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Who Knows What Passes?

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Light of Gold
—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
 


LIGHT OF GOLD  
      at the old Stamp Mill

The sound of the stamp mill was alarming
back in the day, the docent in Black Bart guise
tells us,
       the stamps pulverizing ore to tiny glinty
stars in slurry. Mercury and gold-flake come
together—a hell-broth, I guess, mercury being
poison.
                But mercury vaporized away,
only gold was left. Melted, molded to ingots—
precious gold.
       Imagine its lantern shining in enormous
darkness, caverns of desire tempting people
to do almost anything to get it.
       Black Bart—our impersonator docent—
assures us he was always a gentleman
bandit, clean of speech, carrying a shotgun
                with no bullets; handing back
a purse to the lady who dropped it for sheer
fright.
      He only stole from Wells Fargo
for revenge, which might be its own dark light.






SHADOW’S EYE

Who knows what passes,
dancing by?
Leaves in autumn plumage,
birds that fly.
Morning in kaleidoscope’s
mirrored sky.
Is it a horse’s lot to
ponder why?
So solid on his hooves—do
colors die?
See how they’re dancing
in his eye.






INTO NOVEMBER

leaves turning red on
the vine and, overlooked, these
dust-purple grapes, sweet!

slanting sun back-lights
morning glories on the fence—
pure blue translucence






STILL LIFE WITH QUESTION
After Ekphrastic Seed of the Week, Medusa’s Kitchen,
Oct. 2018
 
White porcelain saucer thin as ice set on the table
between them like a question.
Beneath the surface? Monster of deep silence,
a napkin let slip; tiny silver pitchfork
for spearing olives, scissors to snip the fated line.
Afraid? the heart pulsing on a platter
like sturdy black high-heel shoes percussing
a flamenco beat. A trick question.






EARLY THURSDAY MORNING

Of two deer inside our fence,
one doe made short work of leaping out—
over stockwire onto one-lane dirt
and out of sight. The younger doe, of
less acquaintance with man’s things—
earth the solid truth of her body,
and blood like spirit unfenceable as water—
stood dumbfounded,
bonded my eye to her own so briefly,
her thoughts to my surprise. I,
dumbstruck to own so brief
an attachment. Man’s fingerprints
get all over everything.
In an instant, that young doe
glorious in her leap
from temporary involvement
with human stuff.






PRIZE OR BLESSING?

How many points for
this buck in falling season?
He blends so well with
native buckeye winter-brown
and gone so quick my lens blinks.






Today’s LittleNip:

AT FORK LIFT
—Taylor Graham

A dark hour when
someone spilled a bag of dog
food on parking lot—
bonanza for Brewer’s black-
birds and unnamed inland gulls.

____________________

Many thanks to Taylor Graham for today’s fine poems and photos, including her response to last week’s ekphrastic Seed of the Week!

Sacramento Poet Brad Buchanan has a book of poetry coming out from Finishing Line Press:
The Scars, Aligned: A Cancer Narrative. Info: www.facebook.com/thescarsaligned/?modal=admin_todo_tour&notif_id=1541554760133467&notif_t=page_invite/.

Wellspring Women Writers Poetry & Prose Prompts writing workshop takes place today from 11:30-1:30pm at Wellspring Women’s Center in Sacramento. Then tonight, Winters Out Loud open mic meets at Berryessa Gap Wine Tasting Room in Winters at 15 Main St., hosted by Deborah Shaw Hickerson, 7pm; and Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento presents featured readers and open mic, 8pm. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa



 Brewer’s Blackbird Cleans Up
—Anonymous Photo
(Celebrate 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.


As God Sings the Blues . . .

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—Anonymous Photos of November in the UK
—Poems by Ian Copestick, Stoke on Trent, England



THE AMBULANCE
—Ian Copestick, Stoke on Trent, England

It's six p.m. on a Saturday
Evening,
And as I walk past,
There is an ambulance
On the corner,
All of its lights
Flashing. I figure
That there must be
Someone inside. As I
Passed I heard strange
Humming noises
Coming from inside,
Perhaps they've got
Some machine in
There working,
A defibrillator or
Something of the
Sort.
Suddenly I feel bad,
Like a peeping Tom
Or something. I know
What it is like
To be in the back
Of an ambulance
And I know that I
Wouldn't have wanted
Anyone listening
Outside. Feeling suitably
Guilty I carry on with
My walk. As I go to
The shop for a beer
And others get ready
For a night on
The town, Some
Poor bastard's stuck in
The back of that
Ambulance.
What can you do
Really, but thank
God it's not you






YOU AND ME

Surely the saddest thing in life must be
To see someone you once knew intimately
And they look straight through you with unknowing eyes
That slowly dilate in surprise

Awkwardly you start to speak
As you gaze upon that face, that cheek
That you once rained kisses upon
Now, it's not yours, those days are gone

And you realise what once was 'we'
Is now only 'you' and 'me'
Two people who are now world's apart
And once again you've broken my heart






I HAVE STARTED TO WAKE

I have started to wake in the middle of the night
Not knowing the time, in the dark I can't see
I lay there in the gathering half-light
Reviewing my life and its inadequacies

Torturing myself, tying my mind up in knots
Thinking of the problems I've caused for myself
Agonising over each, and there have been lots
Exercising my poor mental health

As the light grows at the edge of the curtains
And outside in the real world, the day it starts
I finish my self-examinations and I am certain
That in every failure, I've played the main part

As I hear the neighbours’ cars take them away
To work. My mind, with nothing learned
Forgets it all for the rest of the day
And then my tiredness suddenly returns

As the day it passes,  my mind is O.K.
No problems at all, everything is alright
I get ready for bed at the end of the day
Then I wake again in the dead of the night





       
THE HOLY BLUES
—Ian Copestick

Life comes and goes
Nothing stops the flow
To the sound of a beat-up guitar
Some believe back to the creator
We all must go
To stop the panic in their hearts

I just believe in that old guitar
And the melody it sadly plays
We dance to its rhythm
Which is all we can do
Until our dying day

Some ancient but ageless, grizzled bluesman
Blasting away in the key of E
He hammers-on, bends strings
And twists the tune
That's life to you and me

He lifts the bottle to his big, black lips
And starts to jam on “Dust My Broom”
Our lives are just swirls in the dust
Of his beat-up, broke-down room

He knows the Crossroads, the Hell-hound too
Many times he's ridden the blinds*
He's walked down all those dusty roads
He knows his first and second minds*

He had a backing band many years ago
One by one they let him down
Since then his destiny has been
To ramble from town to town

He opens his mouth to sing, out comes a moan
Darker than a moonless night
Deeper than the depth of all seven seas
The bluesman sings of wrong and right

Of salvation, sin and all between
He weaves his words of woe
To the unearthly clang of his guitar
On and on the world must go

So pray he never runs out of songs
And there's always another to choose
For there drinking whiskey in his old railroad shack
Sits God singing the blues


*Ride the blinds: this means riding in a boxcar on a freight train
*Second mind: A term used in some very old blues; I’m not 100% sure, but it seems to mean the unconscious mind


____________________ 

Today’s LittleNip:

POETRY
—Ian Copestick
                
Don't do it for the acclaim
Don't do it for the cheers
Just do it to try to stop
The ringing in your ears

Don't anticipate awards
Or search for some big prize
Just try to make the world make
A bit more sense before your eyes

You won't get the fortune
You'll never find the fame
The most that you can hope for
Is to feel a bit more sane

You can use a laptop
Or grab a pen and pad
When the last line's been laid out
The world won't seem so bad

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks-across-the-sea to Ian Copestick for his fine poems today, as November hurries past, both in his country and in ours. 



 Celebrate poetry!
To find out if there was indeed a ufo invasion 
of Ian’s hometown, Stoke on Trent, 50 years ago, see












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.

Counting the Molecules

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—Poems by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA
—Anonymous Feet (Foot?) Photos Courtesy of James Lee Jobe



Fresh sunlight tickles
The east windows at daybreak—
Good morning, everyone!

________________

Putah Creek.
Summer.
Daybreak.
The creek, always moving,
Slides by at the very place
Where night and morning cross paths,
And then goes on past
On its way to heaven.






Will no one count the molecules?
How many specs of dust are in the world?
How many drops of water are in the oceans?
How many breaths have been breathed
By the primates since the beginning of primates?
How many breaths by the amphibians?
Will no one count the molecules
And report the number on the evening news?
How many dogs have set off at a run
The second the car door was opened
And they saw the green grass of the park?
O my son who is now ashes, I just don't know
How many songs have played on the radio
Or the number of hairs on the heads of the senators.
And I don't know long this grief will last.
Probably as long as I last.






The taste of you, your body, in the dust,
The taste of dust, forgotten.
Your eyes in shadow.
Your eyes encrusted with sleep.
Diamonds, crawling with fleas.
Diamonds, like vomit in a bucket
That splashes as you walk, carrying it.
A bit on your pants,
A bit on the concrete sidewalk.
The truth of it all is in front of you—
Tomorrow is a lie,
It isn't coming at all.






This life is a circle, like your lips in a kiss.
Now I am moving around and around
In love and in life. Together with you.

________________

Pass me an orange,
Friend.

We ride here, to this place,
On the thought and breath of that which is divine.

Just as the rind of the fruit is not as delicious as the core inside,
So is the soul more fine than the container in which it rides.

When the day comes to return Home,
Embrace the thought and the breath of the divine.

Eat the fruit.
Rejoice. 






No life is free of sorrow, so this:
May sorrow not turn me to darkness.
May I face my sorrow with the light around me.

________________

Today’s LittleNip:

For people, and for nations,
May we cease competing and begin sharing.

—James Lee Jobe

____________________

Many thanks to James Lee Jobe for today’s fine postings at the Kitchen table, and a belated happy birthday to him (his birthday was last Wednesday)! James will be hosting an all-open-mic night at The Other Voice in Davis next Friday, 7:30pm, at the Unitarian Universalist Church library on Patwin Road.

Drop by the Sac. Poetry Center Gallery today from 5-8pm for the Second Saturday Art Opening/Reception for this month’s artists, Mary Lynn Tenenbaum and Jonathan Baran, with guitar music tonight by Bob Stanley. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa



Leshan Giant Buddha
 —Anonymous Photo
Celebrate 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.

The Voice of the Maidens

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Can You Hear Me Now?
—Anonymous Photo of Women Veterans-to-Be



A THOUGHTFUL STROLL ONE DAY
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

(following the footsteps of Tom Goff’s Grecian Maidens)



“Synthesizer Piece” brought forth
memories of my studies at UCLA
whereinwhich I submitted a fugue
at the fourth, which the professor
henceforth took me at my word that
one part was the other, 4 steps North.

“Our Own Zone” was the first of
multiple timely verses that emphasized
the dilemma of women these days
trying to overcome their assigned role
as a cow to send the political message:
“Can you hear me now?”

“Villanelle…” is one really good find
that captures what happens
when good boys of sound mind
lose themselves entirely in
beer and laughter intertwined,
so wholly and thoroughly that
to all else they are blind.

