Balance is Key

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

QUICK FIXES                                                    
—Sue Crisp, Shingle Springs, CA

A little duct tape here,
a little duct tape there.
Is there anything duct
can’t repair?

Use it for whatever inspires,
handgrips on pliers, tape
together wires.

Use your imagination
for your next creation.
Enter a duct tape contest,
show them your best,
you may come home with
a Blue Ribbon on your chest.

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Sue Crisp

LIBERTY 
—Sue Crisp
                                                                    
A freedom from captivity or control.
It’s always been America’s goal.
There times those liberties abuse
take their tole on our heart, body,
and sole.

Liberty, our nations most precious
gift of all-together we conquer,
divided, we fall.

As long as we can get along,
together, we can keep our
country, Liberty Strong.

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Sue Crisp

BROKEN
—Sue Crisp

Remember the heat of our passion, desire,
two hearts beating as one?  Hearts on fire
The blazing romantic year too soon passed
us by, and we watched our flames of passion
flicker, then die.

Now only cold ashes, broken remains of our
once burning hearts, scattered to the wind, in
useless broken parts.

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Sue Crisp

TREE OF LIFE  
—Sue Crisp                                       

The Tree of Life, our heart’s desire,
to give us a living history,
as we push toward the future, we see
the tree sends out branches, two, three.

Our lives move forward, as the tree grows,
sometimes the roots are injured
by discontented blows.

Soon it begins to divide, to save its life,
it’s once solid branches, diseased by strife.
No longer one, each half clings to its own,
neither half wanting to be alone.

The Tree of Life broken, each
branch reaps what it has sown.

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Sue Crisp

IN LOVE
—Douglas Polk, Kearney, NE

eyes so beautiful and naive
profess a love,
only imagined,
too young to know, or experience a love,
so complex,
and layered,
the heroic adored,
even though
the love was never heroic,
only fulfilling needs,
both physical,
and emotional,
but the young eyes,
beautiful and naive enough to believe
the truth, otherwise.

—Original Artwork by Douglas Polk

SKINNY DIPPING
—Douglas Polk
 
in the waters pure as creation,
naked and vulnerable,
I held you,
and felt your body melt into mine,
we were one,
the warm waters caressing our bodies,
in love,
listening to the soothing song of the flowing river,
expressing the joy to the universe.

 —Original Artwork by Douglas Polk
 

HOME
—Douglas Polk

the place, nowhere,
in the middle of sand and sky,
I found God,
there were no trumpet blasts,
or angelic voices,
only a soft whisper
in the soul,
saying, "I am home",
and among kin,
residing through the eons.
He is here.

 —Original Artwork by Douglas Polk
 

KITCHEN DAYS
—Joseph Nolan
 
There was crazy
In the kitchen.
There was madness
All day long.

Hardly a quiet moment,
A parade of jesters
In patched-up jeans
Or trousers,
With a woman at the sink,

With a better education
And ability to think
Circles around
The randomly-gathered,
With a pot of coffee to drink
And a floating haze
As thick as clouds at dusk.

With so many
Coming and going,
Across domestic stage,
We’d get an education
From two rocking-chairs,
Set in either corner,
Watching actors,
Over-turning pages,
Incidentally,
With only marginal interest. 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

ZEN AND NOTHINGNESS
—Joseph Nolan

I was growing unattached to nothingness.
They say non-attachment is a virtue.
When nothingness interpenetrates nothingness,
Nothing is left.
You are left with nothing.

There is nothing
To eschew
About nothingness.
You could ask
For more
Or less
Of nothingness,
But what good
Would that do?

You’d still be left
With nothing
But nothingness,
Throwing mind and reason,
All askew.

No need to renew
If all, indeed, is nothingness.
Nothing to curse or bless
In the middle of infinite nothingness-
No need to stress
It’s always been like this,
I guess?

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

THE VACUUM SAID
—Joseph Nolan

The vacuum said,
“I was here before there was air.
I’ll be here when air is gone.
As you reach out for new friendship,
I inform that friendship is rare,
As is care
That lasts very long,
That grows very strong,
Since bodies fall into weakness
And opinions tend to be wrong.”

