Words From Your Honeyjar

—Poems by Sue and Stephen Daly, Sacramento, CA

—Anonymous Photos of Dreaming with the Milky Way

WHEN I DREAMED
—Sue Daly

When I dreamed you into existence, I had no idea you would become my muse.  Your presence grew stronger as day went into day . . . soon we were chatting like old friends over a cup of tea. We told each other secrets.  You perched on my shoulder and poured out words from your honey jar, dripping them on the blank pages of my journal.

How very unkind of you to leave me, choosing another writer to inspire! With two books under his belt already, he hardly needs you.  He’ll probably run off with the copy editor.  I heard she invited him on a cruise to Cancún.

With writer’s block as my companion, I simmer in self-doubt and recrimination.  I’m not too proud to beg you to come back to me (no questions asked).  I’d serve strawberries and scones with our tea.

I would do that for you.

DAYDREAMS
—Sue Daly

Doves fly into the heavens,
daylight fades into evening.
Daydreams run from the shadows,
drowning in moonlight again.
Dancing with the Divine One—
dazzles me with Her wisdom,
dreams me back into my life.

UNSPOKEN
—Sue Daly

          for Rick

Left unspoken . . .
rhyme without reason,   
love for a season.

Left unspoken . . .
words made of dust,
time-tested trust.

Left unspoken . . .
grief without end,
wounds of a friend.


(prev. published in Brevities and in A Voice at Last by Sue Daly) 

HOUSE WITHOUT WINDOWS
—Sue Daly

You can’t see in.
I can’t see out—

Walls thick with
good intentions—

Loneliness abounds.


(prev. published in Brevities)

 The Milky Way Shows Her Warped Self

end of earth
—Stephen Daly

they were doomed the year
the stars fell, we saw them
run for cover—
once the sky caved in,
they didn’t stand a chance.
there was nowhere to go,
no way to protect them.
we watched and saw
the milky way collapse—
awaited our demise.

PACIFIC GROVE
—Stephen Daly

A foggy day
at the beach . . .
the sun pops out
from the clouds
occasionally.
Dogs on leashes 
pull their owners.
Cool breezes
blow heavy mist
across the sand.

(prev. published in Brevities)

 Black Holes in the Milky Way

A DAY AT THE LAKE
—Stephen Daly
 
We catch the sweet smell of mountain air.
Crystal blue water reflects morning light,
casts a radiant spell as the sun rises.
Snow covers the Sierra Mountain peaks,
golden aspens shimmer in the breeze.
Strolling on a lonely beach,
we wade in the cool, lapping waves.
The Tahoe Queen churns in the distance,
making its way across this sapphire gem.
Savoring these stolen moments
we enjoy the evening sunset,
grateful for the jewel of Lake Tahoe.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:
 
The only thing that can save the world is the reclaiming of the awareness of the world. That’s what poetry does.

—Allen Ginsberg

__________________

A big thank-you to Sue and Stephen Daly for today’s fine poetry! Hear them read this coming Friday (8/16), at 7:30pm, as The Other Voice in Davis features them, plus open mic. That’s at the Unitarian Universalist Church of Davis, 27074 Patwin Rd., hosted by James Lee Jobe.

Sue also leads the Wellspring Women's Writers Group at the Wellspring Women’s Center on 4th Av. in Sacramento, which meets on the second Thursday of every month, 11:30am. (Sorry, guys—women only.) And she’s part of the Pleiades group which has published poems in the Kitchen, the Pleiades form being 7-lines, 7-syllables/line, a word with same letter beginning each line, and a one-word same-letter title.

And don’t forget that tonight (Weds.) from 5-7pm, Poetry Off-the-Shelves poetry read-around meets at the El Dorado County Library, 345 Fair Lane, Placerville. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa, celebrating the poetry of the Milky Way

P.S. I know I'm warped, but is the Milky Way? See www.latimes.com/projects/milky-way-galaxy-warped-like-an-s/.

 The Seven Sisters, of which Pleiades is one 

—Anonymous Artwork

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.

Summer Blooms

—Poetry and Photos by Sue Daly, Sacramento, CA

COVID SUMMER

Another night of numbness
fades into a dismal dawn.

Masked ghosts walk on
burning summer sidewalks.

Lavender roses begin to wilt
in the fevered afternoon sun.

On the way to the mailbox

I watch the clouds paint the day gray,
competing with a few rays of sun.