“Widow’s Walk”  I can empathize,
the view from this clouded window,
though I am a left-handed coma
survivor who will never feel what
a woman feels, but I can kneel with
that Colin kiddo or put my ditto
‘neath the plight of a widow.

“Each Symphony Four…”  Bring out
the post horns, let there be joyous
fanfares to introduce the weather,
the news, the sports, whatever…
Stand up at attention, slim Grecian
maiden, and salute the town crier.

“Judge Bax”  I stood erect at the station
and could see and feel the vibrations
of this very, very long train coming along
and I could only hope it would pause
and stop at some point so I could climb
aboard and ride it for awhile, but it seemed
determined to rush on past me, sounding the
whistle loudly, as if to laugh at my inertia,
over and over with no intermission.  I am
still here, and that train is now long gone.

______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Caschwa (Carl Bernard Schwartz) for today’s poem about Tom Goff’s poems which were posted in Medusa’s Kitchen last Wednesday, and a reminder that Tom will be reading with Tom Hedt tomorrow night, 7:30pm, at Sac. Poetry Center!




Speaking in Crow

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—Anonymous Crow Photos



PARADISE IN ASHES
—Katy Brown, Davis, CA
 

Paradise falls in ashes in my front yard,
white specks of rose bushes and dreams,
kitchen curtains, picture frames,
old love letters, woolen slippers, bills
—combustible lives, overrun by fire.

Houses burn all the time.  Businesses
catch fire from faulty wiring, and
fields char in wildfires.  But this whole town 
was reduced to crackling rubble in 24 hours.
Its residents evacuated, escaped, missing or dead.

The internet is flooded with images
of missing loved ones, pets, neighbors.
Reports of the dead climb with each hour.
The smoke first rose, driven upward
by the heat of the fire, then sank

to settle in a heavy fog down burned streets.
The relentless smoke pours
from the ridge into the canyonland
and sinks into the vast Central Valley,
blotting out the abscessed sun.

The ashes of Paradise filter through the smoke,
drift onto the changing leaves of my birch,
drop onto the wilting petals of the last rose.
I try not to think of the flames, the terror,
the confusion of fire and smoke, cooling now.

_________________

FALLING LEAF
—Ann Privateer, Davis, CA

A leaf bird comes in
For a landing

Pressing diagonally

In charcoal gray
The sky Fashions 

Happily massing

Its way toward
Setting after a jubilant
Free fall, ebullient
And effervescent
To mark the day.






DO THEY LIGHT ME UP?
—Mary Lynne McGrath, Sacramento, CA

Those blond women on TV
wearing red blazers
standing behind flag-decked podiums

do they light me up?

those women who got elected
and who thank Trump for all his help,
who promise to tackle the really
big problems in this country—

do they light me up?

Are they living in the world of
Christian hypocrisy
with the right to pick which sins to rebuke
and which to ignore—
which human beings to help and which to demonize—

do they light me up?

Who is at home watching their kids?
Scrubbing their toilets,
washing their dirty sheets,
who helps them make time for
meetings of Republican women for Trump?

do they light me up?

If light equals heat, they do light me up.
I am hotter than a pistola!






APOLLO’S GIFT
—Michael H. Brownstein, Chicago, IL
 
My dear Cassandra, I must punish you. From this day on, you
will only speak the truth, but no one will ever believe you.
       —Apollo to Cassandra after she broke one precept 

          or another


My name is Cassandra,
But you believe me to be someone else,
And, yes, I am a woman.
Listen! My eyes are green,
My hair black,
Greeks do hide in the belly of the horse.
I live here, behind that wall,
My bedding, that corner.
I need not latch my door
Nor do I need clothing during sleep.
Legs gapped open, I wait for you.
Always.






LONGING AGAIN FOR SUMMER
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

Anathema
Becomes thee,
In the pale, faint frost of
Spring upon the lawn!

Someday, soon,
We’ll all be gone
And who will thee,
Remember,
Next September,
October,
November,
When leaves
Have shorn
The trees—
Gone frozen
Into Winter,
And snow is
On the lawn?

Through frosted windows
We shall watch and wonder
Why time moves in cycles
And betrays
Every finer motive
Of warmer months and days
And leaves us longing
In the cold
For longer, warmer
Brighter Summer days.

________________

BRIGHT-COLORED LEAVES IN FALL
—Joseph Nolan

Something
I couldn’t remember,
I lost
A long time ago.

I tried to recall
The meaning, and all,
But it slipped away
Like dead leaves of Fall.

Oh, so many colors
In piles upon the lawn!
But my feelings, it seems
Are blunted,
Like affection
For plastic fawns.

I drift among the bright Fall colors
And make my way
In bright or shade,
And think about
The way I’ve lived
And the life
That I have made.

And I feel no remorse.
Most of the time,
I had no recourse,
But to be the way I am,
And have been.

So I let leaves fall
Wherever they may
And keep walking
Down the road.






IN CROW
—Joseph Nolan

A crow that came
Did not long remain.
She cawed at me
From her tree
In Crow.

I did not know
What she cawed to me.
After she had cawed
All she meant to caw
She flew away.

It’s like this every day
In Crow.

________________

HOW’S YOUR ANTAKHARANA DOING TODAY?
—Joseph Nolan

How’s your antakharana doing today?
Have you checked under the hood?
I’m sensing a strange rotation
At the juncture of your manas and buddhi.
Sometimes this can occur
From entertaining conflicting
Viewpoints from media-generated propaganda,
Especially when combined with fitful,
Desperate, dissatisfaction with the status quo.

If this problem continues, you should bring it in
And have our under-the-hood experts run a code check.

It only takes a little while, and it can prevent
Detachment of the juncture, when the two parts
of your antakharana might otherwise end up spinning off
Counter-rotationally in different directions,
Which, as I am sure you know, is bad for your mind!






RUN WITH IT
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

(Response to “Fly Me To The Moon” by Smith,
Medusa’s Kitchen, Oct. 2018)



When a dangerous felon is missing or a
loved one is lost, off the grid, we send in
specially trained dogs to whisper clues.

Maybe if we worked to understand the
silent signals of mutant mutes they could
be of help in much the same kind of way. 

Outside all the refinements of speech, text,,
and technical gadgets,,, let a mutant mute
survey the surroundings, respond to what

they sense, and softly give us just those
signals we need to locate someone.

_____________________

ONE HUNDRED YEARS
—Caschwa

We used to have some reliable
institutions that we thought were
worthy of our trust, but lately there
have been just too many glaring
“exceptions”.

Call the police to report a crime…
the line is busy and/or you are put
on hold, and then when they do arrive
they manhandle everybody, including
the caller.

It will take a hundred years to earn
back my trust, and I am already a
senior citizen, so shove it!

Hospitals are known sticklers for
procedures, protocols, perfection…
then they use the wrong blood in a
transfusion, amputate the wrong
body part, or treat one patient with
another’s medicine.

It will take a hundred years to earn
back my trust, and I am already a
senior citizen, so shove it!

People swear under oath to tell the
truth, or to be true to their spouse, or
to abide by the Constitution…
and then they clearly do not.

It will take a hundred years to earn
back my trust, and I am already a
senior citizen, so shove it!

The USA is the land of equality,
owing to the efforts of many who
gave their lives to make it that way…
then we gave money a bigger voice in
how we treat each other than two-and-
a-half centuries of honoring the choices
of the People.

.

It will take a hundred years to earn
back my trust, and I am already a
senior citizen, so shove it!

When any number of people die
from toxins or sharps that are found in
packages of food or medicine available
for sale, a huge recall is launched to rid
the market of these deadly items…
when dozens of people are killed by
gunfire, they don’t recall the guns or the
ammo, but just issue a PSA advising us
to steel up for the next attack.

It will take a hundred years to earn
back my trust, and I am already a
senior citizen, so shove it!






THE GREAT PROBE
—Caschwa

Digging more deeply than prior
testimony, unearthing “alimony”,
the metaphor to conjure up all
forms of financial persuasion,
collusion, and/or tax evasion

no stone left unthrown, and soon
we will have the official report that
will exhaustively address all of
those questions, plus the added
bonus of these other issues burning
in the Kitchen:

Enticing hot-lips riddles of relationships

The history and mystery of royal families

City boy attempts to hop in the sack with
the Old Farmers Almanac

Sticking one’s thumb into different worlds
of wisdom

Colorful mix of myths and truths on display
at the carnival booth.

___________________

IT IS NOT THE DEMOCRATS,

It’s the autocrats
who are sending us their tired,
their poor, their huddled

masses yearning to
breathe free, the wretched refuse
of their teeming shore.


—Caschwa

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

BREATH
—Michael H. Brownstein

If the tree between buildings breathed
Animosity among its leaves.
If skin color were different kinds of air.
If photosynthesis contracted itself
Through song. Why does the mudslide cover
That river and not the one nearby?
How can a Florida catfish breathe on land
And a human underwater?
In the exchange of gases, what is a tree?

_____________________

Our thanks to today’s multitude of contributors, including newcomer Mary Lynn McGrath (don’t be a stranger, Mary!). And special thanks also to Katy Brown for her poignant poem about the fire in the town of Paradise in Northern California. The Snake has friends up there, such as Maria Rosales in Paradise (though she has been vacationing in Mexico), and those in Magalia—and here’s hoping they’re alright.

Poetry in our area begins tonight at Sac. Poetry Center with two Toms: Tom Hedt and Tom Goff, plus open mic, 7:30pm. On Wed., the Placerville version of Poetry Off-the-Shelves takes place at the El Dorado County library on Fair Lane in Placerville, 5-7pm. On Thursday, Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento will present featured readers and open mic, 8pm. And on Friday, The Other Voice in Davis will have an all-open-mic night at the Unitarian Universalist Church on Patwin Rd. in Davis, 7:30pm.

Saturday, the Crossroads Reading Series returns, this time with Mary Mackey and Davis Poet Laureate James Lee Jobe at the South Natomas Library on Truxel Rd. in Sacramento, 1-3pm. Also on Saturday, there will be a presentation of readers from the Fall edition of
Song of the San Joaquin at the Stanislaus County Library on I St. in Modesto, 2pm.

And on Sunday, Poetry in Placerville presents Phil Weidman and his new book,
Rungs of the Ladder (edited by Dave Boles, Cold River Press), 1-3pm at Love Birds Coffee and Tea on Broadway in Placerville. (Today, by the way, is Dave Boles’ birthday!) Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa



 Celebrate Poetry—in human or in crow!











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.

Harvesting Words

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The Field of Language
—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA



THE FIELD OF LANGUAGE

To use words—
play with them,
like captured birds.
   
Hark against the light,
the dark.
Listen.
   
Now come the silences.
Caesuras. Whispers.
Hesitations.
   
And the looks. Glances.
Surprise of mirrors.
Those old metaphors.
   
And the luxury of
eloquence. Waxings.
The reaching after.
   
The right one—the
right one—slipping away,
playful.
   
The field of language:
meadow—vast
as you can manage. Yours.