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

YOUR OLD, FORGOTTEN FRIEND
—Joseph Nolan
 
In this little box over here,
In the back of your closet floor
Underneath your
Last week’s laundry
Hidden behind a heavy door,
I overflow
In silence.

I’ll be here
When you need me.

You only need
To open the heavy door,
Find out where I’m hidden,
In the back of your
Undone laundry,
Pull me out,
Dust me off,
Greet me with
A laugh and scoff
And ask me how I’ve been—
Your old, forgotten friend.

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

LET ME CHANGE FOR DINNER
—Caschwa 
 
when I ask this, it
means quite the opposite of
what you are thinking

had quite enough of
allowing food stains to mar
my best finery

no, I’m going to change
into some attire that will
not see public eye

before I cook, serve,
or eat those baby back ribs
I’ll be as ready

as a grease monkey
in grungy pants and smeared shirt,
wearing a big smile

I’ll be ready in a minute ~ !
—Public Domain Photo

HAYDN STRING QUARTET, Op. 76, No 3, 'Emperor'
—Caschwa

The Lindsays

These are among the finest Haydn quartet recordings to be heard in years, performances which will quickly establish themselves as classics of the genre. They are consistently a degree more refined in texture and control of dynamic, while the ensemble is more polished.
 

I brought my kazoo
and auditioned for a part
they had no trouble

promptly reaching a
unanimous decision
to not include me

and I worked so hard
to produce the very best
nasal kazoo sounds

sometimes, no matter
what you do, naysayers slap
you where it hurts most 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan
 

TRICKLE DOWN
—Caschwa

he had not always been a full time
Republican, but when Ronald Reagan
said people should pull themselves up
by their bootstraps, he boarded that
train for the long haul

then one day at the train station, his
black face grinning, he reached down
to pull up his bootstrap and someone
cried out “gun!” and then several
security officers shot him in the back

they left him to bleed out on the floor
cursing him for causing such a mess
calling him every foul name in the book
and several too raunchy to be printed
they didn’t bother so see if he had family

and so the trickle down theory had
double-underline zero to do with daily
economic matters, and everything to do
with instilling fear in the hearts and minds
of “Black Lives Matter” protesters 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

QUICK CRUCI-FIXES
—Caschwa 
 
Greater love has no man,
than that he lay down his
futures trading funds to
buy quick crucifixes

using a standardized
legal agreement to
buy or sell something at
a predetermined price

at a specified time
in the future, between
parties not known to each
other, all for our sins

no one can resist such
golden commodities
well infused with meaning
they will sell like pancakes 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan

LEFT WITH DUST
—Caschwa

convenience tools
can lighten your load with those
heavy, daily chores

excess writing can
be edited down to read
like a good novel

exquisite cuisine
must still be apportioned to
a proper serving

unfeeling stone can
be whittled away until
fine art emerges

but do not chisel
investment portfolios
where balance is key

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip(s):

SNACK TIME
—Caschwa

googelly, goggelly
Salmon are wonderful
friends you can talk to, but
I have a hunch

don’t sit too closely, ‘cause
danger is lurking near
big pterodactyls will
eat you for lunch

* * *

NOT IN AMERICA
—Caschwa

higgety jiggety
not in America
this isn’t happening
please make it stop

different due process
standards are coloring
unconstitutional
murder by cop

* * *

MAYBE NOT
—Caschwa

can we ever stop
cruel and unusual crimes
with punishments that
fall short of qualifying
as cruel and unusual?

________________________

Thanks to today’s poets for weaving their words so deftly, and for photos and artwork to keep us all on track! Mondays have such variety in the Kitchen that it makes my head spin (in a good way, of course). These colorful poems come from a variety of sources: recent Seeds of the Week, current events, politics, pandemics and the personal. One wonders if “Kitchen Days” is how Joseph Nolan sees life in Medusa’s Kitchen. Well, he’s not far wrong, except for the part about the cook's “… ability to think/Circles around/The randomly-gathered…” I’m spinning in circles, alright, but not that kind ~

Sacramento poet Jennifer O’Neill Pickering writes that her new book of poetry, Fruit Box Castles: Poems From a Peach Rancher’s Daughter is available for pre-order from Finishing Line Press at www.finishinglinepress.com/product/fruit-box-castles-poems-from-a-peach-ranchers-daughter-by-jennifer-oneill-pickering/. Congratulations, Jennifer!
 