Sidewalk roses beg for affection—
deep reds, pale pinks and peaches.

I breathe in the heady cologne.
Breaking off a hesitant pink,

I press the fleshy petals to my face—
crushed velvet explodes on my cheek.

A moment resplendent.

YOUR FATHER’S ORCHARD


The fruit trees bloomed early this season.
I drive the backroads from Fresno,
see blossoms bursting everywhere.

The fusion of flowers and fragrances
offers a feast to my senses—
lures me into the heart of the valley,
the heart of my memories.

I remember April picnics, treks through
your father’s cherry orchard,
our shy kisses and budding romance.

You were taken away in mid-blossom,
gone before your full flowering.
Now every year I drive this valley—
watch your pink and white petals
flutter away in the breeze.

wildflowers

scent of honeysuckle in the air,
tiny petals everywhere—
   and my love, you were there.

lavender lilacs pale and fair,
wildflowers adorned your hair—
     and my love, you were there.

snow piles on branches bare,
stormy skies that do not care—
and you my love, no longer there.

MONTEREY

The mist inches inland,
kisses all in its path.

We absorb it by osmosis—
the cypress trees drink it every spring.

Thirsty roots inhale the moisture—
in peril without it.

When autumn arrives the trees
creak and bend with the wind,

dormant,
       dreamless.

We’re in this together, even when apart.

Today’s LittleNip:

BEAUTY
—Sue Daly


With all the scorn and sadness,


this world’s pain and madness


comes a whisper hardly noticed—
Beauty, you’ve not left us.

_____________________

Welcome back, Sue Daly, and thanks for your “poetry in bloom”! Sue’s poems have been published in several literary journals and anthologies. Her poetry chapbook, A Voice at Last, was published by DADs Desk Publishing in 2017. Sue writes "Plug into Poetry", a monthly newsletter highlighting Sacramento poetry readings and writing groups. She also leads a Women’s Writing Group at Wellspring Women’s Center, and co-facilitates a weekly Poetry Workshop with Joyce Odam at the Ethel M. Hart Senior Center in Sacramento. Her next book, Language of the Tea Leaves (Cold River Press) will be published soon. Sue has an interest in empowering women to write their truth and share it with others. Sue was first featured in Medusa’s Kitchen in August of 2017.

_____________________

—Medusa, hoping you’ll stop and smell the roses that Sue Daly has sent us!

 —Photo by Sue Daly

 

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

Here's the Thing—

Sue Daly

—Poems by Sue Daly, Sacramento, CA

—Photo by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento, CA

MIGRATION

I have no poems
to speak of
none to read,
none to write
none to edit or embellish
nothing heavy,
nothing light.
None advancing or leaving
for a distant shore,
I stand empty-handed
with only this and nothing more.
Nothing pithy
nothing witty;
no endings or beginnings
with nothing in-between.
No ideas on the horizon
Not even a glimmer;
all my hopes
and all my poems
have flown south
for the winter.

___________________

UNSPOKEN

Left unspoken
    rhyme without reason
    love for a season

Left unspoken
    words made of dust
    time-tested trust

Left unspoken
    grief without end
    wounds of a friend

 —Anonymous Photo

DOPPELGÄNGER

Her doppelgänger must
reside in an alternate universe.
She imagines her living in
an Ozzie and Harriet household
with a loving mom and dad.

She wonders if the girl that looks
like her has ever gone hungry
or been locked up for hours. Has she ever
hidden her bruises from the teacher?

Probably not.

Once she stayed at Nana’s house overnight.
She had seconds and thirds at dinner.
Nana let her have two desserts.
She drifted off to sleep while watching
The Lawrence Welk Show.

That night she dreamed
she was wearing a sleeveless
shirt while running free in the wind,
baring her arms to the summer sun.

__________________

GATHER ME

You gather me
unkept and unkind,
you filter me
and find buried jewels.

Your patient and purposed spirit
bequeaths me
a small slice of sunrise.

You gather me
from the four corners,
take me into yourself
then release me,
changed
forever.

 —Anonymous Photo

VALENTINE’S DAY

    Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere.
    They’re in each other all along.
                —Rumi

Like a well-loved cat you
curl up beside me, almost purring,
telling me about your day.
The beginnings and endings
of my life revolve around you.
We make our way around the sun
in different orbits, sometimes
touching and sometimes not,
sensing each other’s presence
within, where no one and no-thing
could ever pry us apart.
We are so entangled together,
when I breathe in, you breathe out.
This is the way it is with us,
connected at heart level,
always joined in our minds—
destined to become closer with
each day passing bright
before our eyes.

