. in Brevities, December 2019;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/17/24)

 

 

 

Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep

____________________

Our thanks to Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam for today’s fine poetry and photos on our Seed of the Week, An Unexpected Guest. Our new Seed of the Week is “Bugs”. 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. And see every Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.

Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 A reminder that 

An Evening Honoring Joan Didion

takes place in Sacramento tonight;

and Sue Norman & Moira Magneson

read in Placerville tonight, 6pm.

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
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side of this column to find
any date you want.

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Blogspot has been through a lot of
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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
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work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
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Just remember:
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