 Sac. Poetry Center uses Zoom for weekly readings and workshops. For more info, go to www.sacramentopoetrycenter.com/. Also this week, on Friday at 7:30pm, there will be a video poetry reading on Facebook by Davis Poet Laureate James Lee Jobe at james-lee-jobe.blogspot.com and/or www.youtube.com/jamesleejobe/.

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

____________________

—Medusa, still trying to tame them snarky snakes ~

 —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!

A Raisin in the Sun

—Public Domain Photo

HARLEM
—Langston Hughes (1902-1967)

What happens to a dream deferred?

      Does it dry up
      like a raisin in the sun?
      Or fester like a sore—
      And then run?
      Does it stink like rotten meat?
      Or crust and sugar over—
      like a syrupy sweet?

      Maybe it just sags
      like a heavy load.

      Or does it explode?

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip(s):
 
Ultimately I’m about liberty and I think you have to defend it.

* * *

Wider perspectives are needed now.

—David Hockney

____________________

—Medusa

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.

Accommodating the Dream People

—Poetry by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA


—Public Domain Photos 

Courtesy of James Lee Jobe

The COVID virus, like nightfall, is making its way around the world. I can only just manage to not give in to fear, but grief? How does one handle grief for thousands? For hundreds of thousands? Here, as I write, it is sunrise, and the light is golden as it tops the dark green pines to my east. Lovely, so lovely.


___________________

The deer and the raccoons don’t know that we two-leggeds are all ordered to take shelter in our homes. To stay put. A disease is out and about. Free from the weight of worry, the four-leggeds are out munching in the pale light of a waning crescent moon. Bon appétit, my friends. A night in the very early springtime.


People might call the sound a ‘quack,’ but to me it sounds as if the duck paddling about on Putah Creek is requesting a hat. And I have one, but it’s on my head and I intend to leave it there. I do wish the bird a fine morning, and I continue my stroll through the arboretum with my hat firmly in place, where it disturbs the mist and light drizzle coming down.

__________________

Tree branches flailing in the wind. Crows loudly claiming territory. The river when it’s in a hurry. The sky is thundering about a coming storm. The earth when she shakes and rolls. Leather shoes dancing over a hardwood floor. The automobile horn under an angry hand. The chattering squirrel. The orca lowing in the deep. Things and beings speak. Ssh. Listen.

At the end of this poem, say your name out loud. Close the book, or turn off the screen and re-enter your life, but not the place where you exited.

Re-enter your life at the next sunrise. Re-enter your life at the place where you stopped growing. Re-enter your life at the place where you shut down and start up again.

Everything that happened, every joy, every sorrow happened because of the grace of your life. This existence belongs to you and no other. No one else commands you.

At the end of this poem say your name out loud. You are defined only by the walls you built yourself. Tear them down now and walk away from the rubble. Kick and pull and rage until the walls come down, and re-enter your own life. No one can stop you and no one can start you, friend, this life is yours. Yours.

At the end of this poem say your name out loud. This poem is over now.

I am building a tiny bed inside of the bed I already have, so that the dream people can sleep when I sleep. You know, those strangers that you see sometimes in dreams. I’ll make the bed from the softest of yawns and nice thoughts, and cover that with sweet sentences that help the dream people feel relaxed and at home. Good night, it's time for bed. 


____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The sun, the moon, the stars; they're all silent. I'm sure there is a lesson in that.

—James Lee Jobe

____________________

Thank you, James Lee Jobe, for your poetry on this Fourth of July, 2020. And here’s a reminder that James’ weekly video poetry readings continue, posted before 7:30 pm each Friday at
www.youtube.com/jamesleejobe & james-lee-jobe.blogspot.com/. This week he’ll be reading from Robert Bly's collection, My Sentence Was A Thousand Years Of Joy. Both websites have poetry for everyone all the time.