___________________

CAMOUFLAGE

Here’s the thing—
when asked if we would do it differently
if we could go back in time,
we say “No, of course not,
everything happens for a reason
and it all brought me to where I am today.”

Here’s the thing—
we spew syrupy-sweet platitudes
talk about silver linings…
(I’ve rarely mined any silver,
it must be missing in action along
with my half-lived life.)

Here’s the thing—
we downplay our despair,
camouflage our doubt
then pass it off as truth.
We say “I have no regrets, no secrets
            to unburden,
I’ve fared pretty well through the
            passage of time.”

But here’s the thing—
sometimes… we lie.

 —Anonymous Photo

BERMUDA TRIANGLE

Eclipse clouds our view
     a perfect glowing circle

Compass spins wildly
     instruments are jammed

Volcano bellows on a distant island
     threatens to spill its wrath

Time-shifting fog engulfs us
     in a mesmerizing haze

We step off the abyss
     walk into the legend

How far have we drifted?
     we have no way of knowing

We look for the North Star
     search for the Southern Cross

Anything to find our bearings
     anything to light our way home 

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

SURELY
—Sue Daly

Let us be finished
with sorrowing.
Wounded and worn,
surely we have borne
this load long enough,
it will not be long—
our music begins.

__________________

Our thanks to Sue Daly for today’s fine poetry! Sacramento Poet and Artist Sue Daly’s poetry has been published in The Clinical Update, When the Light Changes, Brevities, Peeking Cat Poetry Magazine, Poetry Now, Cosumnes River College Journal, Medusa’s Kitchen, Song of the San Joaquin and others. Sue facilitates a poetry workshop at Wellspring Women's Center in Sacramento. She has an interest in empowering women to find their unique voices through writing and sharing their poetry with others.

Today’s poems are from Sue’s chapbook, A Voice at Last (DADs DESK Publishing Co., 2017), and can be obtained by writing to her at jtwnana7@gmail.com/. Sue will be reading at Poetry in Placerville (with Carol Louise Moon plus open mic) this coming Sunday, Aug. 20, at Love Birds Coffee and Tea Co., 1390 Broadway, 1-3pm. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa

 Celebrate Poetry!

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.

What Sorrow Has Brewed

—Poetry by Sue Daly, Sacramento, CA
—Photos Courtesy of Sue Daly

LANGUAGE OF THE TEA LEAVES

She sips tea slowly
captures sunshine in her hair
brushes it from her face
sees her tears in the tea leaves

drifting down to the bottom of
the cup arranging themselves
into intricate delicate patterns
as if trying to convey a message

of supreme importance about
her future perhaps an end
to the strange misadventure
threatening to overwhelm her

now as she sinks deeper
oblivious to captured sunshine
and the mysterious
language of tea leaves. 

 

 

 

 

 

On the way to the mailbox

I watch the clouds paint the day gray,
competing with a few rays of sun.

Sidewalk roses beg for affection—
deep reds, pale pinks and peaches.

I breathe in the heady cologne.
Breaking off a hesitant pink

I press the fleshy petals to my face—
crushed velvet explodes on my cheek.

A moment resplendent.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/19/20)

 

 

 

 

TRAIN OF LONG AGO

Forgetting and remembering
at the same time—
the train of long ago leaves the station.

Tumbleweeds and thistles fly by
in such a blur I cannot fasten
my understanding to them—
to any part of the past or future,

in the dream or the nightmare—
in the black or white of this world
and possibly the next.

_________________

SUMMON THE POETS

Charlatans are everywhere,
promising this and that in an instant—
anything we might desire.

A magic spell won’t keep me from harm,
an amulet won’t bring unearned blessings—
who can find my fate in a cup of tea?

Better to summon my first love—
I’d rather read Whitman
than tea leaves. 

 

 

 

 

 

MONTEREY

The mist inches inland,
kisses all in its path.

We absorb it by osmosis—
the cypress drink it every spring.

Thirsty roots inhale the moisture—
in peril without it.

When autumn arrives the trees
creak and bend in the wind,

dormant,
dreamless.