 The Girl in the Field



THE GIRL IN THE FIELD

young woman standing in waist-high grass
of an old field     far as a dream
is turned to look at you
with such lonesome eyes
you must go toward her with great
tenderness and longing

she is shimmery
in the sunlight
as though she were a mirage
her hair is loose and dark and
parted in the middle

there is a sadness upon her
you think is love
she is holding
one long yellow stem of something
in her hand
as though she means to give it to you

her eyes are as true to your own
as the centered eye
of a camera
you cannot turn away from them

silence is upon her mouth
do not ask her a question
for though the wind is
blowing the grasses behind her in
long bending distance
her hair hangs down in stillness
her dress is not fluttering

there is no expression on her face
except the steady
compelling gaze of her eyes
and you will hurry all your life
to reach her
                          

(1st Prize, NFSPS Poetry Society of Texas Award,
1974, first pub. in 1994 anthology)


________________

OF BARNS

one tumbled down
leaned to the earth
and died
its shredded roof
uprooted
and the failure of
its walls
surrendered
hanging on
to clinging air
that sighed and entered
sighed and left
and nothing felt
the fragile moment
or the yield of history
that slipped away
except
the light

__________________

THE BARN DANCERS

The room widens until it encloses what it reaches—
through the vast doors and open windows—rays of light
pouring in from the golden fields—the whole day entering

to watch. The dancers brighten to the watching, guided
by the levels of music. Each dancer plays to the rhythm,
known and followed, and learned again. Even the air

listens and flows where they flow—costumed in light—
each transparent dancer connected to another dancer and
the idyllic energy in the expanding spaciousness of the day.



 About Cows



POEM ABOUT COWS   

cows stand in a field
or hang on a hook

life flows in the veins of one
and in the other death

the milk in the bottles
is cold and fresh

blood is both warm
and cold in the cows

the hook turns slightly
in the room

the cows stand easily
in the field

the fences control the
grass from the grass

the butcher puts on his apron
and selects a knife

the farmer gets on
with his milking


(first pub. in West Coast Poetry Review, 1976)

________________

THE OLD ARM-WRESTLE

Between the son and the father
the old ritualistic force
abides in the ruts
of father-hood
and son-hood—
divisional—
with
such
a hard
incision—only the
blessing-curse of love
holds hope against the stubborn
grip that fights against submission.


(first pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2012)



 Oleander



OLEANDER WINE
(an Octo)

Come taste the wines in my cellar:
old wines, as tempting as desire—
dark wines in old dark casks, long-saved,
growing as bitter as my kiss—

love never more bitter than this:
dark wines in old dark casks, long-saved,
old wines, as tempting as desire.
Come taste the wines in my cellar.



 Self Esteem



SELF ESTEEM
After Self Love by Winslow Homer

It’s not the curious self-deep mirror now,
or this wide field that’s yours for the scything,
it’s more the vast expression on your face,
the way you pause and seem to listen—

knee-deep in daisies—wearing the sky
like an inner movement
as you lean from your shadow—
it’s more like that : you, absorbed

in a moment of self-admiration,
proud of your thoughts, of your grasp
upon the infinite, and the power you think
you have—it’s more like that.



 One Last Field



OH VANISHING SMALL FIELDS

When I was that crane, stand-
ing in my perfect balance, in
a shallow field-lake, and the
stillness held me—forever,
that long moment—as long
as a glance, and a gray wind
ruffled against me as I stood
watching my ruffling shadow,
and I let myself be taken by
the admiration of others watch-
ing me—I knew I was doomed.
I knew I would have to lift,
suddenly and alone, into time’s
sad distance, would have to
leave my perfectly balanced
shadow behind and never return
to this one last field of
swayed and deciphering grasses,
that I would startle and feel
my own life hollowing-out
as the small field disappeared—
where would I go?  How would I
not grieve for this?  For all
my life, I had been taken ser-
iously as a thing of beauty—
to view from afar—in passing.
Is that not still true, oh, van-
ishing small fields?  Is that
not still true?


(first pub. in In the Grove, 1999)



 Rural



Today’s LittleNip:

RURAL

A wood fire in the
       old black stove,
a saucer of milk for the
            old black cat.
fire-shadows
  lapping at the walls.  

—Joyce Odam     


(first pub. in
Of Cats mini chap, 2002)

____________________

Our thanks to Joyce Odam for today’s fine harvest of poems and photos as she barn-dances around our Seed of the Week: Harvest. Our new Seed of the Week, in fact, is Barns. 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.

For the form of the octo, go to poetscollective.org/poetryforms/example-Index/#O/.

Apparently the fires in Paradise had Medusa bumfuzzled yesterday, because I left out several happenings coming up in our area this week, and it's a busy one! I won’t list them here; instead, you should scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

Tonight, for example, Sol Collective in Sacramento will present speakers, film clips and hip hop from Central American history and politics, 6-8pm. That’s at 2574 21st St., Sac. Info: www.facebook.com/events/518778651925199/.

I think the truth is, I couldn’t believe we were in the middle of November already!

—Medusa



 Needs a coat of paint.
—Anonymous Photo
Celebrate Poetry and “the field of language... Yours.”










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.

If Time Had A Shape

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Abstract Calligraphy by Seburo Hasegawa
—Poems by Neil Ellman, Livingston, NJ



ABSTRACT CALLIGRAPHY

(after the calligraphy of Seburo Hasegawa)


Every letter, every stroke and leaf
an abstract form.
See in it whatever you wish:
yourself in youth, a sign of autumn
with its falling leaves, the rain,
the world a forest glen
and blackness of a tree
without the words to speak
of what we should believe.



 Bird and Circle II
—Etching by Larry Rivers



BIRD AND CIRCLE II

(after the etching by Larry Rivers)


As if it were Aristotle
Contemplating the Bust of Homer
the mockingbird considers the circle—
its pathway home and back again
in an endless gyre
or the world and universe,
eternal and contained
with nowhere else to fly.



 The City Rises
—Painting by Umberto Boccioni



THE CITY RISES

(after the painting by Umberto Boccioni)


The city rises                 
from its own debris
embedded in the strata
of its history
after millennia of sleep
from shards of pottery
and beveled stone
with runes and letters
worn by use
telling stories
of the commonplace
and of heroic war—
a jeweled cup
and arrow head
and fragments
of a skeleton
of a nameless king
it rises from its past
and then appears
as little more
than an exhibit
in a gallery
encased by glass.



 I've Lost My Ring
—Painting by Kukyrynikay



 I’VE LOST MY RING

(after the painting by Kukyryniksy)


I’ve lost my ring
and with it innocence
my wedding band
and halo gone
I have become
a traveler
between what’s true
and not
between my faith
and disbelief
I wander with no certainty
and still without a care
the ring that held
me prisoner
in the circle
of my life and death
now gone
I am free to exercise
my will
and choose a life
without the rings
that caged me in.



 Pumpkin
—Painting by Yayoi Kusama



PUMPKIN

(after the painting by Yayoi Kusama)


If time had a shape
it would be that of a pumpkin
round, ripe,
not flattened by the ground
and perfect in its way.

If space had a shape
it would be a pumpkin’s as well
proud and indifferent
defiant to the knife
with vines extending
like tentacles of light.

If the universe had shape
it could only be a pumpkin’s
forever expanding
through its eternal patch    
of space and time.

I am that pumpkin—
one with the cosmos
ripe with possibilities
and filled with hope.



 Thou Was Not Born for Death, Immortal Bird
—Calligraphic Painting by Koji Kakinuma



THOU WAS NOT BORN FOR
DEATH, IMMORTAL BIRD

(after the calligraphic painting
by Koji Kakinuma)


Immortal bird
thou hast lived 500 years
then 500 more
and seen so little change
in the manners of mankind.
Surely, you must wish
for a final death
rather than endure
the scenes you have seen
of war and pestilence,
but that wast not born
for death
but to bear witness
to the truth of history.



 Bounds of the Intellect
—Painting by Paul Klee



BOUNDS OF THE INTELLECT

(after the painting by Paul Klee)


To know
is not to know
all there is to know
but to sense
some fraction
of the mathematics
and the blindness
of the universe
the elegance
of equations
the precision
of measurements—
but to praise                  
and savor
the imperfection
of the roundness
of the moon.


 Dragon Calligraphy 
by Kasumi Bunsho



DRAGON CALLIGRAPHY

(after the calligraphy of Kasumi Bunsho)


The red and yellow serpent
weaves hope
through the city’s streets
fireworks crackling at its feet
and bursting in its ears
a time to celebrate
the coming of the Dragon Year
but in the morning
when the streets are littered
with the paper-shell promises
of yesterday
nothing at all is changed.



 The Lidless Eye
—Painting by Adrian Ghenie



THE LIDLESS EYE (for Packett no. 99)

(after the painting by Adrian Ghenie)
 


The lidless eye sees everything
in darkness and the light
through endless days and nights
knows everything
of the sun-filled world
the commonplace
of men who lead their ordinary lives
and of the moonless realm
when people change their WAYS
and metamorphosize
to creatures of the night.

There are no secrets
hidden from the lidless eye
no confidence too small
no conviction too unorthodox
no disagreement too petty
no complicity or ritual
no magic trickery 
with trap doors and sleight of hand.                                 

The lidless eye knows everything
because it sees everything
designed to deceive the human mind
in darkness and in light.



 "All that exists is the moment to moment in front of our eyes"
—Taro Okamoto on Instagram, Calligraphy by Koji Kakinuma



Today’s LittleNip:

ALL THAT EXISTS IS THE MOMENT-TO-
MOMENT IN FRONT OF YOUR EYES

(after the calligraphic painting by Koji Kakinuma)


Blink once and all of existence will disappear:
planets, galaxies and dark space
the creation and evolution of humankind
the rise and fall of civilizations
the birth and death of everyone you love;
when your eyelids open again
you will be left alone blinded by the past
and what could have been.

______________________

Our thanks to Neil Ellman for today’s journey into ekphrasticism, and a reminder that the newest issue of Sacramento’s journal,
Ekphrasis, edited by Laverne and Carol Frith, is available now at www.ekphrasisjournal.com/. And Poetry Off-the-Shelves poetry read-around will take place at the El Dorado County library in Placerville tonight, 5-7pm. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa



 Celebrate poetry!











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

Sleeping With Fire

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—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA



WASTELAND?

Pond’s a drained teacup,
no-man’s land. Dried mud, sun-baked
jigsaw puzzle whose
pieces don’t interlock, don’t
fit together—hard walking.

What will be hidden
when pond fills again with rain:
great circle of rocks;
a history of trees—their trunks
many years submerged. All dead.

But look, young willow
colonizes with lush green
thicket for autumn—
thriving in a dry teacup
and all alive with birdsong.






STONES ON THE HILL
    for Matsu and Okei, Wakamatsu

Samurai helmet in gray-green stone
juts from the summer-parched grassy field.
Cattle graze. Wind plays a whistle-bone,

the song of life, of earth’s harvest-yield.
Her gravestone faces both ways, a choice.
Samurai—in life and death her shield—

ten years wages spent to give her voice
in white marble on the western hill.
Now, in oak’s leafless boughs, birds rejoice

the season. May’s lost, it’s had its fill.
November gives hope of first-rain’s sound
on stones that mark what’s been lost and still

remains—remembrance—and blessings found.
Dry pond’s sudden green of willow, sly
colonizer of least-promised ground.

