Things Going Bump Under Your Bed

 —Poetry by Kathy Kieth, Diamond Springs, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

GHOSTS DON’T EXIST
 
even though there is a big one living
under the bed: sleeping all day
 
down there between the dust motes
and the candy wrappers: flipping
 
the corners of his quilt out
of boredom in late afternoon: lurking
 
just beyond the brave beam
of his flashlight. . .  Of course ghosts
 
don't exist: it says so in musty
library books: in the tall legs
 
of grown-ups: in windy sunshine
and kids that tease: in the bland drone
 
of the TV flickering blue in the next
room after he goes to bed. . .  Of course
 
ghosts don't exist: all that nightly
grunting and rustling is just
 
wind from the open window: thump
of his heart keeping time in
 
the dark: ragged edge of a dream
he can't ever quite shake free. . .

 

 

 

 

GHOSTS AND CHILDREN
 
own Halloween, sandwiched as they are
between the quick and the dead.  Not quite
jelled, they flap like see-through bats between
Here and There, like holograms in some
elsewhere-kind of theme park, where they roller-
coaster/bumper car/ferris wheel all day, slipping
 
back and forth through reality cracks to bring us
bits of news and fresh pieces of other-worldly
pie.  Just the other day, I caught one hanging
in my closet; but when I got out the broom, she
flipped back into her bed, pretending again to be
a mere child. . .
 
We earthenware adults had better stand aside,
especially on All Hallows’ Eve, or these spritely
creatures will bump right through us. . .

 

 

 

 

A GHOST OF A RAG
 
stirs in an old window: threadbare
shreds of a once-curtain wave
at the will of the dusty wind: flutter
 
in helplessness: moths with aging
wings waver and flounder, no longer
sure of their purpose: stretch out
 
to bone-dry fields of saffron straw:
reach for withered daffodils once
planted by newlywed hands. . . Ghosts
 
of graying lace still fly, though: still
toss and turn all night, dreaming
of days of being hemmed and pressed:
 
still quiver in purple dusk-wind, as
the last daffodils nod there under
a crumbling window: their pale faces
 
glowing in the moonlight. . .

 

 

 

 

GHOST SHIPS
 
Sea-wives wait for their fishermen.
Small lamplights tat the shoreline like
lace made of flickering fireflies
darning the unraveling waves.
 
Small lamplights tat the shoreline like
silhouette ghost ships in fog.  Still
darning the unraveling waves,
glittery eyes watch for real sails, but see
 
silhouette ghost ships in fog.  Still
the women reach for their husbands, as
glittery eyes watch for real sails, but see
no sign of relief from this pain.
 
The women reach for their husbands,
each day embroidered with fear,
no sign of relief from this pain.
Dread is the seam of a sea life.
 
Sea-wives wait for their fishermen—
lace made of flickering fireflies.
Dread is the seam of a sea life,
each day embroidered with fear.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The ghosts of things that never happened are worse than the ghosts of things that did.

—L.M. Montgomery, Emily’s Quest

_____________________

—Medusa (your favorite hag)

 

 

 

 Happy Halloween!

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Abracadabra!

 —Poetry by Royal Rhodes, Central OH
—Public Domain Illustrations Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

A MAGICIAN OF SURREALISTIC ANIMALS

He made the alphabet of animals surreal,
unlike the ilk that sailed on Noah's Ark.
Brancusi, Ernst, Man Ray, Duchamp would deal
with art of such a brand, a noble lark
demystifying beauty—like his fly
of steel and porcelain—a basin, doves
that served as armchairs, while he sought to try
to make a funhouse with the mirth that loves
to laugh, and not a silent, doleful church.
Working in the Louvre, he saw the stare
of ancient creatures while he felt the lurch
and buck of riding sculpted Apis bare.
He planned a house of brick—a giant head—
whose grand design is now entombed and dead.

 

 

 

 

WORDS OF A MAGICIAN"S SPELL

The magician turned things into tales
to tell our fabled foibles with a bite.
Our modern mode of teaching virtue fails
to let us know our acts are wrong or right.
Forget such lessons, old or modified.
Look deep into a creature's startled eyes,
a dolphin's glance that darkened as it died,
a seagull's wing that flails and fails to prise
itself from oily globs, a starving cat
too weak to eat that once was loved when new
and kittenish, the whale we killed for fat,
the gelding boiled into a pot of glue.
These animals have neither words to say
or need, like us, a word that means "betray".