___________________

CHASING ETERNITY

Time chases eternity
and like the White Rabbit,
I often arrive late—
for a very important date.

Eternity chases time,
what do I hope to find—
on this round rock
of blue and green?

Maybe a secluded space,
hidden among the trees—
where I fall on my knees,
pray to God my gratitude
for a chance to dance
with uncertainty
with eternity. 

 

 

 

 

 

The stars

are yours now,
you have tamed them—
tied them down around
time warps and cosmic thunders,
they bend their will to yours.

Why not corner the sky?
It lies open before you—
how hopefully you have traveled,
how useless to fight against the night
and all its dreaming.

              (for Josh)

 

 

 

 

 

EVER AFTER

dusk unraveled day
as night approached
steadily
relentlessly
cast shadows of fear
blurred by uncertainty

she did not flee this
witching hour but
bloomed within
its clutches
entered with no
assurance of return

stumbled over seven
faces of darkness
danced through ruins
dreamt of light
laced with laughter
ever after
after all 

 

 

 

 

 

EVEN THE CLOUDS

There is nothing to see here.
Nothing more can be done.

She is so weary of sorrow, even
the clouds offer to hold her tears.

The sky shudders,
rolls up and goes home.

She sleeps but does not dream.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

BITTER HERBS
—Sue Daly

Sorrow
steeps the tea.
Mercy sips it.
Regret looks away,
unable to taste
what Sorrow
has brewed.

____________________

Welcome back, a big thank-you, and congratulations to Sue Daly! These poems are from her new book, Language of the Tea Leaves, published by Cold River Press, April 2021. The book is available for pre-sale at gf.me/u/zmw9dj on Facebook.

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Cover of Sue’s new book

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 

 

The Dance, The Dream

Cypress, Pt. Lobos, CA

—Poems and Photos by Sue Daly, Sacramento, CA
 

MOONGLOW

The moon softens the evening

with her gentle persuasion,

the sun keeps busy burning.

He rules the sky with fire,
churning and burning endlessly
while she just glows, patiently.

 Lone Cypress

perception

the moment
     the glitter
the newness
     the bitter  
the problem
     the solution
the rant
     the rage
the silence
     the sound
the coming forth
     the going out
the tide
     the sea
the nowhere
     the somewhere
the dance
     the dream
the stopping
     the starting
the hate
     the hope
the passing
      the present
the lust
      the loss
the thorns
     the cross

 Sea Rocks

BITTER HERBS

Sorrow steeps tea.
Mercy sips it.
Regret turns away,
unable to drink
what Sorrow
has brewed.

 Fannette Island, Emerald Bay, Lake Tahoe, CA

CHASING ETERNITY

Time chases eternity
and like the White Rabbit,
at times I arrive late
for a very important date.

Eternity chases time,
what do I hope to find
on this round ball
of blue and green?

I see a secluded space
hidden behind the trees.
I fall to my knees,
offer God my gratitude

for a chance to dance
with uncertainty—
a chance to dance
with eternity.   

 Zephyr Cove, Lake Tahoe, CA

TWO-IN-THE-MORNING
                      for Agnes

When the cards and calls stop coming
and the mortuary's paid in full,
call me, I'll come.

When the shock wears off
and grief cuts you in two,
call me, I'll come.

When the chores get done
and life moves on but not really,
call me, I'll come.

I'm not some platitude-giving person,
I'm a call at two-in-the-morning
when-you-can't-breathe person.

I'm your person.

Call me, I'll come.

 Tahoe Trees

Today’s LittleNip:

BEGIN

—Sue Daly

Slow yourself down.
Let your mind be still.
Tap into ancient wisdom.
Open your heart and drink it in.
Breathe slowly, drink deeply.
Quench the fire within.

________________

Our thanks to Sue Daly for today’s fine poems and photos! A week from today, May 25, Sue will co-host (with Mary McGrath) Speak Up: The Art of Storytelling and Poetry, Avid Reader on Broadway in Sacramento. This month’s theme is “Making a Home”.

Head across the Causeway to The Other Voice in Davis Poetry Series tonight, 7:30pm at the Unitarian Universalist Church on Patwin Rd., to hear Dennis Hock and Tamer S. Mostafa (plus open mic), hosted by James Lee Jobe. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa

 

 —Photo by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA
Celebrate Poetry!

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa. 

