Oh, Wanted Words!

Mending
—Poetry and Original Art by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

NEW POEMS

Oh, wanted words,
streaming out in syllables,
shining like moon-slivers,

catching here and there
and changing into
blurry shadowings—

like fickle music
for dancers
who try to hold the music

that holds them together—
so young and so old,
desirous words

and sensual,
breaking apart
even as they are realized.

 Diplomacy

STAGES OF THE EVENING
After Le Baccarat a Deauville, 1928, by Raoul Dufy


The party was just getting started, mirrors flattering all the
faces. Polite laughter. Murmurings. Women posed for each
other—self-admiring in low-cut gowns and shiny stockings,
necklaces glittering at their throats or hanging down their
backs. Men grouped together in little conversational pre-
tensions, leaning attentively into the brightness and sound.               

The party was gaining its momentum. A waiter dropped a
tray. A woman put her hand on a man’s lapel; another fanned
herself in agitation. Someone laughed. Someone took offense.
The men gravitated toward the bar. A fading woman sat by
herself in the middle of the din—gradually coming apart with
each sigh of pity for her situation.                                           

The party was dwindling. The room’s brightness glared. There
were disconnections in conversations and in the way the rev-
elers glazed through each other. The women were tired of
posing. Waiters carried empty trays with professional dexterity.
Musicians had not returned from their break. Someone auda-
ciously told someone else’s fortune.

The party was over, the people just waiting for time to close
over them. Some stood with their backs to the mirrors. Some
stood rigid, and some just leaned against the silence. The
waiters carried heavy trays toward the doors. The room was
losing detail—all the color washed out—everything turning
into a scribble—only a sketch remaining.    

 Illusion

GOING INTO A PAINTING    
 
In the painting, the children are asleep in the quiet after-
noon. They lie across each other like tossed dolls—two
rumpled girls, having worn themselves out talking and
giggling.

And now the hour loosens its light around them and they
stir. They realize I am watching them, though I have
been sitting here drowsily making sketches. It is as if
they knew that I

would come and find them there. It is how they look at
me. They rise from their sweaty pillows and move,
dream-like, toward me, their eyes holding my eyes, their
faces strangely

serious, and when they reach me, they take my hands
and draw me back with them toward the shaded porch.
But we must hurry, for a border is closing in around us
—a feeling

only—for the yard stretches clear to the formless and
spacious end of itself. I do not speak to them for I do not
want to break the curious spell of their acceptance of me.

They pull at my hands to get me to go faster. The day’s
light is changing and they seem alarmed, insistently tug-
ging. They keep looking up at me, and I realize they are
pulling me from

a familiar distance that has separated us until now. I
move without sensation. For a moment I wonder if I
should be afraid of them. Now we have reached the
house—still not

having spoken—where they pull me inside the old
screened porch where we lie down together—three time-
blessed children, asleep in the quiet afternoon.

 What Will Break

TANGIBILITIES

We touch what is there with a certain
hesitation, as if it might break—the
hand go through—to some other world.

We crave sensation,
yet dare not learn of sharp, or sting,
we want the illusion.

Now soft winds sigh and rustle—
a shadow that disturbs and flattens—
makes a sound, I swear.

What is, is not. Or never was. But
what of real, we argue, and once more
let the hand withdraw from knowing.

______________________

JOURNAL

Why weeping. Why not. Have you not felt the sway
of great emotion; have you not felt time slip through

before you were ready; have you not favored regret
over favor? Oh, how you like the contradiction

of the mirror—that glass of lies. Break it, and it
multiplies. I say it twice—to catch up—to run past

myself, to run right through the mirror to the other
side of life—that parallel—where I am in the arms

of my mother. Time is on a wheel, rolling backward.
I go ‘round and ‘round myself, always ending up

back to the moment, which is smooth—oiled with
momentum. Ferris Wheel.

 Time Slipping Through It

SLIPPAGE

There will be no coming back
from this,
no turning-around place
in the breakage of our lives.

This is a road on a dangerous mountain,
steep and narrow,
rocks slipping off the cliff edge
and rain pouring down.

