Yes, Virginia—

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
—Poetry by Michael H. Brownstein, Nolcha Fox, 

Stephen Kingsnorth and Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan and Stephen Kingsnorth 

A WHISPER AND PRAYER, A NEW WORLD, AND,
YES, VIRGINIA, THERE IS A SANTA CLAUS
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO

No snow came that winter,
the brutal blizzard winds didn't arrive,
we stepped outside in shorts and sweaters,
kept the heat turned off.
Two weeks before Christmas,
we wondered how Santa would park his sleigh,
didn't know he was busy in the North Pole
not with gifts for the world,
but hope and prayer.
A week before Christmas, 2023,
a glow covered the planet touching everyone,
and he came early with a message of love—
when we woke the children were different—
they volunteered to help the homeless,
brought wonder and joy to hospitalized children,
fully funded UNICEF—
and the big-block stores offered free-to-all days,
billionaires gave away their money
(we, too, can live on change)—
Russia left the Ukraine with a parade of peace,
Israel partitioned their soil
and made a nation for the Palestinians,
and the war in Central Africa no one talked about,
whispered away into a vast silence.
Today, December 25, 3023, a thousand years later,
we celebrate the Great Christmas in history,
a world holiday, the Victory of Christmas, 2023. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy

 of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

THE KENTUCKY COFFEE TREE
—Michael H. Brownstein

drops long seed pods on the school playground,
the walkway to the front door, at the curb,
and just about everywhere in the grass near the
street.
 
My students and I collect them for our science
activity,
open each slender pod as if they were a surprise
package
and it's not even close to the Christmas holidays.
 
They research the tree, the pods, the poisons within
make graphs of the average number of seeds per
pod,
find the median, the mode, and they tell me,
 
We are too young to drink coffee, even if this may
be weak,
and we will not chew the seeds without letting them
roast—
they are toxic. Better to drink tea from moringa
leaves,
 
teas made from herbs and flowers, dandelions even,
but you are old enough. Let's roast them and see
what you think.
So we do. Roast them for a long time—they are
toxic—
 
and they tell me, Didn't you make us grow
mushrooms?
When they were ready, you sampled them first.
Remember the field trip where you ate greens in
a field?
 
The seeds have roasted long enough. This is what
they meant to say.
Try it. They are engaged, glued to me, my cup of
roasted beans
boiling now in water—a long time—and they say,
 
Time. Drink it now. So I do, a tentative sip, too hot,
another, cool it down, a large gulp, smile, drink a
bit more
and it is coffee, not that strong, but interesting and
flavorful.
 
When Christmas break arrives, they bring brightly
wrapped gifts,
every one of them Kentucky coffee beans from
their street
already roasted and ready to brew, and this makes
me happy.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration

 

KVETCH
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

We invited him to Christmas, even though we knew
he’d grumble, whine, complain, and raise a fuss:
wine too sour, roast beef mooing,
no one grateful for his wisdom and his charm.
When he finally left, we’d sigh and smile.
We could face the new year
and eleven months without him,
until he died and left us everything he owned.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth

BOXING DAY
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

It was alone the Christmas cheer,
a faint hurrah for Boxing Day,
for servants’ leave, just annual,
one wholly theirs with family.

The stable berth, red letter day,
that holy of church calendar,
but then the weary left the fold
to journey, birthplace, where begun.

For born as poor in servitude,
their lowly status claimed ordained,
yet some would bring their gifted box
from which that day had taken name,

The season’s greetings shared around,
unlikely so myrrh, frankincense,
while gold would overstate the case,
more wisdom, those who know their place.

How did the master, squire in hall,
survive the time when left alone,
no one about to bow and scrape—
just holly bough and mistletoe.

Those berries red and waxy white,
the latter but a parasite,
which gain their life-force, nutrients,
by sucking blood, through bark by bite. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy 

of Stephen Kingsnorth

CHRISTMAS PAST
—Stephen Kingsnorth

We hand down will and testaments,
rich, valued signs inherited,
the festive customs we assumed,
now stark, stamp-sealed, red letter days.
Routine monotonies stepped back
as for a season, greeting us,
our world, enchantment, fanciful
with colour, bright, gold glitter sights,
those holidays found fantasy.
Those Christmas raptures stretch through life
from merry childhoods of delight;
as muscle memories remind
of much exotic, standard gone,
with stranger ways of countdown, plays
in metaphor, incarnate marks.