 

 

 

 

 

CONJURING THE MAGIC OF SLEEP

Beyond the river of stars
I erased myself from the light
and hunted buried clues
to the place where you bedded,
where sleep had promised rest,
a place you had found alone.
Along your sleeping sprawl
flowing linen folds
enclose your legs like clothes
in a hellenistic frieze
and loosely follow lines
of a torso that rose and fell
with each suspenseful breath
like the soul raised in elation,
possessing or leaving the body.
Floating, levitating,
my pivoting, weightless arm
moved—a magician's pass.
I poised my head beside
your ear and whispered phrases:
Let me list the names
of our lost identities.
I will tell such secrets
that every heart reveals
at last, at the end of life.
I know who bears the fault
your dreams of love expired.
Tell me whether you want
to know these hidden things.
But if I speak, remember,
I also will have to disclose
the horror and horrors to come
from a womb of stillborn words.
So grip my hand and ascend
towards that clamorous weeping.

 

 

 

 

 

MAGICIANS OF HEALING

A stroke had slowed, made thick, his tongue
and sent Enlightenment magicians
to attend him, science's patricians,
casting latin words like spells
amidst machines whose sounds have stung
the silence, more than what it tells.

We seek to mint a soothing word,
but language like these stiffened sheets
is dull, unlike the rhythmic beats
of hearts that speak to heart, the hand
that's held when our emotion's blurred,
while life is life and nothing's planned.

A feeding nurse directs him: "Swallow."
His wit returns: "I do prefer
the sparrow," startling us and her.
His history of verbal play,
of puns, conundrums hard to follow,
give a grace no words can say.

This winter ended with that sparrow,
even though the falling snow
continues, making progress slow.
"His eye is on the sparrow." Move
us past our fear, so narrow.
The deepest part of us is love.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it.

―Roald Dahl

_____________________
 

Our thanks to Royal Rhodes for today’s fine, magical poetry, just ripe for the season! Royal says he has known magicians of art, bringing beauty into being, magicians of education, opening new worlds to students, and magicians of medicine, healing so many of the world's ailments and sorrows. He lives in a small village whose inhabitants daily embody the abracadabra of friendship.

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Enchantresses

 Promises, Spells And The Like
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Original Art by Joyce Odam

 

 

THOUGHTS FROM THE SEVENTH DAY
OF AUGUST
—Joyce Odam

This I have done :
stared at the sun too long.

Thought the wind in my hair
was mine.

Ached
to be bird.

Welcomed and given the pain
of love.

Looked through the golden eyes
of the summer lion.

Turned into leaves
soon after.

Belonged to nature
as no human should.

Walked through the souls
of the dead.

Worshipped
weeds and flowers.

Practiced the sorcery
of thought.

Knocked
wood.

Destroyed myself
with seven sins.

Danced in the arms
of a shadow.

                  
(prev. pub. in Arx, Nov. 1969;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/21/18; 1/7/25)

 

 

 

Another Time

VESTIGE
—Joyce Odam

I picked up the lamp and it was empty,
wishes scattered all over the ground,
and no Genie.

The lamp was dented and dull,
tossed away as worthless, and I had
no desire to ask for magic again.

I heard a harsh laugh in the distance
and watched a sinuate figure
vanish like smoke in the air.

What do I care? I muttered,
and kicked
the useless lamp back into the gutter.

                                     
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/7/24)

 

 

 

 A Different Place

there is little here
flowers hidden every year
in your tall shadow

    —Robin Gale Odam

After The Prepared Bouquet, 1957, by Rene Magritte

(prev. pub. in Brevities, March 2020) 

 

 

 

 Heart Of A Flower

THE SORCERESS LOVES 

—Joyce Odam

If I say red,
you see red.
Such is the power of my language.

I lean close to you,
let you feel waft of lavender
from my old flowers. You love me.

I read my book of spells,
every night and into the morning.
You never catch on.