                                     
(first pub. in Atom Mind, Summer 1997)

___________________

YOU ARE THE ONE

pale down into haunted dark.
mark its edge.

press soft with your finger and thumb.
feel it resist.

grope past this flaw.
repair it with a shatter.

arranged and true,
like a bone.

you are a mender.
feel the power.

all breakage comes to you,
great hand and chance-giver.

all who are lost return their terror,
thin and difficult to measure.

do not be sad—all mockery is eager.
you are the one who will never.

yes, you are the one
who will never, never, never.

                                       
(first pub. in Celebration, 1987)

 The Shatter

A BREAK IN THE WEATHER
                       
The rain has lessened. Everything subsides.
The winds. The sirens. All the dreary news
the day began with. All that’s whole divides.
The silences stay silent to confuse.
We don’t know how to read each other’s clues
or all these pendings—not just if but when.
It rained. It stopped. And it will rain again.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

VIEW
—Joyce Odam

If windows
expand view
into landscapes and vistas
as real as mind can fathom
and release glass from
reality of glass—
what will break?

_____________________

Good morning and thank you to Joyce Odam for her visions of our Seed of the Week, “Broken”! Our new Seed of the Week is Quick Fixes, something everybody talks about during an election year. What do you think? Got any quick fixes in your pocket? Duck tape, maybe, or bandaids, or magic pills…? 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.

—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.

Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com.
The snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

Praying for . . . Something . . .

The Burdens of a Monday
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of 
Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

EXPIRATION
—Charles Mariano, Sacramento, CA

‘bout time,
only took
since forever

Cream of Wheat,
Uncle Ben’s Rice,
Aunt Jemima syrup

brand labels
long past
their due date

ain’t about race,
but it is

just like the demise,
eradication,
of Sambo’s
and the Frito Bandito,

these, and more
got to go

kick it
the hell down

don’t need
Aunt Jemima
on the bottle
to taste good

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

VIRUS LOCKDOWN
—Charles Mariano

hello?
no cars, no people,
doors closed,
curtains drawn

nothing here,
but spooky silence

socially distanced,
scared to death,
all alone
my kinda party
wait!
is that a tumbleweed?
hello?

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Sue Crisp

POCKETS OF THOUGHT
—Sue Crisp, Shingle Springs, CA

When we think, sometimes,
of western days of old,
and the old-timey
stories told,
there’s usually stories
of pockets of gold.

Some of them are
in the ground.
But, there are other
places they’re found.

Hanging from a jeans pocket
on links of gold chain,
at the end, a watch,
gold again.

Teller of time,
the pocket watch jewel,
tucked into a jeans watch
pocket, as a rule.

Change pockets, holders
of the nickel, the dime.
But the watch pocket
is the holder of time.

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Sue Crisp

JUST FUR ME
—Sue Crisp

A mouse in my
pocket, you say?
It’s my friend I carry
throughout the day.

Some, at the sight,
would shriek and moan.
But for me, it’s never
having to be alone.

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Sue Crisp


 

NATURE’S GIFTS
—Sue Crisp

A pocket full of flowers
gathered on a nature walk.
Sweet little flowers plucked
from between the river rock.

Lost at Sea
—Public Domain Photo 

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE XXXVI
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

when you find yourself lost in a corn maize
and after long hours of wandering around
and eventually happening upon an exit,
someone dares you to answer “How did you
get lost? as if a valid explanation is handily
at your disposal. 