What Can't Be Known

—Poems by Sue Daly, Sacramento, CA

—Public Domain Photos

ALL LOVELY AND LOVING

The sun sweeps across the lawn
where I sit and sip my morning tea.
The light dances and retreats—
forms intricate shapes and shadows
like pieces of the half-finished
jigsaw puzzle on my kitchen table.

Never shy, that clever sun plants
kisses on the trees and bushes
circling the edges of my backyard.
My neighbor practices her cello—
gifts me with a private concert.

Sounds and sights of the morning—
all lovely and loving, a prayer
for the new day ahead.

I HAVE YOU TO THANK

Now the irises are in full bloom
and I have you to thank for it.
You tenderly planted seeds last fall,
left them to scatter in the wind—
to grow under the wayward sun.

I recall those luminous days,
your winsome smile and laughter.
You gave me the saddest year—
now the irises are in full bloom
and I have you to thank for it.

 Pineberries (White Strawberries)

UNMASKED

I wear another mask under my N95,
one I may never take off. Hot-seared
against my cheeks and forehead—
molded by trauma and tears.

I ask myself who could be underneath,
hoping to be seen and heard. The picture
is cloudy, opaque. I barely remember her—
she waits patiently for her turn to talk.

WHAT CAN’T BE KNOWN               
              A Midsummer Night’s Dream
                         —William Shakespeare

I read the Pentagon is looking
for a hundred-thousand body bags.
A Colonel thought his unit could convert
an ice rink into a makeshift morgue.

Apparently, a General asked him
“Exactly how many body bags
will fit into a standard size ice rink?
We need to know, for future planning.”

The tired angels breathed a
collective sigh of despair—
“What fools these mortals be,
pointing the long finger of blame—
continuing their pointless games.
They seek to learn what can’t be known,
try to slow what can’t be stopped.”

HEART-TREASURES

We take a modest walk around our favorite park.
Neighbors, no longer strangers, are out running,
walking the dog or chasing after a toddler.
These days, ordinary occurrences become heart-treasures,
reminding us of yesterdays we took for granted.

We are careful not to enter another’s space,
careful not to spread what we don’t know we have.
Someone comes too close; a slight flutter moves in my chest.
The slogan of the day comes to mind—
“Better six feet apart than six feet under.”

A woman plants flower bulbs in her front yard
with her homemade mask fixed in place.
She mentions she’s not in the vulnerable group as I walk by.
Aren’t we all members of the Vulnerable Club now?

Home again, we put on old albums and sing along.
We might water the lawn or write a note to a friend—
we end up watching the news anyway,
watch the numbers and the bodies pile up.

When I worry needlessly, my son says,
“These are only First World problems, Mom.”
Mine are trivial compared to the Third World’s.
Now we have our own brand of famine and disease—
does that make us the Second World, the Fourth?

Schools, incomes and politicians are collapsing
like an old-fashioned accordion pulled in and out
to play a familiar song. We keep our chins up—
wash our hands and follow the guidelines closely.
I don’t hear much music in the air these days, do you?

ON THE WAY TO THE MAILBOX 

I watch the clouds paint the day gray,
competing with a few rays of sun.

Sidewalk roses beg for affection—
deep reds, pale pinks and peaches.

I breathe in the heady cologne.
Breaking off a hesitant pink,

I press the fleshy petals to my face—
crushed velvet explodes on my cheek.

A moment resplendent—
pregnant, with joy.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

EVEN THE CLOUDS
—Sue Daly

There is nothing to see here.
Nothing more can be done.

She is so weary of sorrow, even
the clouds offer to hold her tears.

The sky shudders,
rolls up and goes home.

She sleeps, but does not dream.

___________________

Our thanks to Sue Daly for her fine poems today! Sue’s poems have been published in several Literary Journals and Anthologies. Her poetry chapbook, A Voice at Last, was published by DADs Desk Publishing in 2017. She writes Plug into Poetry, a monthly newsletter highlighting Sacramento Poetry Readings. She leads a Women’s Writing Group at Wellspring Women’s Center, and Sue and Joyce Odam facilitate a Poetry Workshop at the Hart Senior Center in Sacramento. Sue has an interest in empowering women to write their truth and share that truth with others.

For upcoming poetry readings and workshops available online while we stay at home, scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

___________________

—Medusa

 —Public Domain Photo

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.