I sigh blue at you
and you hold me. I moan
silver . . .   silver . . .   and you weep.

You cling to my gray cliffs of peril
and I create white gulls
to release us into flying.

Look! We are everywhere,
as in
a swirling kaleidoscope of color.

It is your dream, and I have entered it.
A long thin stream of black
cuts under us, and I rescue you.

                                   
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/17/10; 10/29/24)

 

 

 

 Self-Portrait

FRESH WATER AND THE SEA
—Robin Gale Odam
After “Variations on a Theme by H.D.”
by Joyce Odam

One disaster, one bother away,
maybe Chance could save me again.

The ravens would say, rise up to the day.
I write for the Muse to twine the blues
among the hues of gray.

Ace of magic—return of the stranger—
I know the dark hair, the eyes deeper than hurt.

He gives me a clue, a clue, he says, the some-
thing between us—fresh water and the sea—

the something between us, the clue is the clue.
The clue is the vapor, the ravens would say.

And the brackish tears would stain my face,
and as for Chance, the breath of illusion—

the rolling whispers, the eminent span
of the drawn-out quarrel—he’ll do it again. 

 

 

 

 A Touch Of Blues

THE LITTLE SHOP OF MYSTERY
—Joyce Odam

What we sell here is always what you need.
Amulets and calendars; out-dated stones;
jars of rain that still separate into drops.

We have the spool of thread you lost when you
forgot how to sew—in just those colors needed
for the coloring book you never opened.

We have more : pretty little boxes to hold rings,
a perfect leaf that you passed up when you
were looking through a window to find

your old reflection looking back
through you . . . shall I go on?
We have the key for your travel. The map.

The other side of the door. We have
the book you read and lost, the one
with the pages full of truth and photographs.

We have the perfect penmanship of your youth,
a tube of healing for your hands. We always greet you
with recognition—are sad when you must go.

Goodbye. We know you must be off. We have
postcards for this. We have a cat that sleeps
on a chair and dreams prophetic dreams.

The dreams are for sale. The little bell
on the door is made of sunshine.
It tinkles every time someone comes or leaves.

                                                         
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/25/15)

 

 

 

 

 Today’s LittleNip:

I ASK YOU TO TELL MY FORTUNE
—Joyce Odam

Seven, you tell me, being
a seer, and three to round out
to ten should odd or even
rule. You are so serious.
I watch with apprehension
as you turn the cards, even
as I scoff at their power.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/17/10)

 

 

 

At Dusk

_____________________

Our thanks to those two enchantresses, Joyce and Robin Gale Odam, for today’s fine poetry, Robin’s curating, and Joyce’s fine photos. Our Seed of the Week was Magicians I Have Known, and these two poets are, indeed, skillful magicians of poetry!

Our new Seed of the Week is “Skittering Through the Woods”. 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

 

 

 

 Touch
—Photo by Joyce Odam

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For 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 at 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!

 

 

 

Magicians I Have Known

 —Image Created by Nolcha Fox

 (with Microsoft Designer)

 * * *

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorht, 

Claire J. Baker, Caschwa, and Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Visuals Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

MAGIC ACT
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

All the magicians I have known are experts at one trick. They don’t use coins or cards, nor endless streams of scarves. All they use are smoke and mirrors, meant to be distractions. Before I guess their need to harm, the stage goes dark and spooky. When lights come on, the magic’s gone, replaced by knives that pierce my broken heart.

Don’t trust a magician
who asks you to spin
on a wheel of fortune.

 

 

 

 

SLEIGHT KNOWLEDGE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Here’s merlin swirling overhead,
a smaller falcon, bird of prey,
while ’copter, whirling rotor blades,
the merlin squadron over seas.
Welsh bard and prophet, soon to be
the wizard legend, Arthur’s court;
magicians all in fancy’s flight,
from wand and wind as wander land.

Pendragons, legends of the Celts,
Arthurian by all accounts—
save those where hero of the Welsh—
illusionists—as myths I fear.
Devant they say before my time,
but met each day I practised French;
in front of all he staged his play,
folk mesmerised, what seemed to see.

