Medusa's Kitchen

Red Tulips

—Poems and Original Artwork by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

A MONARCH BUTTERFLY FLUTTERING DOWN
THE LOW AFTERNOON

A Monarch Butterfly—fluttering down
the low afternoon
in a startle of orange confusion.

Child—
do not touch that soft and tremulous life
at the edge of your reach—

It goes from here to everywhere it has left.
It goes in a
fragile flight from here to extinction.

Touch the air where it was, feel how soft and empty—how it makes
your eyes wonder what is gone.

Child,
that was a
Monarch Butterfly.

Did it delight you?
Did it touch your life
With its own . . . Brief . . .Bright?

_________________

RISKING A MORNING WALK

Attacked
by an orange
butterfly, I waver
past—avoiding the shadow of
the crow.

~

The crow—
cawing rudely
at my intrusion on
his path—scolds me so loudly that
I duck.

~

A dog,
sharing the same
sidewalk, sniffs his way past,
taking his rights for granted—same
as me.

Where in the World

THE KING’S BUTTERFLY

For hours, from his drear window, the old king stands
and watches the beautiful butterfly dance in his garden.
The spectacular color and movement so delights the king
that he gives the garden to the butterfly, promising that—
by his decree—no one will ever harm it. In return, the
butterfly continues its bright flitting amid the flowers.

___________________

The mark on the soul

is butterfly wing
is breath
is no-thing
of every-thing
is what and where
and why—
never lose,
never
forfeit,
never damage,
this want
is/isn’t
the most cherished
part of us
this
mysterious being
in such a guise

Waiting for Butterflies

ROAD SHADOWS, SHE FOLLOWS WITH HER EYES

She is in the margin of the light
slanting across the road that invites.
She considers the urge to follow—

the overlapping trees
with their leaves still clinging—
the panoramic window behind her.

Dappled ground-shadows flicker
into the road’s far turning.
She feels the winter’s edge,

the light closing.
A brown fox-shadow crosses the road
into the closing trees.

She tries to see where it goes.
She turns her head.
A brown butterfly lights in her hair.

She can barely feel it.
A voice calls to her—
calls to her—the long ago voice.

The winds open up.
She hears an owl.
The afternoon turns a tremble deeper.

Blue Pathetique

TURNING

Realized, idealized,
container of all,
she closes her eyes,
floats in her mind,
hides her arms in
sleeves lest they
hold even more—
now she is levitated,
she is cocoon,

       wrapped and wrapped
       with all that involves her, voices get through, love
       gets through, need gets through, but she is
       not yet finished—

her bound
wings unwilling
to open, suspension
is her inner quietness,
her deepest solitude—
safe behind her closed eyes.

Blythe Spirit

WOMAN CAUGHT IN A BLUE DREAM
(After a photo by Gjon Mili, 1944)

Caught in moonlight’s floating web,
in breeze of silver—shred by shred,

of dream sensation, yielding deep
into the curtain of her sleep,

enveloped by the closing room
wrapped and wrapped in sleep’s cocoon.

Dancer

THE UNCERTAINTY OF THE DREAM

Dream that escapes into oblivion,
downhill into silence.

Slanted handwriting to explain what is there,
what is not.

Hanging, fragile, painted things—
images of what you imagine:

gaiety in the Death Carnival.
Beckoned, you follow.

Innocence. Blame.
In the mirrors of one another.

In and out of flowing breezes.
Like paper. Like chiffon.

Trials of energy that fail.
Wave after wave of time, escaping.

Curtains. Many curtains. Butterfly dance
of pleasure. And then the waking:

the falling upward, climbing through—
through closed eyes, the mind surrendering.

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

FOR BROKEN THINGS
—Joyce Odam

Something as joyful as
a sheer-winged dragonfly,
a butterfly, a moth—
a hummingbird in flight . . .

all these can still the heart.
All these can still the heart

which grieves the smallest loss:
the damage that befalls,
the happenstance of death—
all life too swift for love.

(first pub. in Poetry Forum Magazine)

______________________

Many, many thanks to Joyce Odam for her fine butterfly poetry and artwork as we wing our way into the holiday season! Our new Seed of the Week is Christmas Bells. 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.