They will not know, great grand of mine,
stretched hose deformed, in stocking heel,
pink sugar mouse of fondant cream,
one walnut, tangerine in tow,
laid bed end, until dawn arose.
Ham breakfast, just on Christmas morn—
from where derived I have no clue—
so white unbrandied pudding sauce;
tree presents lodged in white-washed branch—
our pine pretence sans needle drop—
each sibling bought, spread through the week,
for each received, so each will give,
particulars I thought the norm.
Heirlooms preserved, family quirks,
like ancient lights, no safety first.

Now others knew no hanging row
from mantelpiece, fun fantasy,
or fireside breast to shout out list,
with carrot served, by sherry, hearth.
But daily children trade at school.
and playground chatter reared its head
presumed shared practice overheard,
as talk comparing riches spread,
and lodged in mind, those absent gifts.
Though reassuring love full known,
that marker set, in time deployed;
when grown, did institute what missed,
socks stretched from bulbous toe to knee.
As Christ from Xmas time excised,
our customary care required. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Cartoon

 

 

IT'S CHRISTMAS!

—Joe Nolan

Stars have landed
Here on Earth,
Come down
From the sky,

 

Gathered here,
Around the table,
To smile
For awhile.

 

It’s Christmas!
Time to remember....
What it’s like to fly
And eat a piece of pie.

 

________________________

Today’s XmasNip:

SANTA’S GIFT
—Michael H. Brownstein

Santa's empty sled flew through the moonlit night Christmas Eve escorted by thousands of reindeer. A million Canada geese moved in front, creating a giant V to ease the draft. A billion billion doves arrived bright with an angelic inner glow…

The lioness looked to the sky, awed. The wolf stopped chasing a rabbit. Great white sharks surfaced. On the battlefields a great silence reigned.

Christmas Day, olive branches covered the earth, no one was angry about poorly selected gifts, no one woke with hate, and Santa rested after carrying his heaviest load ever—love.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Illustration

 

 

—Medusa, wishing each and every one of us a happy, hopeful holiday season, and a heavy, heavy, heavy load of love~

 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo

 

A reminder that there will be
no Sac. Poetry Center reading
tonight, due to the holidays.
For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 

Distilled in One of Many

 The Adoration of the Magi
—Painting by Joseph Van Bredael
(Flanders, before 1739)

—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, 

Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Painting Courtesy
of Stephen Kingsnorth

 

 

 

BATTLE OF WITTES?

With hinterland of layered planes
in nuanced palette, bringing forth
the miniature on wider scale,
particularity is here,
a scandal of theology.
A figure born of tiny span,
whose stretch of life but similar,
should be accord, eternity,
infinity as brought to birth,
in both geography and year,
a stroke of Masterpiece in deed,
though type for God of our desire.

So artist, craft, epiphany,
theophany for one and all,
incarnate set for every,
of time, place, historicity?
The horse for camel, barn for cave,
exotic in the Flemish street,
’tis only flesh identity
that could be dressed wherever met.

The Father, name shared, mentor, guide,
though subject one in three declared,
the tetragrammaton in spell.
Maria mother, Joseph here,
their christen, tree, inheritance
of culture, faith on canvas laid,
initially, sign limited;
did contract bring battle of Wittes,
with copies sold, originals?

Distilled in one of many seen,
if babe, God vulnerable shown,
then take these silks, satins, brocades,
remember livestock, stink of straw,
and translate them to rubble, war,
for foreign kings, shepherds before,
show all reveal selves, open door.

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for his fine poem on this 2024 Christmas Eve, and to him for the painting of the Magi, and to Joe Nolan for Old Father Christmas~

Old Father Christmas
—Public Domain Illustration
Courtesy of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Good News—You're Perfect!

 —Poetry and Photos by Ann Privateer, Davis, CA

 

 

WINTER ENTERS

 A vague feeling
 of winter enters
 your bones
 you wonder
 if you are alone
 so cold standing
 at the door.

 Winds interrupt thinking
 brings back reality
 water rushing
 over rocks, the door
 opens and closes
 without warning
 you begin waiting
 for spring the way
 the cigar store Indian
 waited through years
 of bad weather
 as did the ancients
 waiting for fire.

 

 

 

 

THE WHITE PONY

The white pony is dirty white, like the platinum
haired doll dragged across the floor, its pink

rubber arms turned dusty rose, her clothes
lost when taken off to wash.  Dirty white

like burnt marshmallows dropped into campfires
they slip from sticks, slither to earth.  Dirt

beneath fingernails, scuff marks on the floor. 
Greased to a full throttle race for love in a land

without windmills while riding a dirty
white pony, she lets him carry her purse.