When trained at London platform, youth,
saw conman with his ‘find the queen’;
as knowing folk, so confident,
fetched wallets from within their coats,
he moved that card, in tromp l’oeil,
so won good cash till crowd caught on,
then left his pitch for somewhere else.

That trickster, blatant, knew his pack,
observant, his diverting skills;
the modus of the conjured move,
for sure we know what logic tells.
Though loving mushrooms in a soup,
I’ve never met the magic kind;
but verse and fellow words, well met,
are best magicians for a broth.

 

 

 

 

THE OWL’S FIELD GUIDE
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

I wonder what field guide
the owl reads, turning
his head full circle
as if to ponder meaning
behind meaning.

Is death
the primary thrust
behind an owl
watching and waiting
on a frozen branch?

I could end here,
but Mary Oliver’s mice
freeze in the owl’s field
and rabbits shiver
under angora-like fur.

This soft night
I want each being to live
wholeheartedly, never be
a stray tidbit in any beak,
fangs, claws, jaws or tusks. 

 

 

 

 

IT SEEMS THAT WAY
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Magical tricks to confuse my senses
People with recall as keen as a camera
Changing any word into all of its tenses
Musicians with perfect pitch, etcetera

Knowing best answer before question is asked
Memorizing protocols exactly as written
Ready, willing, and able to do what is tasked
Can roar like a lion, or be soft as a kitten

Human metronomes, counting the beats
Function quite well without recipe book
Masterful at stadiums finding their seats
There’s always a fish that is caught on their hook

They appear on game shows and win big prizes
Building fine castles from out of mere sand
Can handle large problems, whatever arises
If you are lucky, they will shake your hand

 

 

 

 

BEHIND THE SCENES
—Caschwa

(The Owl Who Waits)

My little house has no
                fireplace,
so we don’t have all
those friendly chats

Also no
                stairs
anywhere, so gone are
those elaborate entrances

For some reason, no
                windows
in the kitchen or bathroom,
so goodbye to all those
refreshing design ideas
based on daylight

It does have an attached garage,
handy for those times I forget
my car key, or phone, or
something, and no one sees me
walking back and forth retracing
my steps

 

 

 

 

MY ROCKING CHAIR
—Caschwa

When the footrest is down, it rocks,
but Rock’n Roll is not my thing, so
I set it to recline and then it welcomes
other genres of musical expression
such as Classical Masterpieces,
my favorite choice

sound-system volume lowered to allow
sleep to prevail, I am treated to the
concerts of players and conductors
whose skills far exceed mine

the formal study of music may
demand that the student put aside
all they have learned before in order
to have a clean slate to mimic the
masters.

No problem, I just set my recliner to
whatever position seems most
amenable to the music I am playing,
and I will join the orchestra, in a
virtual kind of way, and play along 

 

 

 

 

MASS MEDIA CHANGED THINGS
—Caschwa

 
[In baseball in the United States and Canada, the seventh-inning stretch (also known as the Lucky 7 in Japan and South Korea) is a long-standing tradition that takes place between the halves of the seventh inning of a game. Fans generally stand up and stretch out their arms and legs and sometimes walk around. It is a popular time to get a late-game snack or an alcoholic beverage, as alcohol sales often cease after the last out of the seventh inning.]

Decades ago I used to enjoy listening to broadcaster Vin Scully do the play-by-play announcing of Dodger baseball games. Scully was right there at the game and the focus was
on the teams and the fans in the stadium. Each game, he  would advise us when it was the 7th Inning Stretch, and the organist was on cue to play appropriate sing-along music.

My guess is that the revenue stream generated by the appetites of fans at one ballpark was less than sufficient to post encouraging marketing figures on the big board. So today, those of us watching League Championship Games on TV are not invited to share in the ritual, but instead they just show us additional commercial advertisements.

 

 

 

 

SMIRKY
—Caschwa

A cup of steaming hot, soothing tea
to splash right into your face
Nothing personal
My feelings are the roots of trees
that quietly invade your pipelines

So wipe your face and good luck
with all the plumbing repairs

 

 

 

 

WHY CROWS CAW
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Crows didn’t always
Caw like that.
They used to have
Sweet trills,
But nobody ever
Listened to them
When they sang like that,

So they started to make
Strange noises—
Scratchy, raspy, squawky sounds—
Some sounds you’d never imagine,
Completely out of bounds
For birds to make—
Annoying us
To death
And now they make
Disgusting noises
With every other breath,
Until they get
Our attention.