Proust's Madeleines
—Public Domain Photo 
 

DUNKING DONUTS
—Caschwa

(In response to “Proust’s Madeleine” by Kenneth Rexroth, Medusa’s Kitchen, June 14, 2020)


pretty
fresh-baked madeleines
standing upright in a bowl
almost completing the mind’s
picture

query
remains though, about
where is the bag? as if
crinkle chips is the
answer

enlarge
with extra syllables, such as
Commercer or Financier
and let us not omit
bourgeois—

coffee
wife and I tried green tea
we felt like fish out of water
couldn’t wait to resume our
black brew

cannot
compete with the memory of
donut shops open all night
good to the last drop
savor
 
 

 —Public Domain Photo

LOADED GUNS AND
BLANK METAPHOR
—Caschwa

when officers arrive to maintain peace
absolutely everything they do and
say, though sometimes appearing as wild geese,
is meant to control the problem at hand

orders barked to those frozen in distress
put the lid on hot pots boiling over
citizen complaints—silly and pointless
like sunbathing in rainy October

guns ready to kill are pointed at crowds
who seek remedies for abusive acts,
cops standing aside and looking at clouds
not willing or able to bare the facts

how many centuries must we wait, still,
while powers that be mute the peoples’ will? 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

BROKEN BEYOND
—Caschwa

...like an old flashlight battery
leaking profusely at both ends
once the source of strength,
power, and brightness

now decrepit, demented, wholly
useless, something to keep far
from things we truly cherish,
not yet stained by age

oh—those things we were taught!
myriads of ways to curb energy,
stifle desires, limit what we
allow ourselves to enjoy

saving ourselves by turning it off,
only to end up in places where
people rarely care to visit...like
an old flashlight battery 

 —Public Domain Photo 

Courtesy of Joseph Nolan
 

SITUATION ROOM
—Caschwa

the police have it all figured out, done
when a call comes in they jump right on it
and take control of the situation
as smooth as a Shakespearean sonnet

but looking over different case records
they often resolve it with deadly force
jump the king whether it’s chess or checkers
justice will always prevail in due course

to steal a fortune or cheat for a dime
out come the big guns to deal with the foe
thus “situation” is different each time
custom approach would be more apropos

whatever happened to using a net,
so suspects could live a bit longer yet?
 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

SAFETY FIRST

—Caschwa

not the finest crash helmet and fife
will yet serve well to extend your life
cross paths with a truck
that’s the end of your luck
and your obit is nothing but rife

***

there once was a twice in the zoo
it could have been thrice that it flew
showing feathers of glory
recounting the story
of ordinal numbers that grew

***

say the table of elements fast
while your hybrid gets recharged and gassed
your spirits get colder
when you find no cup holder
for that latte you need just to last

***

when one’s thoughts are defined by one’s needs
disregard grows for races and creeds
dare not leave my cup empty
it is 4 PM tea
you are grown now, don’t show me your seeds

***

not a day is complete until this:
everybody I meet I must piss
a reliable servant
needs guidance most fervent
if the words do not come, just a hiss 

 —Public Domain Photo 

Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

My Dad’s black leather wallet has always sort of stuck out from his back right pants’ pocket
    Nope, no “cool and slim” fashionable-looking wallet carried within my Dad’s bottom silhouette
    In fact he’s always carried stuff within his four pants’ pockets that says he’s like a “nerd”
    but for that he don’t care—
    Just like when I was a kid, he’ll still even pull out of one his other pants’ pockets a little black-covered notebook in which to write
    even though now in his 80’s he supposedly knows how to take down info such as addresses and numbers on his app phone
    Of course, I’ve always been most grateful of all when he pulls some money out from his wallet pocket when he decides to help “provide”…


—Michelle Kunert, Sacramento, CA

 —Public Domain Photo 

Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

I have to thank Katy Brown for learning what the small fifth jean pocket is for
            She joked on her Facebook page that it was “to hold the money one would earn for poetry”
            I responded that I thought it was to "hold a cigarette lighter”—
            because I thought it was probably for a “cool” tie-in with the tobacco industry to promote smoking
            (yes it’s been used to carry lighters but that’s not why it was introduced)
            Brown, though, corrected me and told me to look it up, that it was actually introduced as a “watch pocket”
            Indeed I find out that Levis added the watch pocket in 1873
            Watches were then held on chains, and the fifth pocket was to help protect them from damage