 

 

 

 

GOOD NEWS

You’re
Perfect
You were born
In an era
Of planes and trains
And automobiles
Racing populations
Gobbling up everything
Coming and going everywhere
Try not to stare at the moon
Luniness is not good
Thankfulness is
So is sober
No telling
What is
Not.

 

 

 

 

MY HAND

When I was five
I used to sit
On the floor
In a sunbeam
Gazing at my hand
And ask
What
Is This?
Was I
An existential 
Child that sought
Answers along with
Candied everything?

 

 

 

I NEED

To Be
Within
And without

Nature nurtures
Needlessly
Around
And through
Up and into
Staying
Like a jewel

In its
Setting
Like a lake

Lapping
Purifying
Meeting.

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

WINTER
—Ann Privateer

meetings used to be
alien when change
was in the wind
do not confuse
a brown leaf 
for a dead
mouse or the haves
for the have nots.

__________________

—Medusa, thanking Ann Privateer for today’s fine poetry and photos!

 

Friends of Sacramento poet/artist/teacher/musician (Runcible Spoon) D.R. Wagner will be saddened to know that he passed away in Sutter General Hospital yesterday morning. D.R. was a great friend of Medusa's Kitchen, and Rattlesnake Press published several books of his poetry, artwork, and needlepoint. He will be sorely missed. Rest easy, D.R.!

 

 

 

D.R. Wagner (1943-2023)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today)

rainbows of
Christmas lights—
tiny pops of
hope and faith
and promise
on this cold, dark
winter’s night…

Revelations of the Solstice

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth, and
Joyce Odam

 

 

 

SOLSTICE SONG

Layers and layers of hands-open leaves
sunburned you’d say by the dimming days
each day gets shorter at either end,
Millay’s bright candle-burn gone to haze—

these layers of leaves a warm soft bed
on lawn once green, don’t call it dead
tho streetful lies a crow that flew
whither who knows, perhaps it knew

leaving its spine and talons curled,
even its wings—its soul unfurled
flying to meet invader-friend—
Winter Solstice suns us again.

 

 

 

REVELATION

Fine day for a casual walk on the hill
past what’s left of the fallen black oak—
root crown and gigantic trunk
too big for the chainsaw. What choices?
Leave it to rot into soil. What’s that
growing from the tree-ring kerf? a fungus
that looks a bit like a Stetson
perched uneasily on a cowboy poised
to ride an 8-second bull.
Look closer. Under that rough shape
exudes something almost gelatinous &
yellow. My phone app tells me
Laetiporus gilbertsonii—Western
Hardwood Sulfur Shelf. Even a casual
walk can make discoveries.

 

 

 

 

NOT YET WINTER SOLSTICE

This morning’s walk—
frost on the railroad ties, frost
painting silver-weeds.

 

 

 

 

 

STUDY IN ANGLES

    on a photo of Loki on the Trestle

Who designed this trestle back in the logging
days? so high above the creek finding and carving
its path to the river. Who measured the angles
of all the elements of this structure?
And where is the sun this mid-December morning,
to cast these shadows across planks sturdy
enough for foot traffic where used to be RR track?
Look closely at the photo, see the padlocks
of all shapes, sizes, colors, some inscribed
with names; what do they safeguard,
where we pause before rejoining the trail paved
solid atop earth? My dog stands, four paws
widely planted as if she knows how far
there is to fall.

 

 

 

 

PEACE VS PROGRESS

Two Indian ponies graced the neighbors’ field
to graze at peace across a swale of green.
But progress knocks and so the old must yield;
the field has now become a parking scene.
Nostalgia vs new-improved, the past is sealed.
What once was horse-flesh has become machine.
Some old junked cars, a trailered boat—our loss.
The kid turns pasture into motocross.

 

 

 

TODAY’S FORTUNE

What can the three of Diamonds signify,
laid out on the trail as if for me to find?
A cold December morning under sky
cares nothing for this ploy to tease my mind.
A revelation? Playing cards may lie,
be enigmatic and spaghetti-spined.
I’ll take my fortune from the song of birds
tho they be crows who speak in corvid words.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

DECEMBER OUT THE WINDOW
—Taylor Graham

Twin fawns—one cavorts with shadows
while mother doe plays hard-to-get
with unseen buck. I predict two
spotted fawns come summer.