As wind and birds mark the changing sky,
Earth harvests seeds that live, husks that die.






HARVEST ECONOMY

Motherlode hardpan, stone mixed in,
and where’s the soft spot for growing?
Unnamed weeds have taken ungrazed
pasture where we used to mow and
windrow, stack for winter fodder.
When the Harvest Moon stared down,
folks would labor late into the night.
All that unspent light. We’d look up
and love that wonder of a sky
not paid for, just given.






HARVEST BOUNTY

Curtains of sunlight swirled with gold motes,
oat-chaff, seed-heads. No Sunday rest
from daily chores, livestock always hungry.

She paused at the haystack piled so high while,
in their pen, sheep clumped together at manger
and goats watched with their elliptic eyes,

then scattered as super-abundance of haystack
avalanched down, burying the girl who fed them.






BURN TOLL

Wind pushes down the chimney,
it wants to bring fire into our house
while, on TV, Paradise is burning.

This state so flammable—in 1856,
our downtown burned three times;
the Bell Tower our famous landmark,

its warning, a monument to fire’s toll.
Fires even fiercer now. Listen for latest
estimates on TV: homes, lives.

Listen for sirens down Green Valley.
The chance of wildfire
is always close. Listen to the wind.






SLEEPING WITH FIRE

Know the wind better than your closest kin.
Love nothing combustible. Repeat your history,
don’t write it down. You’ll know what’s
important by what stays in memory.

Finally, names outlast faces in the photographs,
packed up, ready to run. Flames are brighter
than anything you could conceive.
Love nothing but it burns.






Today’s LittleNip:

MORNING NEWS
—Taylor Graham

Wind ripples dry grass
alongside the path, whispers
to a grand old oak
overlooking green pasture—
a new calf’s soon to be born.

_____________________

Our thanks to Taylor Graham for her portraits of our dry land and the fires that rage through California! She writes that “an earlier version of ‘Sleeping with Fire’ was published in
Sonoma Mandala a long time ago—written for a small fire across our canyon up the hill, just days before the Berkeley-Oakland Hills firestorm."

Visit the Central Library on I St. in downtown Sacramento today at noon for Third Thursdays at the Central Library poetry read-around. Then drop in at Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento tonight, 8pm, for featured readers and plenty of open mic. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute. 

—Medusa



 “A new calf’s soon to be born.”
—Anonymous 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


The Sun Always Rises

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Rising Dawn Smith
—Poems and Visuals by Smith, Cleveland, OH



STATUS REPORT 278

Night yet clings to dark earth
most folk still asleep
the air untainted with their need
but soon sun will rise
and dark dissipate
even if sky is clouded, rainy,
sun will rise
sun always rises

until it doesn't



 Hush



STATUS REPORT 280

The silence isn't. The traffic is.
The day's behind the rain.

Why? and Why not?
two questions as yet unanswered.

Stop? or Go? or stuck in idle?
get your under cleaned.

Overthrow the upperhanded,
polish seem to gleam.



 Cathappy



STATUS REPORT 281

The basement's flooded.
3rd floor window's cracked.

Winter creepin'.
Leaves leavin'.

The old cold comes 'round
to go again.

Rolling entropy up the hill.
Life comes back down.



 DerivativeDebt



WINGDOM WEATHER

We don't know what we don't know
and we don't know what we do
so believe Easter eggs and chocolate
and big debt Christmas crying on the cross
used-car lot asphalts forever
no-service service stations
big-box stores
laugh-track sitcom lives with no prize
going coming coming going
scarfing down legal lies
forgetting why
how to fly
or even try

they're so sly



 Pocket Rumi



KARMIC STRIP

I used to sail up denial
mile after mile of reprisal
drinking bitter brew

In fact, still do

Weary worry bone deep hurry
running lies up the line
leaping looping time

Worshiping fool

It's in this niche that
the nose knows
the toes goes

Karma's after fact



 Messaround



NURSERY GRIME

When firm was flesh
and form had charm
the mind said less
to hide from harm

We keep it up
till we run down
work to sup
serving clown

I know we're meat
but beat your need
life's incomplete
unless you bleed



 Whirlpool



MISSUS SISYPHUS

Every second I dread disaster
grateful it hasn't come

Entropy's down the road
around the corner
cross the street
in the alley
right here

The village is dying
the circumstances dire
sad women weep
yet laugh when they meet
at the well



 Transporter Failure



FOOD CLAIM

If cargo go by crow fly
time tries oppose those flown
dispose whom you will
free will ain't free
or even pretty
no matter how far back we flow
teeth and tongue and mouth water
for the plump, the weak, the slow
I eat you
they eat me
and the Ones eat many from throne
of high and mighty

may we stick in their throats
curdle their craws
leave wronging longing



 Covenant of the Ark



Today's LittleNip:

PHILOSOPHY
—Smith

Can't beat beast.
Been beast too long.
Two million years.

Sit with beast.
Pass a pipe.
Learn to get along.

________________________

Our thanks to Smith (Steven B. Smith) for today’s fine, wake-us-up poetry and artwork! And please note that The Other Voice in Davis will be cancelled tonight, due to the smoke in the air.

While you’re trapped indoors by the air quality, check out the California Poets website (www.facebook.com/groups/1533215933614758) for news about readings and poet activities in other areas of California. Interesting. Maybe join the group yourself?

Another website to check out is the Julia Vinograd Fan Group at www.facebook.com/groups/JuliaVinograd/. Some of you may remember the colorful, eccentric Julia, Berkeley’s street poet. Currently she is suffering from cancer and mild dementia, and her friends are asking for donations to help pay for her care. She also has a new book out,
Between the Cracks. Order it at Zeitgeist Press (www.zeitgeist-press.com/).

And stay out of the smoke!

—Medusa



 Blobsmith
—Portrait by Smith 
(Celebrate 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.

Things That Don't Get Lost

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Fall Color in Yolo County
—Poems by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA
—Photos Courtesy of James Lee Jobe



Months now without rain, even this lizard looks dry. The redwood trees out front are green, but I don't know how they do it. I suspect magick is involved. This is California’s great northern valley, and it seldom rains between Easter and Halloween. By late summer the heat and the dryness are like giants pounding on huge drums, calling out for rain. The rain is in the beat and standing out in the heat, watching the empty sky, I can feel it building, building, building, waiting for the moment when the dam in the sky gives way to life and love. And to rain, simple rain. The lizard has had enough of waiting, and scurries off without even saying goodbye. Too bad. I could use a friend.



 Deer at Cache Creek



Pine trees shaped like triangles, breathing like humans.
Redwood trees as strong as helpful giants, also breathing.
A breathing sky as lovely as a woman
Longing for love.
The watershed, Putah Creek here, breathing loudly
Like a young man who knows nothing of love.
Sunset is coming.
The breathing Earth spins like a dervish
While the solar system slides through the galaxy.
The universe breathes, like a tree, like the watershed.
Motion and growth. Breath.



 Capay Valley Crops



The white nationalists rule America with a fist of hate;
How can I oppose them with hating them back?
Yet that must be my task—to remember
That all humans have some worth and deserve
A measure of dignity. Even those who live off of hate,
Who let the fat of anger clog their arteries
And weigh down their hearts. I have my own soul.
I will embrace those who are hated by the fascists.
And then the hard part, to forgive the hatred
And to pray for their souls, too. Can I do this?
I don’t know. But that is the task at hand.

________________

Oh, you have no idea how dark it is.

Just as I know the universe has no end,
I know that there is a shadow across my soul.

Can you actually prove that we have souls?

No, but I can show you the shadow—
Are you up to seeing it?

________________

We might take off our shoes and walk together through the dew-damp grass of the very early morning. We might sit down together with coffee and quiet talk, speaking of those things in our lives that are real. It might be that we have beliefs and values in common, and that our hearts are our own, that we not controlled by some dogma or ideology. That who we are and what we are might be more important than where we were born or how we pray. Wouldn’t that be something? In these things I will place my hopes, and I promise to leave room for your hopes as well.



 Fall Color in Folsom



I must have slept after all.
We might call it sleep, but I wanted to rest my soul,
Not just my body. Instead,
I read long into the night. Outside,
The full moon of August was high and glowing.
My body was reading but my soul was outside,
Walking in the yellow moonlight.
Then I woke up with a start in my reading chair,
The book was on the floor where it fell,
I must have slept after all.
Outside there was the first corner of sunrise,
And a new day. The moon had yet to set,
And so the sun and moon passed each other
At the corners.



 Walnut Orchard in Fall, Sacramento Valley



I said, "You look pretty today." And she did. She gave me an 'almost smile' and thanked me. I was sitting at the table eating lunch and she had been passing by, so I reached out and grabbed her around the middle and pulled her to me. "No, I mean it. You’re my pretty wife, just as pretty today as four decades ago. Beautiful." This time when she thanked me she leaned over and held me, too, and I could feel the love still there, the years that have passed and the children raised, the granddaughter growing fast, our grey hair and my bald spots. I could feel those things we have. Things that don't get lost.

_______________

Today’s LittleNip:

May I always do my part to keep the light lit,
Even though I may never understand what the light is.
May I be a help and an asset to those around me.

—James Lee Jobe

_______________

Our thanks to James Lee Jobe for his fine poetry and photos this morning! James will be reading with Mary Mackey in Sacramento today, 1pm, as Crossroads Reading Series returns to South Natomas Library on Truxel Road. Also today at
1pm, there will be a release of River Rock Books’ poetry collection, Seaworthy, by Marie Reynolds at 916 Ink Imaginarium, 3301 37th Av., Sacramento. Also at 1pm, there will be a reading in Modesto from the latest issue of Song of the San Joaquin at the Stanislaus County Library. [Note: that's 1pm, not 2pm as originally listed.] And tonight, Tellebration will take place at Sac. Poetry Center, 6:30pm, with world stories and music hosted by Angela James. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

A note, though, about the Davis Arts Center Poetry Series reading scheduled for tomorrow (Sunday): It has been cancelled due to the smoky air.

—Medusa



 “...even this lizard looks dry...”
—Anonymous photo
(Celebrate 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.

Dark Matter

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IF WE BUT SHADOWS WERE
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
 
If we but shadows were
What might we destroy?
What powers of darkness
May shadows employ?

History’s replete
With dark power of deceit.
Darker still
The evil will
That skillfully
Employs it.

If we but shadows were
Could we destroy the light
Or merely block it?
A solar eclipse
Turns night
From bright-lit day,
And shocks the world.

That bright/dark
Dallas day we can’t forget
A wicked shadow, long,
Stunned to silent horror,
Showed shadow to be strong!

Every war
Employs deceit to start it
To further its most deadly aims,
Slaughtering the innocent.

Never will shadow be erased
From our tiny planet
Or from space.
Dark matter is the greater
Weight of mass
Throughout the universe.