—Michelle Kunert

 —Public Domain Photo 

Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

I’ve got petitions online to re-open tattoo parlors despite restrictions in regard to the COVID-19 pandemic
       Even before that, I was never convinced that getting tattoos was medically necessary
       and I’m still not convinced that tattoo parlors are safe from blood-tranferrable diseases among customers, including HIV
       Even legit medical clinics and dental offices have trouble properly sterilizing all equipment used upon clients
       It’s not regulated enough to see just who is properly checking that inking equipment used is hygienic and clean 
       To me a possible infection or allergy to tattoo ink is not worth paying the costly price of such a risk   
        I’ve noticed, though, that so many I know who pay up to get tattoos to cosmetically modify their bodies
        somehow also seem to have trouble affording vital necessities—
        so much so that they may even be financial close to ending up homeless and on the street
        I’ve had to say my priorities in my life are far more important than getting any tattoos
        and that has included spending thousands of dollars on dental surgeries to save my teeth


—Michelle Kunert

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

WHEREFROM COMES THE DIRT ON FLOORS?
—Joseph Nolan
 
Do you know where
The dirt on your floor
Comes from?
How it gets there?
It seems to arrive,
Pre-packaged,
In splotches, drips
Drabs and smears
With instructions
“To just put it anywhere.”

It looks the same
From day-to-day
As though it does not care
About the latest fashions.
I am sorely tempted,
But never would I dare,
To shout out loud
Or place a sign
Outside my door that says,
“No dirt allowed!”

 You want a piece of me??
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

STARTING TO TRICKLE DOWN
—Joseph Nolan

It’s finally starting to trickle down!
They told us to stay home.
We don’t have go to work, anymore.
The feds will send us six hundred a week
Upon stop of state unemployment.

We’re starting to feel like landlords,
Where we get our money,
Almost for free,
Like manna falling from Heaven,
‘Til halfway through the summer, at least—
Man, this is such a breeze!

Before, we thought, when it trickled down,
If ever,
Oh ever,
It did,
It would just be rich-people’s urine
Dripping on our heads,

But now we find
Our accounts are full,
Fuller than ever before,
And we don’t even have to work for it.
We just have to stay indoors.

There’s lots of movies on Netflix,
Though the libraries are all closed.
I guess they don’t respect our minds?
Instead, they amuse us with shows.

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

WINTER’S WITHDRAWAL
—Joseph Nolan
 
It was Winter
In the mountains
When we found
We must withdraw.

To accomplish
Our ambitions
Would require
Springtime’s thaw.

We humped all
Our equipment
Back down the
Rocky trails,
With somberness
That never fails,
Facing fate’s
Stark awe.

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

PRAYING FOR SOMETHING
—Joseph Nolan

It’s just a couple of steps
From here to nowhere.
We look out and stare
Into infinity,
Instead of within,
Which is where
He said it would be.

We struggle
With uncertainty
And fear of the unknown.
We yearn for places,
Chairs and stages,
A place for us to be,
Some sort of belonging,
Some sense of certainty,
And would easily
Scald a sacred altar,
Not once or twice,
But thrice,
And pledge allegiance
To the Devil,
With our tears,
As we go through the years,
Praying for something
Inside us—
Love instead of fears.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

BEYOND MANILLA
—Joseph Nolan

Practice idealism realistically
Or realism, idealistically.
Think of how your envelope
Might stretch
So you lick it more
Than before
When it was just
Plain manilla.
And seal it up lightly
When you know
What goes
Inside.

_____________________

Monday is here again, and today’s artists have painted us pictures and stories of subjects all the way from current events to pockets, and even to tattoos! Our thanks to this potpourri of poets, and a warning to stay indoors during this week’s 100+ weather!

Editor Gail Entrekin from the Bay Area writes that the Summer issue of Canary is now available online at canarylitmag.org, a longer-than-usual issue which includes a petition to end the use of plastics on our fragile planet.

Here in our area, Sac. Poetry Center uses Zoom online for weekly readings and workshops. Tonight’s reading will feature Richard Hoffman and Charles Coe at 6:30pm. For more info, go to www.sacramentopoetrycenter.com/. Also this week, on Fri., 7:30pm: Video poetry reading on Facebook by Davis Poet Laureate James Lee Jobe at james-lee-jobe.blogspot.com/.