___________________

Our thanks to Taylor Graham for her fine poetry today on this, the cusp of the seasons. Forms she has sent this week include a Ryūka (“December Out the Window”); a Word-Can Poem (“Revelation”); an Ekphrastic Poem (“Study in Angles”); a Haiku (“Not Yet Winter Solstice”); two Ottava Rimas [or is that Ottavas Rima?] (“Peace vs Progress” and “Today's Fortune”); and some Quatrains (“Solstice Song”). “Peace vs Progress” is also kind of a Pastorale. The Pastorale and the Ottawa Rima were last week’s Triple-F Challenges.

For news about El Dorado County poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry. Or see Lara Gularte’s Facebook group, El Dorado Poets & Writers, at https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077/. (Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!) And of course you can always click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about future poetry events in the NorCal area.

And now it’s time for…  


FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!  

  

 

It’s time for more contributions from Form Fiddlers, in addition to those sent to us by Taylor Graham! Each Friday, there will be poems posted here from our readers using forms—either ones which were sent to Medusa during the previous week, or whatever else floats through the Kitchen and the perpetually stoned mind of Medusa. If these instructions are vague, it's because they're meant to be. Just fiddle around with some challenges—  Whaddaya got to lose… ? If you send ‘em, I’ll post ‘em! (See Medusa’s Form Finder at the end of this post for resources and for links to poetry terms used in today’s post.)


There’s also a page at the top of Medusa’s Kitchen called, “FORMS! OMG!!!” which expresses some of my (take ‘em or leave 'em) opinions about the use of forms in poetry writing, as well as listing some more resources to help you navigate through Form Quicksand. Got any more resources to add to our list? Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com for the benefit of all man/woman/poetkind!

* * *

 

 

 Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo

We received responses to last week’s Ekphrastic photo from Nolcha Fox and Stephen Kingsnorth:


ON SALE
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

They’re selling children as snowmen
at the hardware store.
They ran out of lawn ornaments
at the big Christmas sale.
The children are all bundled up
and sure to last the season.
Just fuel them with hot chocolate.
Tell them they must stand there,
be silent and be still,
if they want Santa to bring them
all that’s on their lists.

* * *

RIME
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

A suit of armour, how will fate
escape the bind, straightjacket line,
or swaddling no doubt slowing gait?
She’ll not bend scroll, style tubular—
may loll, bowled over, skittle skate
or Swiss jammed roll down mountainside;
cushioned, as padded cell translate.
for won’t be wounded in the fall?

This class, how well to insulate,
though movement, sleigh, in sight alone
for she on track to carry freight,
net weight far less than overcoat.
In punctured pride, would she deflate
if cool reaction, others’ play,
and on the rime, herself prostrate,
so winded, wait till spring erupts?

* * *

Joyce Odam has sent us a poem that is in a Three Moon Pattern. Here is the form she sends:


THREE MOON PATTERN:
Syllabic, three quatrains, 8-syllable lines

Content based on the Chinese Quatrain, as follows:
    ▪    Opening line introduces an idea.
    ▪    Second line extends the idea
    ▪    Third line introduces a new idea
    ▪    Fourth line brings first three lines together

x a BR a  |  BR  c  DR  c  |  DR  e  x  e  | DR  e  x  e

Here is her example: 

 

 

 
SIGN IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

The sign says Do Not Enter Here—     ( x )
some broken sign we should obey.       ( a )
Dare we question such an order?          (BR)
We’re tired; we need to go this way.    ( a )

Dare we question such an order—        (BR)
What authority here lays claim              ( c )
without a fence or house for miles?      (DR)
We can’t go back the way we came.     ( c )

Without a fence or house for miles,      (DR)
no ownership is evident—                     ( e )
just flat wide space and endless sky      ( x )
to further our predicament.                   ( e )

* * *

And here is an Ars Poetica from Stephen Kingsnorth. Does your writing sometimes leave you “surprised by joy”?

 

 

 

MUSING
—Stephen Kingsnorth

I muse why words be engineered,
like Kubla Khan, as LSD,
their plot planned far from middle ears,
a winding path, veered by the wind,
as by that spirit, ruach’s breath.

Sometimes I am surprised by joy—
an unintended consequence;
the unexpected comes to light—
now why did I not thank of that?
then realise my fingers moved.

For pieces, some, footnotes desired,
a reference map to find terrain;
guidebooks to complement, not steal
the scenery to be explored;
perhaps not asterisks adhered.