 

 

 

 

BECAUSE HIS MOTHER ASKED
—Joe Nolan

It’s only a
Matter of time
Until the urns
Of water
Turn to wine
When God’s light
Shines upon them.

Normally, this
Wouldn’t be so,
That water,
Under God’s light,
Would turn to wine,
But His Mother
Asked Him to act,
Saying, “They have no wine
For their wedding party.
It’s all gone.
Wouldn’t you do something
For them?”
He said,
“Woman, my time
Has not yet come.”

But He did it anyway,
Because He loved his Mother
And because He could.

 

 

 

 

THE EFFECTS OF IMMINENT RETRIBUTION
—Joe Nolan

The holiness was unbearable
When the Reaper
Came to town—
Sack-cloth and ashes were
Worn as evening gowns,
Self-flagellation
Became de riguer,
Make-up disappeared
From the faces
Of ladies-bourgeoisie.

Everyone got in line
To show humility,
Sorting out the garbage piles
For recycling,
Clamoring against climate change
To prove how green they were
And ladies-bourgeoisie
Gave up their furs.

It lasted only
As long as it lasted—
Until the Reaper
Went his way
Off unto another place,
Inspiring it to grace.

The same scenes
Replayed from
Place to place
As the threat of
Imminent retribution
Put everyone in his place.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

MY LAWN
—Joe Nolan
   
It’s all clean,
It’s all straight,
It’s all plain
And level,

Since I mow it
Every week,
Without fail,
Since I have
Retired.

My lawn
Is a symbol of pride
Of how hollow
I am inside.

___________________

Our thanks to today’s contributors, some of whom worked with our Seed of the Week, “Magicians I Have Known”.

Sacramento Poetry Center has pronounced Sacramento Poetry Week 2025 to be a huge success. Tonight they will present Youth Writers from 916 Ink. Check it out! Young people reading!

 

 

 

 

And a note that the deadline for The Al Cortez Memorial Youth Edition of SPC’s New Rivers Chapbook Series and Contest Submissions has been extended to Nov. 15. Info: www.sacpoetrycenter.org/publications-tule-review/.

And hey—Friday is Halloween! Be careful out there!

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Medusa is getting ready for Halloween!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 A reminder that

Sacramento Poetry Center

will features readers

from 916 Ink tonight.

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!

 

 

 

Continuing Chase Poems

 —Poetry by Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH
—Public Domain Illustrations Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

THE CHASE POEMS (2)

TWO MONTHS ON

Your food bowl and your drink bowl
still sit on the kitchen floor
Not because I don't realize you're gone
Not because I think you're coming back
Just because

* * *

SHARING (2)

I haven't had chicken
since you died,
                       because
you're not there to share it

 

 

 

 

AT THE NURSING HOME

My visits
to the nursing home
are much shorter
without you

* * *

AT THE NURSING HOME (2)

The residents and staff
are still polite to me,
                               but
they really miss you

 

 

 

 

A WALK IN THE PARK (2)

My sister and I still walk
on weekends and holidays,
                                        and,
though we don't mention it,
we still miss you terribly

* * *

RIDING IN THE CAR

You didn't sit
with your nose out the back window
No,
      you sat
                   just behind
the gap between the front seats,
                                                unless
the ride was a half-hour or more,
when you would relax in the back seat
But you would always allow me
to hug you

 

 

 

 

GOOD MORNING (2)

I still
wake up every morning
at the same time,
                          even
without your encouragement

* * *

NOT YET

I delete unread
the emails that keep coming
from the veterinarian,
                                but
I haven't unsubscribed

 

 

 

 

OMNIPRESENT

I know,
            intellectually,
it can't be true,
                      but
it seems like there's a pet store
on every corner

* * *

OMNIPRESENT (2)

Again,
          I know it's not true,
                                      but
it seems as though I see someone
walking a dog on every corner
What it really means
is that I still miss you

_______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.

―William Shakespeare, Macbeth

_______________________

—Medusa, with our thanks to long-time SnakePal Michael Ceraolo for his poems, and our thoughts to him as he works through this troubled time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
the new El Dorado County
journal, Slope & Basin,
premiers in Camino today, 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.