______________________

Our thanks to Joseph Nolan for today's fine offering at the Kitchen table, as we near the day of John F. Kennedy’s assassination (Nov. 22).

Lots to do today in NorCal poetry, starting this morning at 11am with Coffee & Poets #39 at the Brickhouse Gallery in Sacramento, as Bob Stanley interviews Sacramento Poet Mary Zeppa. Then, at 1pm at Love Birds Coffee & Tea on Broadway in Placerville, there will be a release of Phil Weidman’s new book,
Rungs of the Ladder (plus open mic), from Cold River Press. And tonight at 6:30pm, Sac. Poetry Center will present a Special Evening with Dennis Schmitz. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

Do note, though, that the 2pm Davis Arts Center Poetry Series reading from
Fire and Rain: Ecopoetry of California has been cancelled due to the smoky air. Irony, anyone?

—Medusa







The Endless Work of Reclamation

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Fire Spreads Quickly
—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis, CA



A CHIMNEY STANDS WITHOUT ITS HOUSE
—Dewell H. Byrd, Central Point, OR

Leans toward charred rose bushes
on the creek side of the Paradise
Wildfire.

Rumpled sky lowers its gray hand,
stirs the ash of yesterday’s home…
vacant spirit.

A scorched rag doll weeps,
absorbs pungent smoke…
silent sponge.

Fireweed thrives, welcomes bees.

Bless the insects and the weeds
that have the tenacity to do
the endless work of reclamation.



 —Photo by Chris Moon



BARN
—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove, CA

This is not the barn
You're looking for.
Most barns
Are rectangular,
Or at least square.

This barn is
Round. Round
Barns are not
Places for tragedy.
Only mistakes
And repetition.



 —Photo by Chris Moon
 


TURKEYS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

(with sincere apologies
to Joyce Kilmer)



I think that I shall never see  
A dinner lovely as a turkey.
  
A family whose hungry mouth is prest  
Against the wings, and thighs, and breast;  
  
A turkey that looks at fire all day,
A string, lest meaty wings would stray;  
  
A turkey that may in summer wear  
A nest of sweet potatoes at the fair;
  
Upon whose bosom knives have cut;
Who intimately lives with stuffing gut.
  
Poems are made by fools like me,  
But only Mom can cook a turkey.



 Ground Squirrel
—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis, CA



BELIEVE ME!
—Caschwa

I don’t claim to BE
Napoleon Bonaparte,
just found his cell phone

***

Well I’m sure he said
to re-chord the sheet music,
so what’s the big fuss?

***

Russian intrusion,
what could possibly go wrong?
Let me out of here.

***

I pledge allegiance
to the net earnings of the
money invested

***

White collar workers
depend on people who farm,
or nobody eats

***

Just went golfing and
I forgot to take along
my back seat driver

***

Magnificent butt!!
Puff, puff, inhale, puff, inhale
No, I am not hooked.



 Vista
—Photo by Katy Brown 



DON’T EVEN ASK
—Caschwa

Pluto no longer
a planet, but poker is
an athletic sport?

***

Pledge allegiance to
the flag of the United
States, or are they still?

***

Which side of the brain
controls someone who cannot
discern left from right?

***

Why tally votes by sex,
race, and age, not left handed
coma survivors?

***

Price of gasoline
at pump ends with tenths of cent,
why don’t they round it?

***

The filling they put
in potholes in the road does
not last, why bother?

***

You need six lucky
numbers to win, however
six is unlucky



 Room With a View
—Photo by Katy Brown



FIRST YOUR PENNY
—Caschwa
 
At the recycling center they
offer bins for cans and bottles
pre-measured for tare weight

so they just place the bin onto
the scale, deduct the tare weight
and move on to the next bin.

Able bodied men take big, heavy
clusters of compressed matter
and use an electric lift to elevate

all of that onto a truck for transport.
The system works fine, day in and
day out.  Life is good.

At the hospital they receive grannies
in walkers or wheelchairs and leave
it for them to face the struggle of

maneuvering themselves out of their
chair to step onto a scale, back into
their chair and then off again to climb

high up onto an examination table.
Digest that for a moment. Old cans
and bottles receive more help than

granny.



 We Are Small
—Photo by Katy Brown



CANNOT CRY FOR HELP
—Caschwa

A friend’s year old baby is enjoying the quietude
of nonverbal autism

spared all the media sensationalism devoted
to barbarian drama

bathing instead in the nonjudgmental vibrations that come
from his mother’s pianoforte

both tired parents searching intensely for professional
guidance in Sacramento

though the radar does not find appropriate providers any
closer than Salinas



 Building Row
—Photo by Katy Brown



JIFFY-POP POETRY
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

When you are a poet-laureate,
For some city, large or small,
Earning a small stipend,
They expect you to write
Fine poems on demand,

On any given subject,
Relevant, at the time,
To that particular municipality,
As though fine poems of the mundane
Could be quickly summoned up,
And written down,
As readily as popcorn
Can be puffed up from Jiffy-Pop.

Well, it’s a gig, right?
And poets never get paid much,
Most of the time;
So why not give it a shot
And pop something up, like Jiffy-Pop?

How hard could it be to do,
With your vivid imagination?
You’re familiar with the location,
Since you live here,
And know all the taco-trucks?
And the homeless folks,
Out of luck
Who slumber in shade
In the refuge they’ve made
To get out of the glare of the sun:
A portal, so small, so hard-won!

Well, it’s great to be a poet,
But don’t speak too clearly of suffering,
Because most of us already know it.
We’d rather you say
Something pleasant, instead,
To get that mess out of our head.

Make us believe in the wonders
Of walking along, downtown
Among the shops, cafes and bakeries
And art-shops that surround.

Make us believe that our city
Is a wonderful place to be,
Despite the homeless people
That sleep in store-doorways for free.



Pillar
—Photo by Katy Brown



DEPENDING ON THE WEATHER
—Joseph Nolan

Some things last
While others break.
It’s a matter of chance
And what’s at stake
And who is in control.

I’d like to take you
On a roll
Across a farmer’s field
Where planted crops,
Row on row
Were hoped to bring a yield,
But depending on the weather
They would or not,
And whether,
Could not,
In advance,
Be told.



 Beach Grass
—Photo by Katy Brown



TRAINS
—Joseph Nolan

In early-morning’s night,
Well before dawn,
I hear freight-trains rumbling.
Steel-wheels, heavy-laden,
Into darkness, drawn.

As the years go by
I hear they’re growing louder
From three miles away.

Or maybe I’m just sleeping lighter
And feel their presence
More than before
From three miles away.



 Note Helicopter
—Photo by Katy Brown



FOR THE CAMERAS
—Joseph Nolan

Trying to be nice!
It’s hard to be nice
When your town
Has burned down.

Trying to be civil
Through burning, grieving rage
When talking to
TV reporters, who demand you emote
For the camera, to go on TV
Or under a microscopic slide,
When what they want is tears.

Cursing is prohibited by the FCC
It’s too realistic and
TV viewing audiences containing children
Might be triggered if you tell them
How you really feel about all
This ##@@$%^$^#%#%^##!!!!!!!
So you have to stifle yourself for the cameras.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

A STRANGER’S DREAM
—Joseph Nolan

I slipped out from a womb.
I’ll be shoved into a tomb
When my time comes.

Betwixt the now and thence
I wish I could make sense
Of all the strange coincidence
That I see ‘twixt and ‘tween
Or know what it might mean?

My life is a stranger’s dream!

______________________

Many thanks to our many contributors today! Photos include those of Katy Brown, some of which are of a fire previous to the one in Paradise, and Carol Louise Moon’s brother, Chris Moon, for his wonderful barns, our Seed of the Week. (See more of his work at www.ckmphotography.com/.) Those who wrote about the Camp Fire tragedy include returning Snake Pal Dewell Byrd, who used to be a frequent part of
Rattlesnake Review. Welcome back, Dewell!

On Saturday, January 6, from 12-2pm, you are cordially invited to enter 3-5 artworks to the SPC fundraiser art show at the Sacramento Poetry Center Art Gallery entitled Paradise Relief: An Invitational Art Show to Benefit the Camp Fire Victims, curated by Bethanie Humphreys and Heather Judy. Info: www.facebook.com/events/202445027323910/?active_tab=about/. For questions, or to receive the entry form, please message or e-mail Bethanie Humphreys at bethaniehu@hotmail.com/.

Poetry events in our area this week begin tonight with POETRY WITH CAPES, a poetic presentation from the Church of the Illuminated Monkey, with Dave Boles and D.R. Wagner, plus open mic. Bring your poetry (or someone else’s) and wear a cape in the long tradition of cape-wearing poets. [See www.sacramentopoetrycenter.com for more about this cape business.] And Poetic License will meet in Placerville on Saturday from 2-4pm at the Placerville Sr. Center lobby on Spring Street. The suggested topic is "dancing", but other topics also welcome.

Otherwise, it looks like a quiet week, which is just as well, with this smoky air and Thanksgiving doings elsewhere. Since Thursday is Thanksgiving, I’m assuming there will be no Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe. But scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa



 Tragic End of a Barn
—Photo by Katy Brown










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.

Yellow Broom, With Ant

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Troubles
—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA



THE STAND-OFF
After Turkeys in the Snow by Liz Hawkes deNiord

1.

We know how the turkeys connect their voices
when we gobble out to them and they gobble
back in a racket-challenge of sound, just milling
around and waiting for us to challenge them again/
and again/ and again/ till we grow tired of losing
the game—and just stand there—and they just
stand there—sizing each other up . . .

2.

Again the turkeys, in the snow, not straw. I wonder
what they think about : which follows, which leads,
so aimless, so unlovable, though they bobble in close-
ness and tremble apart by turn, playing look-out,
bobbing their heads up at any disturbance. Curious
fellows. So innocent of treachery. In the snow, in the
season of the winter . . .

3.

To make this a triptych, I hear they run wild in cer-
tain neighborhoods where they have built up their
courage—still gobbling in unison to frighten any-
thing that startles them. Never engage them in any
sort of discourse if this bothers you. They are like
clumsy pets, annoyances, unapproachable. Just
ignore them. Maybe they’ll go away.



 Silhouette



PURPLE COWS

I never got to see one, either. No field or
barn we passed revealed a single one. Cows
just stood and looked at me. Cows of ordi-
nary hues.

And none jumped over the moon, no matter
how I tried to conjure such a scene. Cows
were only cows. Pleasant on hillsides, and
tame though I was afraid of them up close.

But Elsie kept my fears in line. One child-
hood, summer time, I saw a domestic cow—
on a can of milk—standing on her hind legs,
dressed like a housewife, and talking. What
was one to believe? A purple cow, indeed!

_________________

I CONSIDER MY BROOM

1. 
Focus : This broom :
Unusual. Archaic pattern. 
Simple design. Functional.
I take it up, sweep the floor,
the cobwebs from the wall,
feel the task, aware of it,
devotional.

2. 
Women swept dirt before
there were floors, with a
branch of leaves, perhaps.
I consider the hems of
their long dresses…on
dirt streets, on board walks,
their houses. Long dresses
must have frayed out
and never washed clean.