I hear the lyrics Dylan rhymed,
a corpus better understood
when commentary in other hand;
some cultures hail from foreign climes,
the scene departed land we know.

Revisit writing on the wall,
a controversial Banksy mix,
because a common truth revealed,
reviled by those uncomfortable;
a sometime rôle of art for all.

___________________

Many thanks to our SnakePals for their brave fiddling! Would you like to be a SnakePal? All you have to do is send poetry—forms or not—and/or photos and artwork to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post work from all over the world, including that which was previously-published. Just remember: the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

___________________

TRIPLE-F CHALLENGES! 

See what you can make of these challenges, and send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.) Tell us a Fable, maybe a Christmas story, or a fable of any other sort:

•••Fable: http://www.poeticbyway.com/gl-f.html

AND/OR let’s follow Joyce Odam’s example [see above] and try the Three Moon Pattern:

•••Three Moon Pattern: Syllabic, three quatrains, 8-syllable lines; x a BR a  |  BR  c  DR  c  |  DR  e  x  e  | DR  e  x  e. Content based on the Chinese Quatrain, as follows:
    ▪    Opening line introduces an idea.
    ▪    Second line extends the idea
    ▪    Third line introduces a new idea
    ▪    Fourth line brings first three lines together

•••See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic photo.

•••And don’t forget each Tuesday’s Seed of the Week! This week it’s “The Holiday Season”.

____________________

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

•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry 
•••Fable: http://www.poeticbyway.com/gl-f.html
•••Haiku: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Ottava Rima: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/ottava-rima-poetic-form
•••Quatrain: www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-a-quatrain-in-poetry-quatrain-definition-with-examples
•••Ryūka: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryūka
•••Three Moon Pattern: Syllabic, three quatrains, 8-syllable lines; x a BR a  |  BR  c  DR  c  |  DR  e  x  e  | DR  e  x  e. Content based on the Chinese Quatrain, as follows:
    ▪    Opening line introduces an idea.
    ▪    Second line extends the idea
    ▪    Third line introduces a new idea
    ▪    Fourth line brings first three lines together
•••Word-Can Poem: putting random words on slips of paper into a can, then drawing out a few and making a poem out of them

___________________

—Medusa, wishing you find much hot, hot poetry in the year to come!

 

 

 

  Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!
 
 
 Make what you can of today's
photo, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)

* * *

—Public Domain Photo
Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 
 
 

For info about upcoming
poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page.

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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

 

 

 LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today)

St. Francis
oversees
the birds
and
the bees…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Groping Toward Compost

 Americaaaa
—Poetry and Visuals by Smith,
Cleveland, OH

I observe
digest
occasionally regurgitate

 

 

 

 Folk Medicine

 

Black caffeine
sex and gasoline
pedal to the bleed

 

 

 

Flow

 

Pain is your friend
lets you know you're alive
still stumbling down Entropy Lane
with the rest of us halt and lost and lame
every day longer
every year shorter
every blister bigger
every gain subdued
as we bounce in bursts of grasp and sorrow
groping toward compost
brief season
a few tree rings
and back to ground we go
minerals and manure
to be mined
by many
a fool

 

 

 

Darkstar

 

DREAM NEED

The small made big
and the big made mundane
when all and nothing are everything
leaves people little but lies
running for truth
and from
no stories to follow or dream
just big box stores
box office movies
and miles and miles of flat top asphalt
lifting car
after car
after killing car
to sky

 

 

 

Navigation

 

EGO A-GO-GO

There's me
and there's me
me happy
me sad
me good
me bad
me knowing
knowing nothing
me trying
already failed
me care
me not
me aware
me sot

There's this ropewalk of empathy
invisible
stress strung over sharp knives
and hungry teeth
where you can't care so little you don't
integrate
nor too much due overload loss
so with less to care care more
and more to care care less
only so much stock
it's never enough
one way or another
from this end of field
or that
no real-time score
just birth
game
death
analysis
judgment
heaven
hell
rebirth
maybe aftergame video replay
for close calls

 

 

 

 100%

 

Duct tape
epoxy
kindness
and marijuana—
that's my church

 

 

 

 Deathwish

 

We make stories of fears
faults
failures

Freight train pulls heavy
through valley of night
moan and wail

Sparkle frosts dead leaves
breath hangs in air
Persephone's back in hell

I make my noise
nobody listens
life goes on

 

 

 

 Pyramids

 

Today’s LittleNip:

Pain doesn't stop
life continues
constant compromise

 

 

 

 Circle Broken

_________________

—Medusa, with our thanks to Smith (Steven B. Smith) for his fine poetry and visuals today on this, the Winter Solstice of 2023. Our thoughts are with him this season as he and Lady prepare for his up-coming surgery.