For more about El Dorado County poetry events, check Western Slope El Dorado on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry/.

_____________________

—Medusa (stay cool and stay safe!)

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

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.
The snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

Fatherhood

—Public Domain Photo

I CUT THE GRASS WITH MY SON
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO

              For Father’s Day
 
My son, no longer a boy, tall and taller,
Leans into the lawn mower on the hill,
The last quarter acre of land, the grass
Tall, too, lanky like him, allows itself
To shape shift, the first days of September,
The sun on fire, the air on fire, I am melting,
My hair loose over my face like a wet mop,
My shirt discolored with everything pouring
From me, but there is shade and somehow
A light breeze. My son is as composed as can be,
Pushing the mower up the hill for another pass.
When he is done, he asks what’s next.
The silk trees, I point, growing everywhere.
And the vinko vines leaching into tree trunks
We wish to keep healthy. There’s a strand
Of poison ivy. The evergreen needs a trim.
So we work and the weight of the work
Grows heavy within me, but he is not wet,
His hands are not dirty, and yet the silk trees
Fall, the vinko vines disrupted at their roots,
The poison ivy cut at its source. Next?
He asks, but I need a break, our gallon jugs
Humid in the heat, and I am hungry, too,
So we enter the house where his baby girl
Leans into her mother, already knowing strength,
And my son who is no longer a boy
Lifts his child carefully in his large hands,
Kisses her gently on the forehead once, twice,
Twice more. We have to do more, he tells her.
When we finish, we’ll take a walk downtown,
Visit the library, and maybe get a bite to eat.
He kisses her again on the top of her head,
Rubs his hand through the soft cloth of her hair,
His strong hands containing all of her, his baby girl
Making baby sounds, and my son blue-skied happy.

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Michael Brownstein for today’s sweet paean to Fatherhood, and a happy Father's Day to those of all generations!

Clean Underwear for the Solstice

—Poetry by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of James Lee Jobe

 

It is 2 in the afternoon, on a Wednesday. I took a shower a few moments ago and now I am walking around the house in my boxers shorts and tee shirt with a yin-yang symbol on the front and the text, "That was Zen, This is Tao." And my support socks. Just now I have no reason to put on pants. It is 70 degrees. My conure is screaming, but then, he usually is. Conures are like that. I am drinking a coffee, Italian roast. I am 63 years, 3 months, 20 days, and 9 hours old. I like jazz, Spanish poetry, and baseball. Like everyone, I don't know when I will die. Unlike a lot of people, I don't really care that much. It isn't that I want to die, but I must die sometime. This is as good a moment as any. After all, I am wearing clean underwear.

More than 20 years have passed since I have seen or touched snow. This wide valley keeps me warm. My colors are all shades of green, graced with light. Sunlight on lush fields. Starlight on manzanita. Moonlight on the pines. Here in the California farmland, crops grow, and so do I.


________________


I’m no Christian, but those who hate in the name of the Christ? I find them truly repugnant. And yet, may they be blessed, may they be safe and happy. Yes, even them. Especially them.

Shake off that flesh, human. Step out of your body and I will step out of mine. We’ll meet tonight deep in the forest where dreams first take their shape. Dreams, born of spirit and forest mist. And moonlight.

_______________

Now the earth tastes of flowers, perhaps irises, and these flowers bless our lives. I reject the abuses of my mother and my father just as I reject all flags and leaders. The earth and the flowers, the irises, are my family. There is no value to the memory of abuse, and there is no value in a flag. Life is for passion, love, kindness, and the beauty of things growing on the earth. Damn every last leader anywhere.

Fire ignites. Rivers flow downstream. Flowers open when the moment is right. Go and polish the mirror that shines inside yourself, and then stand under the sun at noontime. Reflect the glorious light with such strength that even the stars will know your name. My friend, your time is now, always now.


____________________

Immortal soul? How absurd. We are flashes of lightning; random, lovely, and dangerous. We are those cactus flowers that bloom for only one day and then disappear forever. Why waste your time imagining more time? Bloom, you mad bastards!