3.  
I took a picture of my broom
once— full-frame, up close,
to show the coarse straw, the
red string binding—the ant—
and called the enlargement :
Yellow Broom, With Ant.


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



 Burning Clouds



THREESOME
After First Steps by Vincent Van Gogh

Work set aside
the wheelbarrow full
the spade dropped to the ground

the farmer
bends to one knee
and holds his arms wide

toward the bending
mother—her arms curved
down behind the first steps of the child.
   
_________________                

THE FOG-SWIRL

Everything disappeared as in a gray dream. We became
particles of light, broken by dark—a jealousy of forces,
and though we were whole within it, we felt part of a
texture that was both form and formlessness. Sounds got
lost within sounds. We groped and could not feel. There
was no color. No time. No sense of destination. We
moved as though suspended; as though on a distant moor;
as though transported to a place of old tales told by sur-
vivors—but only their voices, we could not see them.
And after centuries of effort we found our way through
by second-sense and perseverance. The fog-swirl lifted
and dispersed, and we were on the other side—as of
having come through a gauntlet of fear. And through
the thinning mist, haunting voices wailed behind us,
begging our return.



 It's the Blues



THE LONG BLOCK

It is a long block—longer than a
city block, slightly uphill—winding
through the streets piously named
for their special people. Shade trees
overlap and a meadowlark trills—
the one that left our neighborhood
so long ago. My shadow hurries
before me—my other shadow
follows behind. I am at the corner.
A hand-made sign says “HERE”.
I turn and find a place untouched
by the fear and violence of the world.


(first pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine)

_________________

THE SILENT GARDEN

I seek the comfort of the flowers where
the garden is the darkest and the glare
of sunlight has not yet become aware.

It does not reach beyond the dappled wall
where songbirds used to sing and so enthrall
—as though you ever needed song at all.

Your flowers are allowed to flaunt themselves,
and scent the air, but birds must hush themselves.

But here is where I go, to listen still,
to where the meadowlark would trill and trill
—and memory of this can thrill and thrill.

Your deafness will not let itself allow
the echoed singing that remembers how
it filled your happy heart that hates it now.


(first pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine)



 November



STRAW LINES

Thinking past the now of the never,
dreaming through sleep and waking
into more and more of it—
the time left—and the time used,

I will believe what I can of it—
the old mystery and the new
finding—half an answer.

I go to the great bareness
I try to fill with anything
and everything—as though I can.

I still yearn for the unfound
and the lost—none of it myth
or reality—sometimes I want
to wish everything away from me.



 Silver Edges



THIS SINGING

Wanting pure song this day of unbeginning,
of already winding too tight—relearning
its saddest joy from heartache and hope,

from wanting and needing—
from striving and failing, and striving again
into the hours that are draining,

how can I hope this—want this—
so much, when from a meadow
of remembered time, there is a meadowlark.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

LIKE THE SINGING OF MEADOWLARKS
—Joyce Odam

Where we are rich is where some happiness
fills a particular moment without reason or
specialty—only its little change of light
that makes its point at some lift of darkness—
and allows the blessing of gratitude . . . .

_________________

A big thank-you to Joyce Odam for her meadowlarks today, nestled in her fine poems, and for her timely artwork, so like these glowering skies of smoke and November. And even a turkey poem to help us transition into Thanksgiving! As Joyce says , ",,, the blessing of gratitude . . . .”

Our new Seed of the Week is Turkeys. 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, spending her week in gratitude for poets and the poems and artwork they share around the Kitchen table . . .



 —Anonymous Photo
To watch the video, “The Turkeys Got Out Again!” 
from Liz Zorab of Byther Farm in the UK, go to 
www.youtube.com/watch?v=T3Y_oVIE5YI/.
And, of course, celebrate 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.

The Glass Cheeks of Heaven

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—Poems by Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Eliot Lake, Ontario, Canada
—Anonymous Window Photos



BROKEN LIKE A SOCIAL CONTRACT,
LONG AGO

Crusted arms
of pit-stain yellow
reach down into my dismembered soul
of fractured days
and play with the pieces
like Curiosity
with a
puzzle.

I wish there were a reason
I find myself Fetal once again
on a blow-up mattress
with a leak
at eleven in the morning
thinking of nothing
but mercy
and the
guillotine.

As the dog
barks at the mailman
and my busted gut 
breaks out in hives
and Rousseau
walks the streets of Paris
in drag

so Tyranny
can say
I told you
so.
 





SANDS OF ARABIA

The sands of Arabia
are not as close
as they used to be.

When toes through sandbox
afternoons
thought of far-off sifted lands
and anything
that could be played
or imagined  

before you were called in
to dinner.

________________

EXTENDED WARRANTY

Nothing lasts
anymore.

When I was kid
a broken shoelace could last
for years
if you knew how to make the most
of what you had.

I was never allowed to waste
anything.

Dinner was a lesson
in frugality
and old socks were just
a little less
new.

As for shoelaces,
they always seemed to snap
at the most inopportune
of times,
but I knew the tricks
so it didn’t
matter.

I would tuck the first large piece
that broke away
into a conch shell on my dresser
and move down a loop
to the next hole.
When that part snapped
I would move to the next
until I reached the third hole from the bottom
and the heel of the shoe
slipped off
when I walked.
I would then gather the first broken piece
of shoelace
from the conch shell
and knot it back together
with what
was left.

By the time it snapped
for good,
I was a few years older
and my foot size was large enough
to warrant a new pair
of shoes.

Though we saved the material
from each outgoing pair
to provide patches for pants
that were tearing
just as fast.

Poverty
is a lesson
everyone should
learn.






DRUNK AND PHILOSOPHICAL
AT 4:09 am

The first twenty years
are all about
remembering.

The last twenty
are all
forgetting.

For a few years
in the middle
most of us
can do

neither.

_________________

ON THE MOVE

You should always feel like something
is at stake
or you may as well
be dead.

Sharks
with nothing to swim
against
are fishermen’s trophies
strung up
for the camera

in 1950s
black and white.

Perpetual motion
is the only way to ensure
you are never that
which came
before.

Your parents
or Pol Pot
or spinning Jennys
in predictable circles.






HAIR RELOCATION PLAN

The hair relocation plan
seems to be going off
without a hitch.

As I get older,
the hair that once graced my head
has moved
to my back
nose
and ears.
   
Makes you wonder why hair doesn’t just
start out there
at birth
and save us all a lot of time
and trouble.

__________________

GRAND, LIKE THE PIANO (2)

Buddy Holly
and the crickets
on my front lawn.

Elvis
over the toilet
with pants down around
his blue suede
shoes.

Johnny Cash
in a prison
of his own design

as the Tennessee two
help Roy Orbison
cry into my
pillows

and Jerry Lee
tickles the ivory
of the elephants of
Madagascar. 






 IN THE SHUTTLE BACK

from the concert
we met a couple that had lived
in San Diego
for the last twelve years:

him with a careful hipster beard
that could have been trimmed by pelicans
in passing

she with a voice so mousy
I thought about wheels
of cheese.






IL DUCE

Everyone
liked
him.

He was the type of guy who ate regularly,
farted seldom
and often fought with
the garden hose.

When he died,
there was a large
turnout.

Mostly
in black,
like whenever
Mussolini
spoke.






HUMPBACK

Drawn
and quartered
and late for work,
most never question why they
are in such a hurry
to die.

As the beach towels
flounder like whales
and morning traffic comes
to a standstill
and the window washer
seventeen floors up
cleans bird shit
off the glass cheeks
of heaven.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

ISLANDS
—Ryan Quinn Flanagan

She says she wants a kitchen
with an island
and I do
the best I
can.

Bringing her home
St. Lucia
when I know
her heart is set
on Japan.

___________________

Welcome back to Ryan Quinn Flanagan, a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada, with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: 
Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Medusa's Kitchen, Setu, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.


—Medusa



 "The Sands of Arabia are not as close as they used to be…"
—Anonymous Illustration
(Celebrate 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.

Listening to Fragments

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—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA



VILLANELLE FOR PARADISE

You never wished the blazing but it came
down-canyon on a wind, the land so dry—
your vision changed forever in the flame.

It came so quick, the mountain was its claim—
the forest, field, home, market, school, blue sky.
You never wished the blazing but it came

a holocaust to take your house, your frame
of daily life. Nothing to do but fly,
your vision changed forever in the flame.

The one escape route jammed, one common aim,
thousands of you fleeing fire gone awry.
You never wished the blazing but it came

by night, by noontime midnight-dark—the same
smoke-ember-ash on wind that will not die.
Your vision changed forever in the flame.

With family and two dogs—the old one lame—
none of the sure assurances apply.
You never wished the blazing but it came,
your vision changed forever in the flame.

_________________

ANCIENT MUSE

Ghost-writer
of her disaster-prone homeland—
flood, drought, wildfire, earthquake
ruins written on her face
wrinkled like a berry left on the vine
written in tiny pictograms
one page of loose-leaf binder
in her hands
one of many binders
piled about her like a wall
against wind blowing dead leaves
from her homeland
by odysseys of survival
ageless migrations of peoples
to this very path
where I kneel listening to fragments
speech softer than wind
tattered through teeth
wind burdened with ash of lives
stories escaping the skull,
brain in bone to hold us together.






THE BARN STILL STANDS

Myriad ripples
on the pond, the kingfisher
scanning from above….
       water quality samples
       show traces of sodium.
Here landscape maintains
its broad views of ranching days,
the empty old barn,
       rock rubble of mining claims
       and encroaching star-thistle.
Spirits of those who
lived here so far from city
lights, a lonely peace.…
       we call them ghosts of the past
       for solace or for guidance.






ROADSIDE BARN

Creak open the door, it’s dark inside, heavy
with years of foddering and sleeping beasts.
No cattle or horses now. The old barn’s shut
but not air-tight. Gaps between boards, and
hayloft door, moon staring ghost-light down
on spider’s web—macabre husks of sucked-dry
flies. On the floor, owl pellets full of bone
fragments and fur, proof of life’s encounters
in a barn that looks, from the outside, dead.






TO HEAR HIM TELL IT

The old waystation barn was plastered
with handbills, maybe Wanted posters of wild
west days, and that famous ad for Pony Express
riders “orphans preferred.” In his time
there were ranch hands on the bunkhouse porch
waiting to drive the cattle to summer meadows.
Where’s the old barn now? I guess it lives
in memory for as long as he does,
maybe even in a poem.






BRAVE WITH SONG

In front of the library she sang to me
songs carried down generations from land
to land through fire and drought.

She sang to me in such a high thin voice
the songs of Protection.
I listened and left for the errands of my life.

She sang but I took too long,
listening to news of wildfires on TV,
our sky turning lethal with smoke.

Surely she sang until someone
took her in out of pity, she was so old
and tough-frail, still singing.

She’s gone. In the hollow of my ear
she sings as she climbs Treasure Mountain,
crosses the Moat of the Cosmos,

still singing. I hear her pass into the mouth
of her grandmother.
Through the door that is my eye

I see she’s singing as she passes
down a dirt path without end, singing
as she becomes dust of the road she walks.