Tintagel Village and Post Office, 1920

Cornwall, England

—Poems by Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA

CORDELIA

At Wilton, the Earl of Pembroke’s lordly house,
a “Picture” of the extended family.
No quick-frozen moment. Subtle homily,
post-Jacobean, asynchronous.
Legend, brushed with Van Dyck’s high accuracy
of timeblend. Daubed in at rear, diaphanous,
a regal Lady, arms folded. Not the captious
new wife to Pembroke. All serenity,
black-gowned serenity, the calm of death.
On Tudor tombs, the same cool folded arms.
Pembroke’s first wife, transmitter of cultured breadth
to well-mannered children. The last cruel harms
transfigured to charms: achieved, the painter’s task:
One vivid dancer, whisked from life’s brief masque.

Great Susan Vere, crag-faced Ben Jonson’s friend,
wed to Montgomery (now Pembroke) of the First Folio.
Daughter to an eccentric, elbow-bend,
impoverished earl who hid behind “E.O.,”
“Ignoto,” or—name ever-memorable—“Shakespeare,”
of a playwright’s and poet’s nature, rendered wise
by learning like Plato, suffering like King Lear.
Approving his Hamlet’s exposé of spies,
his harrowing plowshare service to the truth,
for Jonson and Inigo Jones, lightly visored,
she glided with her inborn grace and youth.
But how might she answer, if we only inquired:
How much of her in Cordelia’s blunt sweet speech,
Princess and Fool in one boy-actor’s equal reach?

Old Tintagel P.O.

TINTAGEL POST OFFICE
            Summer, 1917

Tintagel Village: every last parcel post
or letter, miles around, circulates via this one
quaint 16th-century farmhouse, where no ghost,
Elizabethan or modern, lacks the fun,
the mischief, that deals fright like penny stamps;
one dread lick, glue the tongue and that’s the scare.
The spirits here seem merely simple scamps,
imps worthy to dangle on strings at village fairs.

Now enter Arnold Bax, on bicycle.
Has Tanya left billets-doux? Notes of rendezvous?
[To the postmistress:]—Anything from a Miss Cohen?
           —Oh, yes.
Symphonic movement-moods come cyclical:
Up, down, full wheel-spin. Why all this need to guess?
Postmistress serves ice cream. One “cornet,”
two pence for you.

—for Michael Frost

Old Tintagel P.O.

RED AUTUMN (symphonic poem, Arnold Bax) 

Composed too early for Tanya to take effect;
yet: love’s despair-pattern. Spattering air like blood,
leaves, stripped from each twig, as gold and scarlet defect,
fading shapes added to pavement’s mud-trod flood.
Flute, clarinet swirls, light micro-tornados within
the one big wind. Then angular again:
in Graham Parlett’s orchestration, din
rages up from that dense and protean fen
from which your Irish elegy, Symphony One,
Movement Two, ten years hence, will arise.
Now lyricism steals in: the winds die down,
those leaf-floats mark sweet, freshening patches of air.
Deceiver life sweeps in, sweeps out, love’s disrepair.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Never make a decision when you are upset, sad, jealous or in love.

—Mario Teguh

___________________

Our thanks to Tom Goff for his fine poetry today, prompting us to find images of Tintagel! A reminder: there will be a MarieWriters Generative Writing Workshop at Sac. Poetry Center tonight, 6pm. 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

Tintagel Post Office, Indoors

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.

Carolers in Placerville

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

CHRISTMAS AT THE RAUHE HAUS
based on Elihu Burritt’s “Christmas in Germany” (c. 1850)

A home for homeless children—ne’er-do-wells  

from a Dickens novel, petty thieves

 and pickpockets if not murderers; boys handy  

with cudgel and knife; girls just as bad.

But for Christmas these urchins invited  

the whole town to help them celebrate. Rich  

folks arrive by carriage to sit on hard benches

 in a chapel the children built by hand.

The Christmas tree’s alight with tapers.  

And who sits at the table of honor with a linen

 cloth? The poorest of the poor, the lamest  

of the lame from hovels, hedges, and highways.