In Defense of Xanthippe

—Photos by Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

SIROCCO
—Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA

The clouds come back, the nervousness comes back.
Winds might be much outdoors, yet are no match
for gusts in mind that blanch the grass and crack
mind-palms these siroccos erect, sap, trunk and thatch.
Trees poke till they pierce the mental sky-tent: black
leaks through the sagging blue. Through this blown hatch
come fear-streams, doubt-streams radiating slack
cold limblessness through every numb scalp-patch.

Worse yet, the mind-provoked war on the mind
soaks with such hot star-radiance the horror,
it apes the childhood paper window blind
whose glare spreads buttery-even its one tenor,
the yellow field of sweet derangement choired
when mockingbird song-prattle mimics inspired.  

_________________

SYLPH
—Tom Goff

When he must think about her, long-ago sylph,
how she gleamed face to foot with energy,
how much it must have drained her, strained her, willful
young self-commander disciplined to live free,
relentless as an electric non-stop sitar
that tempers its bending song for immature men,
he realized however near her, how far
he’d have to stretch like Elastic Man to…spar
against her? Snap her back? Turn denizen

of some sweet-smelling underworld of act
of the love that was her, where the choiceless pearl
herself was cast with abandon at others’ feet?
(Where did it roll to?) He lacked, that time, tact
and truth to admit: he loved her slender whirl,
her élan while dancing lascivious, innocent-sweet.

[Percussion, notes shaken on her own archaic sistrum,
insinuate her back in and out of his system…]

 Tahoe Rocks, Lake Tahoe, CA

—Photo by Sue Daly, Sacramento

BAXIAN THEOREM
—Tom Goff

The secret maybe lies in Robert Graves’
defense of Xanthippe*, countering rational
Socrates: the female inside creative knaves
impregnated by supranational,
amorphous inborn forms of the Divine:
thus, hymns to move atheists, filaments of the All
coherent to anyone who knows the Nine
were sisters. The ear turned sonar to the call
of one must receive the ensemble sibling blend
Bax hears. He knows how the lunar rainbow’s darks
can flavor the conventional downpour-day bend.
No telling Xanthippe-within-him where to seek sparks:
Impressionist lilac, orange Asturian, Russian
red-gold, sabotaged with cold sudden swipes of Prussian…


*Xanthippe: wife of Socrates, unfairly maligned
(see I.F. Stone’s The Trial of Socrates,
as well as Robert Graves’ essay in defense of her)

_________________

SEEN ON THE TURKEY CIRCUIT
—Tom Goff

Our mating pair of turkeys has our campus
Firmly in its wattled craws: the male
Gobble-voice looms up big as any grampus,
As he, the anti-Sally Rand of bale,

Fan-dances his glaring sway. But ah, female,
How you make mincing menace as you stray
From off the green quad’s placid-shaven swale
Onto the concrete paving, girl gallopavo,

A confident she-swashbuckler or she-bravo,
And pick your all-deliberate-speedy way
Up the stairs, up to the cafeteria landing:
What are you, black-plumed dinosaur, demanding?

After hours, or else instinct would freely work:
Your talons would scrabble across barenaked floor;
You’d pierce by raptor-keen scent each tight-shut door,
Pounce, snap, jerk neck, gulp. Oh, my Jurassic turk. 

 Zephyr Cove, Lake Tahoe, CA
—Photo by Sue Daly

BAX, PIANO SONATA NUMBER FOUR
—Tom Goff

The jauntiest of these, your terse opuses
in ivory; outer movements both motoric,
pulsating straight for the radiant purposes,
nerve-ending charges, subtle to phosphoric,
sensuous electricity—dare we say fun?
Let critics miss your wonted serious, “dour”
edge: For them, Sad stamps masterworks, not Sun,
however blanket-soaking grim the shower.

Slow movement: capers turn caresses. New,
this eerily soft fingertap on skin:
the pat-pat of a G-sharp pedal point
transforms hard keys to lips whose delicate sin
repeats as it lights on Mary? Tanya? Who?
(You—confuse two such bodies, limb,
tendon, bone, joint?)

__________________

Rilke TriCubed
—Tom Goff

    for Phillip Larrea, whose invented form this is

You don’t know
love? Eyes, eyes,
soft petals

turned words, words
floating here,
there—where?—all

night-held: your
skin, caressed,
remembers…

***

His head lost
with his light,
eyelight. But

vision burns
down fuselike
deep in loins.

Makes his gaze
I-see-you
star. Change, now.