 

 

 

 

Bone Lady

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Third Thursdays at the Library
meets today at noon in Sacramento;
and later this afternoon, there will be a
Poets and Writers Workshop in
Cameron Park.
For info about these and other
upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

moods/scared/scared
LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today)

change will
embrace you, so
may as well
embrace the
snarky bitch
back~

 

 

 

Bear-Hugs of Joy

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

TWENTY LINES ON TIME

Why try to catch time
by the tail,
tame it to our own tempo
when we can’t even
trace its shadow?

In time, a few curious may
try to TIME time?
Not an Einstein or Copernicus,  
not able to see through
black holes or bend
with the curvature of space,
they’ll give up, go back to timing
Olympic swimmers or race horses?

There’s grace in   s  l  o  w   m  o  t  i  o  n —
a slowing down time in time
to become comfortably aligned
with one’s own breathing….

And now this question:
How much time does it take
to shape and refine one’s soul?

Have we the will and time enough?

 

 

THE VISITOR
In Tilden Park, Berkeley

A gaunt stranger wheelchairs
up to our picnic tables.
We welcome him, offer a full
plate. He doesn’t introduce
himself and eats nothing
of what we offer.

This Indian summer in Berkeley.
we writers chat under bay trees
beside a meadow where boys
fling Frisbees into updrafts,
the colorful discs flying as far
as pollen and prayers.

The visitor to our annual picnic
sits as silently among us
as bay leaves falling everywhere.
Will soon his tree of life appear bare?
Is our visitor a prominent writer
we should recognize, or once had?

 

 

TOP OF THE HILL         

We elders live on a lofty oasis
dead-ending at an Emergency Gate
which slides open if activated
by fire trucks, ambulance,
a police car’s red light circling
like drunken laughter.

Outside drivers ignore, or seldom
spot our dead-end sign.  So they
roar up our hill!  Seeing cute
crones and crusty codgers,
mostly they u-turn back down.
We’re a cruising-around impulse
for mischief or misadventure,
but, hey, when their hair is gray,
they may sing a different lay.

A few daredevil skateboarders
adopt our hill for thrills—
but not for long, the climbing back
too steep!  We wise elders win big bets
with fortuna by placing our bucks
on the horse named Miracle.

 

 

VOTE WAR DOWN AND OUT !

When brought back by popular demand,
wouldn’t Sustainable Peace be grand,
no uniforms, boots, caps lined up for
citizens to fill, then grab their weapon!
No more 100-plus heat in alien deserts
for soldiers living in tents—

intense indeed, while loved ones
await their warrior’s return.
What even to write a family
back home to make war
assignments appear humane,
routine in disguise—write lies?!

Soldiers are seldom at ease,
with hidden roadside bombs,
plus two or more tours of duty,
brief return home, rest up, fly back.

War’s a blasted boomerang!

 

DOUBLE HELIX
      blank verse

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

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


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

 

 

GRANDMOTHERS,  “ON CALL”
        For Karen and others: A Smith Sonnet

Responsive, skilled, grandmas model hope.
If the family’s chosen path turns steeper,
they’ll urge: pull off your boots and rest, for soon
alpine meadows will shine . . . Mothers of moms—
selfless on call like angels, guardians,
somehow find energy to meet our needs . . .

When watching grandkids climbing treetop high,
they wait to comfort, bandage, praise or hug.
Through gravitational tuggings from the earth,
their balanced-head-with-heart lends timely care.
These elders make an art of nurturing;
and grandkids light her candle when she nears.

In reading Grandma’s earnest eyes, we fall
for winks: my love’s not far, not far at all!

________________________

Today’s LittleNip:

A DOUBLE-TAKE  
—Claire J. Baker    

Three
reddish-
brown
leaves
cluster
on a bare-
branched
tree
each leaf
facing
the sun
now
three
robins!

_______________________

Our thanks to Claire Baker today for fine poems, including two in forms and one (20 lines) in sorta-form. Claire is a frequent contributor to our Form Fiddlers’ Friday, as well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!

 LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today)

weather report:
hope scatters as
raindrops, starlight
and a couple
holding hands~