Today’s LittleNip:

A strange old man catches my eye and holds my attention as he peers out of my mirror. Wait! He’s going to speak!

____________________

—Medusa

"Life is for passion, love, kindness..."

 
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com.
The snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

 Yes-Haw!
Saddle up. poets!

 

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.

News From The Oaks

—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

AVIAN NEWS

one raven on snow
caracaras soar on air
wren in cavern—
omen, or scene-noir
can sea-swans ever save us
answer: one raven, six crows

LOST AT SEA

Night. Set down here on a mountaintop
with my dog and search pack,
and half a dozen ground-pounders, searchers
in mutiny. I crawl out of my bivvy sack,
discover full moon shining on a sea of cloud
with deep purple islands—summits like this one.
A lost man’s somewhere in this white ocean.
My teammates and I off-loaded here
as sun dropped toward setting,
and our commander, in town, ordered hasty-
search in all directions down.
No good maps, radio contact questionable.
Where would we end up, each on a divergent
course? Terrain too rough
for night search. Team leader said, “we’ll start
at first light.” Adrift on our dark island,
I sit on a rock, my dog questioning
with moonlit eyes. We’ll be headed down
soon enough. searching. Right now,
so far from ocean, this seascape so beautiful.

ELEGY FOR EYES

On the lost child flyer, it’s his eyes that hold me.
Eyes blue or brown, listed on a briefing sheet, boys
I never knew, lost boys dissolved into woods
beyond neighborhood back fences, or vanished
from a holiday barbecue at the lake.

Eyes I remember, eyes deeper than their years.
A boy gazing at water-birds lifting off,
wings shattering surface tension, his eyes
a shimmer on reservoir, on river. In the moment
of a blink, a boy’s gone. Sunlight off water
blinding till it disappears behind hills.

I’ve followed my dog along shoreline
scattering birds as waves over-lap sand,
my dog seeking scent of a child become water.
For a searcher, each new drowning
brings all the lost boys back.

UNDER THE HAWK

On TV, a million-dollar question—

but it was the hawk launching from
oak woods to powerline

that made me forget the forever-
valuation by magnitudes of money.

Hunger’s nourishment
is impetus of hawk flight.

Impetuous?

Questions succumb to the beauty
of it, light in a dark night of asking.

Today, this very moment.
TV’s question is limited by numbers.

The woodlands hawk has flown.

NOTHING IN YOUR POCKET

Come to quiet of a town barely open
for business; partly shut down again. Shall we live
in fear behind our masks and our walls
lapped by a sea of contagion? Airborne droplets
of the spoken word; tiding waves of crowds,
uniforms. We see it on TV. We see
our own town boarded up. Still you’re walking,
bringing nothing in your pocket.
Come in peace, just walking. Overhead a crow
glides silence. The hills stand firm.

Today’s LittleNip:

WHITE LUNES
—Taylor Graham

Waning gibbous moon
sets late, one hunched ghost in blue sky.

White oleander
didn’t bloom
last year—just look now!

Can you see the bee
almost lost
in privet delight? 

________________________

Thank you, Taylor Graham, for talk of getting back to “normal” (as if!) and early summer blossoms and avian news which does go on, regardless. Don’t forget to listen to James Lee Jobe read tonight at 7:30pm at james-lee-jobe.blogspot.com or youtube.com/jamesleejobe/.

___________________

FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY! 

It’s time for more contributions from Form Fiddlers! Each Friday for awhile, there will be poems posted here from some of our readers using forms—either ones which were mentioned on 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 forms and get them posted in the Kitchen. 

Taylor Graham has sent us a variety of poem forms today, including an Elegy (“Elegy for Eyes”), a Prisoner’s Constraint (“Avian News”), and Lunes poetry (“White Lunes”). For info about the Lune (the American Haiku), go to www.masterclass.com/articles/how-to-write-lune-poetry#what-is-lune-poetry/.