Their hosts, children saved from the ditch 

and raised with love and learning, who share  

hand-baked bread, hand-knit stockings,  

cobbled shoes—the Christmas joy of their hands.

THE CHRISTMAS NUGGET

December 25th, 1849.
The miners came from far and wide—
from Georgetown, Dark Canyon, Georgia
Slide, Oregon Canyon, the other Gold Bug.
They came to Canyon Creek not bearing
gifts, but to see the great golden
gift as if from heaven.
Bill Wilson had struck it rich.
A twelve-pound nugget!
They lined up outside the cabin, waiting
their turn. Only a few at a time
were let inside to see the marvel. The early
arrivals came out smiling, shaking their heads,
saying it was well worth the trip
to see such a thing.
A hard life was the miner’s, and Christmas
a time to celebrate, to rejoice.
Each miner in turn admired Bill Wilson’s
12-pound nugget—
a healthy newborn baby boy.
Each miner left the cabin smiling,
keeping the secret—the joke, if you will—
from miners still in line.
Each left that cabin richer, Christmas-
gifted.

WITCHING HOURS

He walks his land, summoning
secrets subterranean with a rough-cut
stick, as if witching for water in drought,
or trailing the westward path of day-
light across surfaces; not counting retail
ticks of the clock but noting variations day
to day—rock-slow journey of a hillside
boulder charmed by gravity or wanderlust
incrementally down the slope. Nothing
stays the same. At end of day,
from his deck he surveys a landscape
of moonlit dips and hummocks,
all the quilted layers bedded down,
cocooned for morning.

LIBRARY AFTER-HOURS

Step inside this cocoon of learning.
It’s dark and cold. Shine your flashlight

along the shelves of titles. We’re Coming
into the Country through Solomon’s Ring,

a land of Panakeia. Here are Nests, Eggs,
and Nestlings and a Manual of the Flowering

Plants of California. Here are Stories
I Like to Tell according to The Old Farmer’s

Almanac. Tonight we’ll be Fooling
with Words all along the Bluebird Trails.

Here among the pages we speak
The Language of Life.

O ROYAL,

my mother’s old manual portable,
how her fingers raced your keys faster than I
could polka. You love determined fingers.
Across the ocean in my suitcase,
a study-year in Freiburg—I’d add
the umlauts by hand with a pen.

Do they call you obsolete? I can
count on your typewritten line. Not like
words tapped on my laptop’s soft keys till
Kitten Latches comes prancing along—
a paw-stroke I can’t recover from,
a string of bbbbbs.

O Royal, you travel time and space—
a borrowed table & chair, Main Street,
composing on request of strangers.
Personal poems, one of a kind
ink on paper with no Command-C;
not to be lost to cyberspace by
mistake of a keystroke. How two eyes
of a stranger look up from your type-
written page with that human glow.
You’re magic.

PETAL AND STONE
on a painting by Utagawa Hiroshige II

Remember when caterpillar disappeared
from milkweed? he asks. Snug
in cocoon, she answers, and by summer
a Monarch fluttered the garden.

Are they lovers, or just friends?
these two finding a pathway between
April’s brief cherry blossoming
and distant, eternal mountain cocooned

in snow; man and woman between
petal and stone walking a bank
of Time’s river, last winter’s snow-
melt bursting in pink bloom.

Today’s LittleNip:

AFTER THE FIRE, WHAT REMAINS
—Taylor Graham

Neighborhoods a dead moonscape with
soft protective layer of ash, an
abandoned car’s burned shell, empty
space with no living soul. Gray dishpan
after the last supper, an ever-swinging
metal gate at a dead-end street, but with one
gray-muzzled dog, alive, guarding to the end.

___________________

Our thanks to Taylor Graham for some wonderful pre-Christmas cheer, and a reminder that Third Thursdays at the Central Library will take place today at noon in the Sacramento Room at 828 I St., Sacramento. 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

Cherry Blossoms at Koganei in the Eastern Capital
—Painting by Utagawa Hiroshige II, 1826-1869
(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.