—Medusa, trying hard to listen on this 244th July 4th ~

 "I, too, sing America…"
—from Langston Hughes' “I, Too” 

(www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47558/i-too)
—Fireworks Photo by Katy Brown, Davis, CA (Thanks, Katy!)

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!
 

Delicate as Old Lace

—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
—And Form Fiddlers’ Friday, too!

FIELD CHERITA

In the sun-burnt field of dead grasses
you searched a field guide
for this living green just opening

in milkweed blooms

a moth delicate as old lace
chose it above all lilies of the field.

QUICK-STEP

He’s practically blind but
can see her moving ahead of him
down the hill, dodging rocks
and stumps—this land
he used to walk in the dark
without a light, land he knew
by heart back then, and even now
by quirks of memory.
She’s become his eyes, guiding
ahead then walking back-
wards to keep him coming true,
keep him from driving
into the ditch with his rancher’s
quad. She doesn’t wish
to be run over, either. It’s
a dance she does in work boots
and the give-&-take of
forwards and back, to music
of his freedom machine.

QUICK FIX
(a Haibun)

She dreamed or woke to sound of mice rummaging the bedroom, rushing the hall, gnawing tin and glass fortifications of kitchen, pantry. As if the house lacked latches, mouse scat everywhere. Mouse traps flipped end over end, cheese-bait stolen. On the window-sill, trap sprung, blood sprayed over pane and sink, one mouse caught in trap-jaw, another dangling by a paw. Their dead eyes, ears, whiskers. Two mice with one stone. Why feel guilty over dead vermin? A rodent dynasty to take their place. No. A cat shall join the mix, she thinks. Quiet as cat-paw,

dark as the crevice
whence comes the mouse and whither
it shall steal away

BIG BOOK OF WHY   
(a Book Spine Poem)

the message of the stars
more than soil more than sky
wild
sound and sense
pity the beautiful
house of light
on the wild edge
straw for the fire
pale fire
questions about angels
fooling with words
hidden in the chaparral
silent spring
cloud of sparrows
in search of the wild dulcimer
the branch will not break

THISTLE KING
(an Imago)

Milk thistle rules the creekbed—
purple crowns in spring,
thorn-blade leaves brittle by June,
thistledown in breeze—
but there’s no breeze this morning
to make the dead stalks
quiver, bow—flash of wings, gold-
finch loves thistle-seed.

FIRE CLOUD   
(some Ivors)

The eastern sky’s on fire.

Gold-amber sunlit cloud.

Our fields gone dark as night.

Raincloud full of lightning?

Birds asleep on branches.

Flaming dreams past sunset.

Hymn to moon-cloud’s silver.

Today’s LittleNip:

BLUEBIRD
(a Pleiades)
—Taylor Graham

Beginnings of a new nest—
bluebird nest of field grasses
brown, rough, dead, woven in a
box installed on pasture fence
by bird-loving folks who build
boxes and watch the sky for
bright blue flashes of bluebird.

____________________

Bushel of thanks to Taylor Graham this week for her fine poetry and for intriguing forms such as:

•••a Cherita (medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/search?q=cherita);
•••a Book Spine Poem (law.marquette.edu/facultyblog/2020/04/national-poetry-month-create-book-spine-poetry);
•••a Haibun (www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form);
•••an Imago (eight lines in alternating syllables, 7 5 7 5 7 5 7 5);
•••Ivors (6-syllable Imagist poems); and
•••a Pleiades (www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/pleiades.html).

Check out today's post above for examples of these.

____________________

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.

Lately in this Snake pit, mention has been made of the Book Spine Poem (law.marquette.edu/facultyblog/2020/04/national-poetry-month-create-book-spine-poetry), which is actually a close relative of the List Poem (www.rcowen.com/PDFs/Franco Ch 20 for web.pdf) and the Found Poem (www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/found poem). The List and the Found Poems can be all sorts of subjects and forms, often including Anaphoras (literarydevices.net/anaphora). The Book Spine Poem is more restricted, using only book titles—but of course, since poets do lie, who’s to say that the titles you use actually ARE real books… Anyway, whatever your version of the truth is, see Taylor Graham’s Book Spine Poem, “Big Book of Why”, on her post today, and give this fun form a fiddle! 