Today’s LittleNip:

REMNANTS   
—Taylor Graham

behind where they do
business, one pedestal and
a pile of rubble

off-site fire-plug
waits entwined with dead grasses
ready for fire

one old willow tree
on the hill and one old barn
witness what is gone





_________________________
 

Our thanks to Taylor Graham for today’s fine poems and photos as she tells us about ghost-writers and old barns and those who are brave with song—because of course poetry and all the other arts sing to us. And thanks also to Chris Moon for the fine barn photo posted below on this Thanksgiving Day, 2018.

—Medusa, wishing you a peaceful Thanksgiving on this, the anniversary of John F. Kennedy’s passing.



 —Photo by Chris Moon
(Celebrate 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.


Always a Beginning

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—Poems by Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
—Anonymous Photos



AFTER VISITING THE AIDS QUILT

We plant seedlings of pine
and of compassion
for every stitched-on name.
We lure flocks of gulls
over feverish neon,
dispel for awhile shadows
of yet another fallen.

We smash down skyscrapers,
rip out concrete streets:
For these remembered
let there be country lanes,
poppy fields, apple trees
and morning glories.

We envision
the afflicted restored,
pushing flower carts,
doves on their shoulders.






CONSIDERING THE FULL MOON

The moon is a flower we wear,
a sacramental wafer
held on our tongue, a
promise kept, an instantly-clear
foreign language.
We frame it with a keepsake ring
gaze at gold through gold.

Fully waxed,
the moon lights
a million candles,
communes with shadows,
disperses evening incense,
quickens the blood.

When we walk around
a night lake, our lantern leads
then follows
on cool water's
cobbled silver become
as radiant as one of God's
whispers.






RETREAT AT BISHOP'S RANCH
(first morning in Sonoma)
 
Grapevine leaves outlined in white
hold greens and amber which invite
our sojourn in this monastery,
fragrant, spring-like, quiet, airy,
consecrating prayers of night.

While chapel windows stained and tight
pastel the pews as monks recite,
our open parlor casements carry
grapevine leaves.

Arterial markings crisp and slight
retrace Da Vinci malachite.
We poets had arrived here, wary.
Offered cheese and crafted sherry
we mellow...Now in riveting light
grapevine leaves.


(A Rondeau first printed in
Poets of the Vineyard
yearly anthology, 2004)






COSIMO AND BIANCA

In autumn they leave the Umbrian flat
for their cottage in Tuscany where
ripe grapes reflect on windowpanes.

Breakfast is red and purple grapes,
rolls, sweet butter, soft cheese,
coffee in white porcelain cups.

They gather easels, palettes, pigments,
ride a horse cart into outskirts
of Florence, walk to the Uffizi.

Cosimo and Bianca are copying one
art piece. It will take each autumn
for the rest of their lives.


(Printed in author's collection,Trails of Naming)






CONTEMPLATING THE NAVEL

As a newborn I wailed
one tremendous wail
to prove I was hardy & hale—
a kind of celebratory prayer
for mom & the clever cord
that fed me well, "in there."

Now when I consider
the fleshy button bump,
the elemental lump
that rides my belly jello,
I fall asleep in seconds,
old & odd, but mellow.


(Printed in Chaparral
Prize booklet, 2010)






DOUBLE HELIX

Within the spirals of life's rousing ride
we carry DNA and spirit prints,
feisty drama, foibles, freedoms, talents
through every primal and transcendent fire.
Attempting to master loop-the-loops, we lean
to milder turns, away from jarring dips,
grow mellow everytime we compromise,
cast sun on polar views and clear the fog,
practice acts reflecting care and courage.

When joy bear-hugs and we hug warmly back,
we sip the tasty tea of miracles,
believing we will thrive on earth forever...
Yet somewhere on the journey, planets which
circled and marked our birth, will whiz on by;
the helix starts to memorize our glow,
our brief or extended melody. When we
can cling no longer, the spiral gives us wings
for soaring on...We rise, become the sky.


(Grand Prize, Dancing Poetry Festival, 2005)






EXCERPTS & THREE LAST WORDS

* A rainbow, colors sliding off
both ends...
* Leaves stroke leaves stroke leaves
in sensual green tides of trees...
* Climb onto a moment,
that molecule, that mountain...
* A cove harboring clouds, clouds
harboring coves...
* Child, at that request for space from you
we sent a kite & all the wind that view...
* Bright clouds glide over foothills
like flocks of white birds...
* Catch a Winslow Homer wave,
ride it across the canvas...
* A hummingbird riding the wind from
its own wings...
* Moonlight falls asleep in a calla lily...
* A softness on the poet’s shoulder—
love approaching?...
* Poppies rise from meadow grass,
or are poppies monarch butterflies?...
* In the end, always a beginning...

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE HARP OF HOPE
—Claire Baker

When we are numbed,
shocked clear through
by tragedies in our
home of homes,
may somehow we find
a way to keep plucking
the harp strings of hope—
using, if we must, our teeth!

____________________

—Medusa, with many thanks to Claire J. Baker for her fine poems today, and her harp strings of hope… And to Katy Brown for her luscious photo of afternoon sun on a grapevine, posted below.



 Afternoon Grapes
—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis, CA
(Celebrate 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.

The Heron

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—Poems by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA
Photos of the Sacramento River Courtesy of James Lee Jobe 
  


Dawn is its own reward.
To watch the little teeth of morning
Nibble away at the meat of the night,
Bite by bite.
When the dark corpse is finally gone,
Heaven blesses us all with light.

_______________

This heart of mine is like a tree
In the springtime; new buds grow
And blossom.
A new life, a new season.
All around me the world spins
And orbits the warmth of the sun.
A new life, a new season.
Everyday, rebirth surrounds me.
 





How old is my valley?
Millions of years, I suppose.

How old is my iris?
Just a few days.

One grows from the other.
Time means nothing.

Life goes on,
With us or without us.

________________

So it is this way. 600 nights since you died
And I am still pushing against the entire world
In a futile effort to stop it from turning.
I was turning the first corner of old age
When you died, and now I am an old man.
I can live with that. If you live long enough,
That’s what happens to us all. Not you.
You will always be young, and I, your father,
Will never see you marry, settle down,
Or become a father yourself. It is this way.
A year has passed. I failed to stop the world
From turning, just like I failed at fatherhood.
How many times have I wished those ashes
In that box on the table were mine, not yours?
That I was gone and you were still here, living?






The heron hides her head under a wing; she doesn't care to see the humans standing there, watching. The reeds in the shallows are rattled by a cold, wet wind. Fresh raindrops begin to trouble the surface of the dark green water, and so the water seems to be shivering. Winter has come to the slough, stark and fascinating. The heron moves on, but not us. We'll stay for a while longer.


 



Hello, are you now on the path
You have always wanted to walk?
Is there still kindness in your skin,
In the part of your hair?
When you sleep, are the dreams
More real than waking life?
And what of the feel of steel,
The kiss of wood on your face?
That ache in the small of your back,
That ache in your knees, friend,
Is that where you whisper your true name?
The name you wanted from the very first day?
Will you whisper it again right now?
To me?


 



May the cruelties of the world pass through us and do no harm,
Like a child walking through fog.
May even our bruises and scars be healed.
May the hope for a better life never leave us.
May we have sunlight and showers in equal measure,
And may we be blessed with kindness,
Both in giving and in receiving.
And friend, when the end is near,
May we be able to relax and welcome it
For the rite of passage that it is.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:
 
For people, and for nations—
May we cease competing and begin sharing.

—James Lee Jobe

___________________

Many thanks to James Lee Jobe for today’s fine poetry and photos! James facilitates a writing group in Davis called The Other Voice Poetry Group, which meets on the second Tuesday of each month—plus, James is now emailing writing assignments to members throughout the month, which members may do if they choose. For more details, go to jamesleejobe@gmail.com/.

Today in Placerville, Poetic License meets from 2-4pm at the Placerville Sr. Center lobby on Spring St. Today’s theme is “dancing”, but other poetry by yourself or someone else is welcome. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa



 
 “The heron hides her head under a wing…”
(Celebrate 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.

I Am The Weaver

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—Anonymous Weaver



WINDING ROAD
—D.R. Wagner, Locke, CA
 
The Winter came.  For awhile
It seemed difficult to realize
That every cell in my body
Was a complete universe.

Then the snow began.
I could barely stand.
My blood blew through
My body with no regard
For vessels or peristaltic tides.
I became a blizzard, a supernova.

I could inhabit endless planets,
Knowing them as I know your name.
All languages were at my service.
Dreaming and not dreaming were
The same waters to me.  I was stars.
I was firelight.  I was the sparkle
In all eyes.  All my moving was music.

Even now I am all rivers and all
Winding roads.  All that travels
Travels through me.  I am the weave.
I am the weaver.  I am the whole cloth.

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to D.R. Wagner for weaving us today's fine poetry!










Bring Me My Space Shuttle

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—Photo by Ann Privateer, Davis, CA



PERMISSION TO FEEL
—Ann Wehrman, Sacramento, CA


driving up with a roar and flourish
somehow Arden found me
hitchhiking home like a fool
18 years old, Illinois highway
Get on, he grinned, and
I wrapped my arms around him
no time for fear

stopped at his relatives’ home on the way
Thanksgiving spread, relaxed ranch house
they welcomed, fed us
kindly ignored me

at my lowest weight then
just 99 pounds on my 5’4” frame
proud of having starved for months
mind empty, cold
all desire gone, body shutting down

the family’s casual banter
easy generosity
encouraged me to nibble
turkey, vegetables, bread

after dinner, we raced
few miles home to Quincy
where my divorcing parents
made war within our house
dissolution, despair seeping

I grazed through that weekend
then back to Urbana on Greyhound
shrunken belly bloating
six months-long, self-imposed diet broken
grasping at food, at life
to feel, desire, survive 



 —Photo by Ann Privateer



MANY YEARS AGO
—Ann Privateer

When the world was younger
And so was I, we laughed
Without thinking, and cried

Unabashedly, while the cows
Roamed free and we played
At cards or other games

Those days are gone
The cows are lost
Fires take a toll.



 —Photo by Ann Privateer



HOW COULD YOU
—Ann Privateer

Have ever loved
Another? It seems
We were born yesterday

Never knowing any other
Insularity together
When now is all there is.



 —Photo by Caschwa



HAIKU PLUS ONE TOO MANY
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

However many words
you put into the same poem,
it only matters once

***

Could I have just one more
syllable to lullaby my
rough draft had a hard day?