Taylor has also sent a Viator (www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/viator-poetic-forms/), as follows:

AT SEA (a Viator)
—Taylor Graham

I’m lost in a sea of grasses
sailed to our shores in ships’ ballast—
Old World annual grasses, my bane

from spring into fall, weed-eating.
I’m lost in a sea of grasses
turning brown, dead, and flammable.

Waves of seed-heads tiding in June
breeze, my time of meditation—
I’m lost in a sea of grasses.

 —Public Domain Illustration

Speaking of unusual forms, Joyce Odam sent us one this week, the Imago (eight lines in alternating syllables, 7 5 7 5 7 5 7 5):


SEVEN GULLS ON SEVEN STRINGS
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

Seven gulls on seven strings
hang in white stillness
in the doorway where no breeze
disturbs them—much less
lets them cry—nor let them cry—
nothing shall break them—
nothing shall take them from me.
They shall never fly.
                              

(first pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine, 1997)

—Public Domain Illustration

Today is Juneteenth, and Michael Brownstein from Jefferson City, MO, sent us this on-the-spot poem about his experience with the recent riots:


MY TOWN’S GEORGE FLOYD PROTEST 2020
—Michael H. Brownstein

No life matters until all lives matter. Black lives matter, too.
Are we not human? Do we not love our children, eat with forks and spoons, go to school and go to work?
Give me liberty, give me justice, do I not have a right to breathe?
                    —Protest signs


We came to the protest unprepared,
expecting a few dozen at most, not the hundreds
spread across the capitol’s lawn, not the anger,
the pain, the poetry of grief, a frustration
you could wear tomorrow and never remove.
When one speaker screamed into the audience,
Why did the white people present—
and there were a great number of white people present—
do nothing to stop slavery, do nothing to stop the KKK,
do nothing to stop the lynchings of the early 1900s,
and then demanded an answer again and again, Why? Why?
I went to the middle and said I would answer.
The moderator gave me the mic and I said, We were not there,
no, we were not there during slavery, and I said my name,
and we were not there when the KKK rose up ugly,
and we were not there when the lynching began,
and, yes—and I pointed to my arm—I am of this color,
and I am here now. (I could have told of things past,
but I did not.) It is up to us to change this—this color—
and if you are here now, it is up to you—this color—
and I pointed to my arm again. You have to make the difference,
you have to make blacks your friends, you must invite them
into your home, your life, and when you see the strong black man
walking down the same sidewalk as you, know this truth,
he too can be your friend – must be your friend –
and I talked a bit more and then I got out of the way
and listened to a lot more and, finally, we took to the sidewalk,
because there was no permit, but in seconds
we swarmed into the street, too many of us,
and we, stretching over two city blocks, took over downtown,
blocked incoming cars, watched as our numbers swelled,
chanted and sang for the mile from where we began to Lafayette,
where we turned to walk to the university,
new companions, black and white, and color no matter.
When we reached the great park before the university, we stopped,
and everyone, as if we were creating a large work of art,
lay on the ground. Floyd lay like this, the organizers said,
for eight minutes and forty-six seconds. We did too,
my hands behind my back, my face in the grass,
my wife beside me, her face against my back and we chanted,
I cannot breathe. I cannot breathe. I cannot breathe.
Give me liberty and give me breath. Black lives matter.
My wife had made a speech too, talked of racism in our town,
a place I will not name – Jefferson City, Missouri –
and she spoke of the many slurs and actions thrown at her,
but no more. This was the time to make the change.
Let us come together and change it. She turned to the line of police
and said, And all of you, you are the ones who must make the change.
When the eight minutes and forty-six seconds came to its end,
everyone stood. We thought it was over and began to walk home,
but something was different now, a cloud had fallen over us,
as if the eveningsong of solution and openness had suddenly gone dark,
but it was not dark, the sky a slow concerto into nightfall,
the day’s heat more oppressive, its humidity scarring.

Why is it violence must have a skin?