Angry Smith

—Poems and Artwork by Smith, Cleveland, OH

COFFEE GROUND

Ching ching ching goes the coffee
clang clang clang glows the flow
coffee in, coffee out
streaming yellow line
write my name in now

The hours between wake and sunrise
are mine
I wait in dark
rested, soothed
briefly free from yesterday's web
not yet ensnared by today's

Uploading caffeine from cup to mouth
waiting for sun to raise the darkness,
pills to palaver pain

I blow smoke into my coffee
bubble caffeine with cannabis
mixing go with slow
high with low
hello! with mellow...

Hour of the wolf
after dream before sun
coffee hugs my heart
wife on rug in exercise
pulling body taut
cat claws couch
ripping retorn arm
slime of greed in White House
lowering gene pool
wallet empty
full life of wife love start

Drinking coffee, thinking bed
here we go again

It's said it was an apple
the snake gave Eve from the tree
though some say pear
or fire of sin within
but my eyes are opened—
it was hot black coffee
in a cold white cup
coffee knows good and evil
is essential to reweaval
base for stop and go
and amazed grows
magic in liquid form
as we abraded in battle reform

I'm up, sun's not—
where's my heaven to roll around day?

Coffee seeps in
sleep slinks out
I stumble on way
knowing we pay

Hot coffee, cold hands
big caffeine, little wake

Caffeine, cannabis
cat in lap
book in hand
sun on leaf
wife on couch
floor ceiling below
this is the way to sow go

After night
before day
this is my time
toke of top
whip of strong sip
Sunday before sun
traffic low
people asleep
worlds within
caffeine and cannabis
the low light of quiet that sings

Coffee, caffeine, covfefe...
the Holy Trinity of Bagel Boogie
all hail Java the Cup

Eden

CONVERSATION WITH WIFE 46

Who does Cheddar worship?
"Cheesus."

Wife sez she's "insane in the membrane,"
proclaims "I spit on your requirements."

How's your niche and nephew?
"Gesundheit."

"Do you want Gong Bao for dinner tonight?"
What's that?
"Chinese dish with cashews, ginger, rice, soy sauce, mushrooms."
Why not. Say, did you see Gong With The Wind?

I love you, woo-man.
"I love you, man woe."

"Do you think a seed is alive even if not planted?"
Yes, it's dormant. What kind of squash is this?
"Donno, something like Butternut."
I tried butter on my nuts but it made my underwear sticky.
"Ewwww. that's gross."
Just call me 144.

I am token spoken wheel.
"Wheely?"

Earth Clown

WAS THE SOUND OF ONE ZEN CLOWN

Life is what you do with what you got
Get hit too hard, walk it off
Eat too much, pack on the lard
Just work the load and walk it off
Do the daily shilly-shally
Bet the nag, chew wacky tobacky
Prioritize lies, check the whys
Repeat replies
It's never enough so walk it off
Talk soft, walk it off
Chalk cross, walk it off
Held aloft, walk it off
Sugar gumball close to crock
Willie nilly silly willy
Best just walk it off
This is Zen the Clown here talkin'
You're shadow loose if you don't start walkin'

BuddhaBurst

CONVERSATION WITH WIFE 41

I need to write a poem.
I feel better after writing a poem.

"Then write one."

I don't have any poem words.
I don't have any poem pen.
I don't have any poem paper.
I've got shit and toilet paper, that's what I got.

There, there's your poem.

Neotonous

FARM-A-SUTRA

Oh Little Girl Blue come blow my horn,
my sheep has left and I'm so forlorn.

Besides I'm allergic to its wool
and its baa-ing made me feel the fool.

Chicken's nice but its feathers tickle,
the mice too small and way too fickle.

The geese bite and the pig's too dirty,
though the cow's cool, its eyes all flirty.

The horses don't like horsing around,
and the moles won't come from underground.

My best friend dog prefers neighbor's cat
while the cat doesn't know where it's at.

The farmer's daughter way down the lane
tried it once but won't do it again.

The snakes are too fast and the frogs too wet,
the fish in the pond won't answer yet.

I even tried it with soft warm mud
but it broke my stick and bent my bud.

So Little Girl Blue it's up to you,
otherwise I don't know what to do.