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Harp Strings of Hope

  —Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

AT TIPPING POINT CAFÉ                 

        Placerville

We sip
hardy
coffee
our
cold
hands
cradling
blue mugfuls
an intimate café
white lacy curtains
clean round maple tables
relaxation, a warm uplifting of
elder love freshened, transcendent.

 

 

 

AT CLARA’S KITCHEN TABLE
        from the ‘60s

Restless, my bestie and I
draw on paper napkins
a picture of our souls.

Clara draws a boomerang
beside a cloud, like her soul
is flying through space.
Mine is a lopsided circle.
It looked and felt like my soul.

Clara asked: Is there
anything inside? I sketched
little dots that formed a labyrinth
of triumphs, partings, reunions.
We were excited campers!

Then Rod, her chemist husband
strolled in for coffee.
We asked if he would join
and sketch his soul. He simply
replied, he’d never seen it.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/9/21; 8/14/24)

 

 

 

 

DOUBLE HELIX

Within the spirals of life’s rousing ride
we carry DNA and spirit prints,
plus drama, foibles, freedoms and talents
through every primal and transcendent surge.
Attempting to master loop-the-loops, we lean
to milder turns, to fewer jarring dips—
delighted when we pause and compromise,
cast sun on polar views and clear the fog,
shine up some stellar acts reflecting love.

When joy bear-hugs and we hug snugly back,
we sip the tasty tea of miracles,
believe that we will thrive on earth forever . . .
Yet, somewhere on the journey, planets which
had circled, marked our birthplace, tumble free:
the helix starts to memorize our passage.        
When we can cling no longer, those spirals
give us wings for flexing, letting go, rising high
into our own blue hammock in the sky.


(Dancing Poetry Festival,  Grand Prize, 2005;
prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/23/18; 11/20/22;
8/14/24)

 

 

 

 

TRY US, ROCK
    Written on the Mist Trail

Try us, rock,
dwarf us
to sand size,
yet we will rise
as on wings of wind,
to conquer ifs
of
incomparable cliffs—
to prove that  
with
granite desire,
mankind
can
   climb
      higher.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/18/22)

 

 

 

 

I WEEP FOR GAZA
    at seniors’ coffee club

I weep for Gaza,
such inhumane news.
Grim impossibles:
their food near-blocked off,
starvation’s the stage.

Do you join me as
I weep for Gaza?
Premature babies,
malnourished, will die:
mothers soon follow.

Key leaders, go to . . .
and never return!
I weep for Gaza—
bully Israel
wrecks long-settled land—

the whole strip gutted,
families and parks,
guns level food-lines!
I weep for Gaza,
tears slipping from lips,

into our dark brew.
I know what moves me!
Citizens starve while
trapped in genocide!
I weep for Gaza.

 

 

 

 

HARP  STRINGS

At times, we, the people are shocked
clear through, numbed by yet
another war, rape, robbery, lethal
lie, child abduction, rare pandemic—
feel anxious, tainted
even in our home of homes.

Adapting to change,
  at least we might try to smooth the air
 we roughened
    on jaggedy-edged days.

 But, first, let us be brave together,
  even learn to play
      the harp strings of hope—
 using if we must,
 our teeth!

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

AT LEGION OF HONOR

    San Francisco, California
—Claire J. Baker

Yes,
I too
believe
the still air
clinging close
to Rodin’s
statue
The Kiss
curves.

__________________

Our thanks to Claire Baker for her fine poetry today. Claire turned 98 in late September, and congratulations to her for that! Poetry is good for the soul; Sacramento's Norma Kohout lived to be 102; Joyce Odam was 101; and now Claire is 98 and counting. Be sure to take your dose of poetry every day!

_________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Lee Herrick’s Zoom workshop
takes place today, 10am-1pm;
and the WordsOutspoken
Literary & Resource Fair
meets in Stockton, 10am-3pm.
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!

 

LittleSnake and his pal play
the harp strings of hope!