The crowd did not disperse, it grew smaller, yes, but stronger too,
a strong that was ugly like those who oppress with knee and word,
and you smelled the change in the air, you felt the tear in the flesh.
A block later a group of whites and blacks stepped from the crowd
to curse the police and a block later the first rock exploded the air,
a second hit the police car, then a smoke bomb of some sort,
and I watched as a white boy ran past me –
I can’t bring myself to call him a man –
his hands heavy with missiles, his face contorted, hit its window,
cracking it, and as he readied for another throw
a group surrounded him. Then we heard the slap of ignorance –
a white girl – how can I call her a woman? – slapped a black woman,
and for a second everything turned cold and cruel,
not like the deaf musician who sees music as rainbows
or the blind poet who describes beauty with the rise and fall of melody,
but as the sudden surge of an earthquake or a breaking of stained glass.
This, too, was halted as soon as it began.
The crowd, much smaller, rolled down High Street to downtown,
and my wife and I turned to go home as a half-dozen police vehicles
lined up and followed them until no one was left to follow.
We watched for a while, then crossed the street,
and she talked to the white girl, who was not in tears, but smoking,
proud of herself and the indignity she bestowed on the protest,
and walked with us as we went home, night falling hard,
a litter of stars, a brightness of moon,
and she apologized to us, and began to cry.

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

In addition to some of his poems this week, Michael has sent us information on the Cherita. Check out what he says:

"Ai Li is the editor and founder of the Cherita, from the Malay word for story or tale. A cherita poem has six lines arranged in three verses, with no title. The main format of a cherita is 1‑2‑3: a 1‑line verse followed by a 2‑line verse, followed by a 3‑line verse. A cherita has five possible sequences from 1‑, 2‑, and 3‑line verses to 3, 2, and 1-line.

Ai Li read my poem, “Moon Shower,” which was published on Mediterranean Poetry (www.odyssey.pm/contributors/michael-h-brownstein/#FRAGMENTS), and thought it contained the makings of a nice cherita. Here’s my poem that she read:

MOON SHOWER
—Michael H. Brownstein

A wet blue sky,
the air heavy with rain,
and in this place where breezes blows,
no breeze blows.

Listen:
the branches of the great trees talk to each other,
their leaves folding into one another,
and the moon slips behind a clash of consonants,
a sudden lurch of lightning
and after a day of beach and sunlight,
night comes with water
and wine.

Sit outside with me a moment.
You can finish your chores tomorrow.
Tonight is a time for the movements of air,
a dialogue of branches,
the conducting of clouds,
and if we get wet, no matter,
I am in your debt.

* * *
  
"Extracting from the poem’s last stanza, Ai Li made a few revisions and wrote: “I found a Cherita Terbalik (the 3‑1‑2 variety)”:

Here is the cherita she published on her site:"

Sit outside with me a moment.
You can finish your chores tomorrow
Tonight is a time for the movements of air,

a dialogue of branches,

the conducting of clouds,
and if we get wet, no matter.


Thanks, Michael and Ai Li, for an intriguing cherita-tale!

 —Public Domain Illustration

Here’s Caschwa (Carl Schwartz), up to some more of his rhyming-shenanugans!

TEST PATTERN
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

province—Ontario
it’s very cold you know
hi-ho the derry-o
just so cold in Juneau

baking heat in Texas
melting candle waxes
cloud with rain rejects us
huge fuss death and taxes

a card game at breakfast
encourages reckless
cards drawn from the deck last
are cast aside worthless

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

And Joseph Nolan celebrates the Solstice with us this weekend with tales of Summer in the Valley: 

SUMMER IN THE VALLEY
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
 
It seems we must
Close up, now;
It’s drawing near
To noon.
To keep in cool,
Sweet morning air
Which grows
Much warmer, soon.

A fan will help to comfort,
When temperature has rose,
And you wait for cooling
Delta breeze
To take off
All your clothes.

It’s summer in the Valley;
It’s beautiful ‘til ten!
After that, it gets too hot
‘Til evening’s breeze
Returns, again.

_____________________

—Medusa, congratulating all these poets for their fine form-fiddling! Don’t hang back, now—give some of these forms a shot while your pen is hot!

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.
The snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

Yes-Haw!
Saddle up. poets!