Carl Schwartz (Caschwa) has been doodling with forms this week, as always (he likes making them up as well as going traditional, or variations on traditional). About this first poem, he writes: “Here is a poem in the syllable form of 8/8/5. I didn’t see a reference to this exact form on the Internet, but then, no one lives that long to see all that is on the Internet.” [Or, we might add, all the forms that have popped into existence over lo, these many years—and still pop up even as we speak.]
Here is Carl’s 8/8/5, which probably should have a name, if it isn’t already an officially formal form. (Wow! an “umlaut convention”!)

WE’VE MET THEM
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

those individuals who bring
their fanciest tilde to an
umlaut convention

psychiatrists who have you lie
down and blurt out all you know, while
they do Sudoku

politicians who spread their arms
widely enough to reach into
your deepest pockets

little children who easily
comprehend the inner workings
of modern gadgets

poets who capture our most well-
kept secrets, and publish them for
all the world to know

For the difference between the umlaut and the diaeresis, "The Curse of the Diaeresis", go to www.newyorker.com/culture/culture-desk/the-curse-of-the-diaeresis.

As for spilling secrets, Carl, it’s the poets themselves who spill. Just read between those lines… 

Carl writes a very smooth Villanelle. Here’s his latest:


SELLOUT
—Caschwa

sold down the river, trusting ticket sales
but they didn’t show up because “enough”
only got minnows when expecting whales

sign a release in case your body fails
you just can’t make up this dubious stuff
sold down the river, trusting ticket sales

diehard fans stand and lean against the rails
no matter what else happens they are tough
only got minnows when expecting whales

don’t bother fact-checking these holy grails
believe the experience in the rough
sold down the river trusting ticket sales

batten the hatches and trim all the sails
watch for the lighthouse up high on the bluff
only got minnows when expecting whales

hard to look faithful when confidence pales
birthday cake candles that fight your best puff
sold down the river, trusting ticket sales
only got minnows when expecting whales 

 You must remember this, a hiss is just a hiss…
—Public Domain Photo

And here’s a sonnet from Carl:
 

AN EVOLUTION
—Caschwa

pen to paper poetry, classical
expressions of heretofore forbidden
feelings released, comical, musical
shielding our eyes from squalor, rat-ridden

furniture, low life, service to the king
then someone invented the typewriter
clickety, clackety, ring and then ding
words came out faster than people could sing

the microchip, word processor, faster!
writers sit at a triple manual
bass pedals below that shake the plaster
words drawn from your senior high annual

and where are we going with all these toys?
just girls will be girls, and boys will be boys

____________________

Between SnakePals Taylor Graham and Caschwa, we have plenty of food for thought, pen and computer today! Would you like to be a SnakePal? All you have to do is send poetry and/or photos and artwork to kathykieth@hotmail.com.

Remember: the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

____________________

—Medusa

—Public Domain Photo 

Courtesy of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

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.

Fog and the Fat Cat

—Poetry by Catherine Fraga, Sacramento, CA
—Public Domain Photos

THE BODY COLLECTOR

If you asked him,
which you won’t
because the question
is trapped for eternity
in your throat,
he would nod yes,
he remembers
every body.
In the first eight days
of the coronavirus,
1,891 New Yorkers died
in their homes.
Slumped on a kitchen floor
of chipped linoleum.
On a bed, sheets dotted
with tight fist marks.
On a faded dark green sofa
with an ivory afghan.
On the first day,
in an apartment in
Midwood, Brooklyn,
Mr. Henry’s mouth is still ajar.
His gray cardigan is still buttoned,
one shoe missing.
Even with the restriction
of wearing a body length
plastic protective gown,
a surgical mask,
thick blue gloves,
the collector tries to keep
Mr. Henry’s head
straight on the pillow.
He tucks a tissue between
the man’s lips,
covers him with a sheet.
The collector makes no space
for sadness.
He does not know
how to name it.