***

Panther, turn
bar-circles
in circling

bars. Tiring,
tight-wound round
core strength; numb.

Pupils fill:
Image, touch
heart, die out. 

After Rilke translations by Edward Snow

 Squirrel

—Photo by Caschwa

Cameras caught pop-star Elton John nodding off at Prince Harry and Megan’s wedding
Watching it I could totally understand why Elton John probably was “bored” into falling asleep—
Why invite a pop-star like him to a wedding and not even have him perform?                      

—Michelle Kunert, Sacramento, CA

 Strawberries
—Photo by Caschwa

 

THE PRESIDENT’S MIEN
—Caschwa

Let me introduce myself,
Hyman the Magnificent
founding partner of Hy
Krimes & Ms. Dameenurz

We are not, let me repeat,
we are not retained by
the President, not yet…
just lying in wait

Soon it will be prime time
to recall the clowns and
bring in some real legal
pros to help the ratings

“E Pluribus Unum” was
written to describe the path
that money should follow:
up the ladder all the way

It’s the economy, stupid!
Clearly, plans that redistribute
wealth to the poor only give
good wine to bad apples

It is in our nation’s best
interest to keep the money
in the hands of the privileged
few, like the dear Lord ordained

Gotta run, file some briefs
down to make them briefer,
everything up to code,
a very secret code.

 American River

—Photo by Caschwa
 

NOW YOU DON’T
—Caschwa

(Inspired by Taylor Graham’s photo
of 2 beautiful horses with blinders,
above the poem “Losing Your Balance”,
Medusa’s Kitchen, May 17, 2018)

Horses, whose eyes face
side to side and so have
a blind spot in front, are
given blinders to help
them pay more attention
to what is straight ahead.

It is not perfect,
but it works.

Along comes the brand new,
fabulous, horseless carriage;
first a few made by hand, then
mass production gives us
skazillions all over the place,
driven by headless horsemen.

It is not perfect, and all too
often, it doesn’t work at all.

Our new sign of the times is the
driverless car, which replaces
the headless horseman with fancy,
man-made computer gadgets not
too unlike the ones that keep getting
human drivers into so much trouble.

It is so far from perfect that horses
are laughing their heads off!

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

DRAFT BY MISTAKE
—Caschwa

It was bottled beer
that had gotten very old,
so the only recourse
was to save it in a wooden
keg and serve it as draft.

________________

A big Monday thank-you to Tom Goff, Michelle Kunert and Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) for today’s fine mix of poetry, and for Carl’s and Sue Daly’s photos! (Don't forget that Sue will be co-hosting Speak Up at the Avid Reader on Broadway this Friday night, 7pm). Carl’s “Draft” poem refers to my mistake on Saturday, when I got James Lee Jobe’s post all set up in draft form, and then forgot to poke the crucial “post” button—heading off to the grocery store instead, and leaving everything in limbo ’til well-nigh 11am, when my vigilant mother-in-law wrote to ask if we had died.

For Phillip Larrea’s TriCube form, go to the Calliope’s Closet link at the top of this column and scroll all the way down to the bottom.

RD Armstrong reminds poets, artists, and writers that the Lummox #7 poetry anthology and contest deadline is May 31! Guidelines for both the anthology and the contest: www.lummoxpress.com/lc/2018-lummox-7/. Lummox #7 is also looking for art (illustrations, collages, artwork of all kinds), as well as essays, reviews, interviews and (NEW!) Flash Fiction. There is a $15 reading fee for both the anthology & contest; this (non-refundable) fee covers both options, payable via the PayPal button at www.lummoxpress.com/.


Poetry in our area begins tonight at Sac. Poetry Center in Sacramento, 7:30pm, with Cynthia Linville and Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas, plus open mic. On Friday, Speak Up: The Art of Storytelling and Poetry meets at The Avid Reader on Broadway in Sac., 7pm, with the theme of “Making a Home”. On Saturday morning, 9:30am, Writers on the Air will feature Victoria Blanco and Jesse Dewhurst, plus open mic, at Sac. Poetry Center. And on Saturday afternoon, Poetic License will meet in Placerville at the Sr. Center, 2-4pm. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa

 —Anonymous Photo

Celebrate the poetry of the glorious Meleagris gallopavo 

(see www.hbw.com/ibc/species/wild-turkey-meleagris-gallopavo 

for photos and videos of turkeys around the world!).

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.