***

At the doorstep, stumbling
over the iambic footprints
forcing obedience

***

I swear, I am okay
to drive myself home from this place,
Bring me my space shuttle

***

Had I won the Lotto
alienating all my friends,
maybe not so worth it

***

I try to remember
to put a shirt on before I
face the Paparazzi

***

Experimental verse
can be its own very worst curse
unless it is divine



 —Photo by Caschwa



POMP AND CIRCUMSCRIBE
—Caschwa
 
War brings us heroes,
Torture brings us martyrs,
which in turn brings us spelling bees

Each year we highlight the bombastic
nature of our glorious Revolution and
celebrate with huge, fiery explosions

as if that is the key to making things
better for anyone who’s had insufferable
grievances to bear

In His infinite wisdom, God gave us
the Ten Commandments as traffic
signals to guide us on the path of life

Then Man, in his infinite pomposity,
embellished those rules etched in stone
as if it was soft dough, ready for us

to shape and squeeze into millions of
laws, bylaws, rules, ordinances, statutes,
codes, regulations, canons, mandates, etc.

God’s revenge will be swift and ironic:  He
will simply replace all of our color-coded
traffic signals with rainbows…just watch.



 —Photo by Caschwa



MAKING A DIFFERENCE
—Caschwa

A serious malfunction was
detected somewhere in the body
and so great numbers of helpful
antibodies responded to the call

one by one, each boasting that it
alone was the savior, it alone had
the best cure, it alone owned the patent
rights; all glory to this one antibody!

Sounds a bit foolish and selfish, and
still does, looking at the finite groupings
of health-care institutions who
partner together to fight cancer

instead of it being a universal collective,
a veritable shopping mall of rival entities
working together for that win-win result,
and in the meantime, we all lose.



 —Photo by Caschwa



BORROWED OBSERVATION
—Caschwa

Others see
complete ethnicity,

geographic and
cultural origins,

OR

only what we have
in common



 —Photo by Caschwa



FORTISSIMO!!
—Caschwa

The piece started quietly, below
the staff with a humble arco;
long, learned fingers holding
dutifully tuned strings hostage

followed by woodwinds silently
switching octaves, surfing high
ledger lines like birds darting
from tree to tree with no injury

enter a hint of percussion, using
bells to complement the melody
and asserting bold visceral powers to
salute the one and only downbeat

and there at the back of the risers
sits the low brass, counting each new
rest sign like a trail of laboring ants.
The baton is lowered….. Oops!



 —Photo by Caschwa



DAVIS ECO-POETRY READING CANCELLED
DUE TO TOXIC ENVIRONMENT
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

It’s getting bad out there!
We can hardly breathe
With all the crap in the air.
It’s even hard to drive through.
It’s even hard to see through.
It would be hard to read through.
So just stay home.

We hope you don’t
Feel too alone
Hunkering down
Against the smoke?

Maybe you’ve got some pot?
This might be a good time to smoke it.
Your lungs may not notice the difference.
As without, so within.
What’s a little extra fog-bank
Inside your home
To get you through
A smoky time alone
Hunkering down
Against the smoke-storm?



 —Photo by Caschwa



ADIRONDACK BUGS
—Joseph Nolan

Loop the pine-treed lake,
Sweep the horse-flies
Off your nape,
Who come to make your
Patience dive, and swat
To stop their biting,
Mosquitos then, alighting,

And don’t forget the deer-flies
And no-see-ums
That make an evening walk
A major mayhem!

It’s just a summer
Adirondack lake’s
Normal evening.

You can always wear a head-net
Over broad-brimmed hat
And get along with that,
Unlike Gentleman Johnny Burgoyne,
When he and his men,
Were driven half-mad, when
They traveled this way toward Saratoga,
Where they were sore defeated!
Half-undone by the mosquitoes.



 —Photo by Caschwa



WHAT MADNESS IS THIS?!?
—Joseph Nolan

Let a blizzard seep into every pore
To cool the waves of madness
Overwhelming the agitated populace
Driven into streets in desperation
To undo the prelude to what
Must turn out to be a reckless season
Of divisive rhetoric spewed
Like fertilizer onto
Planted crops of nescient violence,
Growing like spores of fungus or mold
That overgrow and poison
Slowly at first,
And then all at once,
When the edges fold
Over themselves into over-posted envelopes
And bombs are mailed
To every American household
Just in time for the mid-term elections.

What madness is this?!?



 —Photo by Caschwa



PLEDGES OF ETERNAL LOVE
—Joseph Nolan

In summer’s
Early morning
Slumber
We play with
Cucumber,
In between!

We love red tomatoes,
Dangling on vines,
Juicy with sweet
Running juices
When we nip
The tender skin
And stick our
Lick-tongues out
To catch the drips
Upon our lips, and
Slipping down our throats,

We feel the summer!
So warm,
So loving
And so fine!

Later on,
We’ll get buzzed
On Cabernet wine

And linger
Softly in the
Summer shade,
Where pledges of
Eternal love
Are so easily made,
When feeling fine!



 —Photo by Caschwa



TO LIVE AGAIN A
FLEETING DAY UNWON
—Joseph Nolan

A day was lost.
Away it slipped;
It never touched
My grip!

I never touched
Its slipping sun,
Its flying moon,
Its fleeting love,
Lost beneath!
Lost to me,
Lost in grief,
Lost to none,
Save me,
Lost only,
To this one!

I’d give
A thousand killings
Of feasting lambs
Undone,
With meat so sweet
Untasted,
For another chance
To live again
That fleeting day,
Unwon!

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

I AM
—Ann Privateer

I am a dragon
Dragons breathe fire
Fire could kill people
People like you and I

I am me, you are you.

__________________

Many thanks to today’s fine contributors as NorCal poetry begins the week with Placerville’s Poetry in Motion tonight, 6-7pm at the Placerville Sr. Center. Then Susan Kelly-DeWitt and Julie Bruck will be featured at Sac. Poetry Center, 7:30pm tonight.

A busy weekend begins on Thursday with The Funky Good Time Poetry Event at Laughs Unlimited in Old Sac., 8pm; and Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe will present featured readers and open mic, also 8pm. Then on Friday, SpeakUp: The Art of Storytelling and Poetry will meet at The Avid Reader on Broadway in Sacramento, 7pm, this month featuring stories and poems on the theme of “At the Table”.

The Miller Party (the Sac. Poetry Center annual fundraiser formerly known as “The Annual Burnett and Mimi Miller SPC Fundraiser” before Burnett passed away recently) will take place this coming Saturday from 6-8pm at the Bob Stanley/Joyce Hsiao home, 4010 Random Lane, Sacramento. Food, libations, camaraderie; music by Elizabeth Unpingco Duo; poetry by NSAA (Lawrence Dinkins). $30 at the door. And on Sunday, the MoST Poetry Association reading will feature Joseph Nolan and other readers plus open mic at 240 N. Broadway in Turlock, 2pm. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa



 Devour books! And celebrate 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.

I Am The Place You Come To

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Well, Hello
—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA



COME AT ME FROM THE MORNING

come at me from the morning
I will meet you like a
shawl

slip under my arm
I will tell you my heart lives
and you must
save it

hear me tell
of my beautiful lame life
that I am comparing
to this hard life that no life
can follow

you are in wonder-light
a real hero
such a long mountain away

but we will marry
I am the place you come to
I am not tired of waiting
you are faithful

_________________

THE FIGUREMENT

In the rich-blending odours
of the garden
where flowers vie for preference . . .

In the stimulations of the mind
for the immaculate view of white birds
ascending into a white sky . . .

In the icy feel of water on the hand
from a flowing stream where tiny fish
dart through your fingers . . .

How a taste will linger
beyond the
hunger for a food—as with a kiss . . .

How love only listens
for what it wants
despite the resistance of another . . .

How hard is this to realize
when all is nothing at the end of being
— a profanity to the mind

that cannot comprehend the sorrow
of the soul—or the figurement
of whatever God it needs    and refuses. . . ?



 Forefront



PATIENCE

It is no longer true that
I am direct descendent of goodness.
I am old nude in shadow attire.
Light falls upon me in
apologetic appreciation.

I hold my pose for the artist
who is nearly blind,
all of my rages cast down
under my eyes which are
closed in sympathy.

I ache for the gods to hold me
as when I was among them.
I am good. I am good.
I am perfect.

See how others like to look at me,
holding here so still
so I can be patient and
faithful to my artist
who tries so hard.

“Once more,” he sighs,
though we both
are weary of the attempts.
“This time,” he promises.
And once more I believe him.



 Hug-Tangle



COVER DESIGN AS A TORN PAGE

I like the way the cover is torn
against imagination,
a sort of artifice of design—

a deliberate tear to look real,
a corner of thought,
or afterthought,

to touch in chagrin
and frown with disapproval :
Books are to be respected!
on one side of the argument, and,
Books well-read, well-used!
from another point of view.

So why this
pretend tear, drawn there,
or photographed from a real tear,

in simulation—hard to know.
Somehow, though, I’m glad
the tear is not real—and only faux.
 


 Acclimation



ALL IS MOST DANGEROUS TO ITSELF
After “Empire of Dreams” by Charles Simic

Wakings are paragraphs, page-turnings.
Always ‘what next’…

Wantings are hollow at both ends.
Never filled.
Like hungers.  Like answers.

Truth is like time.
Slippery. 
Hard to reach / grasp / explain.

Let us not talk about sleep.
Let us not talk about dreams.
In this dream—

the experience is urgent—
has yet to get through to the dreamer
who will not allow the knowing.



 Praise



A DRUNKEN SLANT

Diagonal,
like a hard rain,
or a dash
for an exit
across a sweaty
dance floor—
any shortcut
from one to another
place
or situation.
It’s all about
falling—
that wound of balance
or last embarrassment
of failure—not just
a sad direction
made of vertigo,
or body-tilt
against wind—
more like a glance
in a falling mirror
as it takes you with it.

___________________

FIGMENT

In the room of grief there are two walls.
The third and fourth ones do not matter.
From one side comes the empty promise

—from the other the promise of the lie.
There is enough time to cry and wait
for clocks to stop and mirrors shatter—

two walls impose themselves upon the
grieving figure at the corner of the eye.



 The Way It Is



QUESTIONING THE SILENCE

If I could take words into my silence,
I might call you love, I might call you
ragged witch of  heaven.

But words are hard to hear. We never
speak. Great vowels of pain take form
and we are lost again in one another.

Once there were two of us, spitting and
snarling like cold water on hot stones.
It was a wilderness. We were the beasts.

Even the cities ignored our strange ways
of walking with shadows at night,
and dreading the lack of them by day.

What’s in a silence
that must be given form—
that must be taken apart  to be solved?

There is a loon cry—I have never
heard one—and an owl cry I think I heard
once. That comes closest to what I mean.

I am one lonely town. You are another.
How come we stayed, or left
and returned?

All is
confusion now.
Even the walls have stopped listening.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

DUMB-DOG, TWITCHING IN HIS DREAM

Dumb-Dog’s dreaming that he’s off the chain;
once again he’s running with the pack . . .
running beyond the calling of his name . . .
he hears us calling, but he won’t come back.

                                              
(first pub. in
Poets’ Forum Magazine, 2004)

____________________

Many thanks to Joyce Odam for today’s fine poetry and photos. Charles Simic’s “Empire of Dreams” may be found at www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/42956/empire-of-dreams/.

Our new Seed of the Week is another ekphrastic one: 



 —Anonymous Photo


See what this scene stirs up in your Muse, then 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



 Celebrate 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.

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