THE PROBLEM WITH IGNORANCE DURING A PANDEMIC

Fog arrives near dawn, when the temperature of the day is at its lowest and the earth at its most vulnerable. I think about Carl Sandburg’s famous poem about fog, arriving on little cat feet. A single-minded virus enters the landscape, as quiet and unsuspecting as a cat. Lingering behind wet clouds of deceit. A cat takes her sweet time before moving on and disappearing. The virus ignores the rules. Continues to hover through afternoon. We wait for evening, certain that relief will consume us. Impatient for the sun to set, the color of a marble you fought to keep. It is agony, but we must wait and wait for the end of the gray. Even when the president tells us the churches will be packed and Easter will be a beautiful time. 

NEAR THE KENYAN BORDER

Pandemic mask tight
against nose and mouth,
fruitless protection
against his agony.
He squints at the
swarm of desert locusts
consuming his fields,
inhaling the grasses with abandon,
voracious in their task,
fields meant only
for his livestock
to thrive,
not die from hunger.
A failed garden of cassava,
a local staple,
translates to certain death.
He worries about travel restrictions
from the corona virus,
delivery of pesticides delayed.
Six inches below his aching feet,
more evil transpires,
locusts bury their eggs,
a place where pesticides
do not invade. 

WHAT WE MISS WITHOUT MUSEUMS

Listen, are you breathing, just a little, and calling it life?
                              —Mary Oliver, Poet
 

After this is over,
yes, I want too much.
A weekend at the ocean,
coffee and grilled cheese
at The Fat Cat Café,
sharing a picnic
of oranges and ham sandwiches
with my sons
in Central Park.
And a day to wander
this way and that,
through the impossibly
high ceilinged rooms
of a museum.
Inhale every photograph,
every painting
every story.
Museums know
the desire of our hands.
Guards appear around corners
to caution us back.
Everything untouchable
yet so evocative of touch.
We lean in:
the paint is thick,
the texture melancholy,
sometimes celebratory.
And deep within a brush stroke
of burnt sienna,
or a photograph of Medicine Crow,
wizened and proud, 
We remember again
our extraordinary freedom.

ALEXA AND THE PANDEMIC

When I must hear
Marvin Gaye’s voice
filling my kitchen,
she accommodates.
She even knows that
“Sexual Healing” is
the song I want played first.

She reports the weather,
the current time in South Africa,
the population of Belgium,
how long to bake chicken thighs,
the ingredients
for Dorie Greenspan’s
lemon breakfast cake.

Two days ago
I misplace my cell phone;
Alexa calls me
and I recover it 
under the comforter.

Her knowledge and
expertise is remarkable,
and she never fails to impress
friends and family visitors.

Things she will never know:
the weight of isolation
settling on my shoulders,
under my skin,
and the answer to
when will this be over?

COVID-19: CIVILIZATION ON TEMPORARY FURLOUGH

We gasp at the photographs
filling social media,
videos of wild animals thriving
in newly deserted cities,
just shadowy power lines and antlers.
One journalist calls it
the return of the repressed.
The truth, however,
is sobering.
Most of these creatures
have been there all along.
It is merely a revelation of things
that have always been,
but have gone unnoticed.
Bathed in sunlight,
nothing to see now but
Japanese sika deer
walking the streets of Nara,
wild boar roaming Italian towns.
A family of Egyptian geese crossing
the empty tarmac of Tel Aviv’s airport.
Goats clipping garden hedges
and cantering along the streets
of a Welsh seaside.
Flocks of wild turkeys
strutting about Harvard Yard,
remembering the forest that once grew there.
Wide deserted sands
packed with flocks of seabirds and turtles.
The Venetian fish were always there,
now no longer hidden
in the muddied waters.
These returning animals
carry a promise of survival,
a vision of recovery.
They are far from flesh and bone.
They are emissaries of hope
and possibility,
a better world when
the darkness is gone.

_______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

PANDEMIC PROJECT
—Catherine Fraga

Several months ago,
my neighbor
bought a kitchen chair
at a yard sale. Today, I watch her
garage door moan open.
She begins to strip
the chair’s former lives away.
I watch history
fall in tiny paint flecks
on the cement floor.
First, a shade of
dark, denim blue,
next a moss green,
finally designer maroon,
all three colors,
fragile memories exhausted
in scattered piles,
and a stripped chair,
its bones readying
for revival.
 
______________________

—Medusa, with our gratitude to Catherine Fraga today for her poetry about this pandemic and its effects on our lives. (No quick fixes here!)

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!

 

 Alexa—More snake-food, pronto! 

  

Doing Good For Others

—Poetry by Linda Klein, Los Angeles, CA

—Public Domain Photos

POSSESSIONS
(a sonnet)

I packed a box with dad's books to give away,
also his smoking pipes and humidor.
His fine silk ties in a corner I laid,
and folded shirts that he had never worn,
a pen and pencil set that bore his name,
engraved with letters in fourteen-karat gold,
chessboard and pieces, how he loved the game,
and leather slippers, not so very old.

Along with these, I packed my memories
in every single layer of the carton.
with sincere hopes dad's precious things might please
some young fellow whose life was only starting.

To think the sum of a life can finally be
mere possessions is something that bothers me.

A NYMPH IN THE BREAKWATER

Crouch down by the side
of the warped, wooden jetty.
Curve your young body
into a fibrous niche.
You can just about fit,
all but your feet.
They slide on the slimy sand
washing away from the breakwater with each wave.

This structure will not betray you.
When the boy runs by,
he will not notice those small toes
as he runs in the hot dry sand,
searching and calling out to you,
without knowing you are so near,
near enough so that
you dare not giggle as you see him go by.

A YOUNG TURTLE

Slowly,
the turtle
opened her eyes,
crease by crease.
She poked her head out
from under her shell.
At first,
everything was blurry.
Then she noticed the light.
She moved hesitantly,
on her small clawed feet.
She wished she could
take longer strides,
stretch those tiny legs,
but try as she might,
they would only go so far.
Her shell was heavy.
If only she could
slough it off.
Miserable,
she began to quiver
with frustration
until she toppled over,
her hard, tile-patterned shell
on the ground,
her head and feet
moved frantically.
Her struggle seemed endless.
An older, larger turtle
ambled by.
Seeing her distress,
he calmly and carefully
flipped her upright
with his own small front feet.
She noticed his confidence
and how he was able to do good
despite his limitations.
She would learn to be like that.

                                       
AN ELEPHANT ADVOCACY

Elias appeared before a panel of five human judges
appointed to decide whether or not to take action.
As he entered the chamber, they endeavored to suppress elbowing nudges.
There were four men and one woman, each from various factions.

The chairman motioned Elias forward.  Huge and ungainly his body seemed,
and yet he had a gentle kind of elegance.
The proud pachyderm, it had been deemed,
would represent all of nature's elephants.

Elias moved closer, humbly bowed his enormous head
and twirled his agile trunk,
eliciting a chorus of gasps, which finally led
the chairman to put down his gavel with a clunk.

The elephant began, "Sirs and Madam, I speak on behalf of all elephants,
both African and Asian alike.
I plead for your consideration of our relevance
in the ongoing cycle of mutual life.

"Notwithstanding the danger from fierce carnivores,
we face a greater threat
from the avarice of ivory poachers, more
murderous than any animal yet.

"We need land on which our herds may roam safe and free,
to live and breed in harmony
with both man and beast,
while using our tusks and heft for self defense and clearing dead trees.

"We consume shrubs and plants, thus preventing fires.
The steps of our heavy feet till the soil topping,
creating space in the muddy mire
for new seeds carried and deposited with our droppings."

The judges listened to Elias with care
as the elephant explained, and were aghast
at how this simple creature could lay facts bare,
then remembered his descent from a mighty mammoth and mastodon past.

Elias waited while they conferred together.
He felt their compassion and understanding,
and was confident it would no longer be a question of whether.
For survival of the elephant is, as their own, immediate and demanding.

Yes, they would set aside some land where elephants could live and breed.
For poachers, there must be stricter prohibitions and punishment.
All five of them would work for what they now agreed
is an absolutely necessary accomplishment.

They saw how all existence intertwines,
the give and take of every living thing.
To lose another species could undermine
whatever master scheme our world is following.


(prev. pub. in Oasis Journal 2015)

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The greatness of a nation can be judged by the way its animals are treated.

—Mahatma Gandhi
                                                             
______________________

—Medusa, thanking Linda Klein for today’s fine poetry!

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!