War

CONVERSATION WITH WIFE 29

Do you want a cashew cookie?
"No"
Do you want a pecan cookie?
"No"
Do you want one of both?
"NO, I'm dieting. You're the devil"
Hey, you live with me, that's what you get.
Want ice cream?
"No."
How about a beer?
"NO!"
Some fried cat?
"Only if she's breaded."
Sorry, can't breed her, she's sterile.

"Nobody likes turnips."
Why do we grow so many?
"In case there's a war
so we'll have something to eat."
I was in a war once, Word War One
we had word rationing
could only use two verbs a day
and one gerund.

I aster but she wouldn't answer.

What are you doing?
"Whatever I want."
How come you get to do whatever you want?
"Because I'm the lady."
And what's the guy get to do?
"Whatever the lady wants."

White Line Fever

DOWN TO ANIMAL BONE

Me big
Me want
Me take
Me smart too
Probably get away with it

Pearl

(and of course my annual Christmas song...)

EX CHRISTMAS

I see Santa the red-nosed thing dear
dancing on the head of a pin
in some strip club down Lonely Lane
where never was already is

Unreined deer out in the alley
shooting crap with quantum dice
taking tokes of alfalfa doobies
awaiting a working dear's price

O sacred Santa, o holy Tinman
now I lay me down to seek
a higher focus in the real land
once we awaken from sleep

HEY—warning light flashing over head ! ! !
such goings bring Ghost Past Behind
this is your don't-want-to-be dread
beckoning being sorry, unkind

Grouch don't get no good foot forward
greed can't grasp no love at hand
mean won't lean no one toward
higher helping plan for grand

Less is more, more just more mess
relax, lay back, let go, seek slack
to give is true get of success
sharing shines in giving back

So let's sing a song of simple
then go feed a folk or few
gotta make our own example
be such be as want to do

—Music by Peter Ball (1949-2015), words/vocal Smith, 2013. To hear Smith’s Christmas song, go to www.reverbnation.com/mutantsmith/song/19374180-ex-christmas/.

Whatis

Today’s LittleNip:

ON THE ROAD
—Smith

If I could just remember
what I already know
I'd be a saint.

I ain't.

__________________

Thanks, Smith (Steven B. Smith) for your fine poetry and artwork on this winter solstice, 2018, lightening up the darkest day of the year! Poets in our area can shed further light on this day by going to hear six of our poets at The Other Voice in Davis: Allegra Silberstein, Charles Halsted, Carlena Wike, James Lee Jobe, Beth Sutter and Dorine Jeannette plus open mic. That’s at 7:30pm at the Unitarian Universalist Church on Patwin Road in Davis. 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

My Back Porch

—Artwork 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.

Poet and Rexroth

—Poems by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA

—Photos Courtesy of James Lee Jobe

The crop is in.
Pick an ear of corn and open it.
Inside is everything of the world
And of life and happiness.
Sunshine and rain and earth.
Honest sweat from honest work.
Faith that the work will hold us
On into the Fall and the Winter.
Good solid nourishing food
For the family or the customers.
And if all goes well, some profit,
A little income. And that’s a lot
To ask from a single ear of corn.

Poet as Dinner Cook

The winds
Passing up this valley
Come from the ocean
Far away.
The blow of nature
Across the flat earth.
Twilight as I write this,
And through the window
I can see the pine tree tops
Waving hello to me again.
Is it windy enough for you, James?

Poet's Art Journal

The world doesn’t think about me.
And I prefer it that way.
If anyone needs me, I am not hard to find;
Just go into the village and look.
Look in the place of lost moments
And forgotten sounds,

And if, upon finding me,
You find a pile of torn-up papers,
Just glue me back together again
And pretend that I am whole.
It wouldn’t be the first time.

I know these things quite well,
Although it is quite easy for me
To forget this nonsense.
I am not important,
And the world is not important,
In fact, I fell asleep twice
While writing this down.

Poet's Self-Decorated Tote Bag

Just give up.
The only thing that can save you
Is to not be saved at all.
Nothing can save you.
Nothing will save you.
There is no truly holy book
Or greater being or Heaven.
There is no Hell,
No lesson other than to
Accept the great nothing.
Can you figure out my poem?
Salvation is an illusion
Dreamed up in your mind.
Sit down and shut up
For a couple of hours a day.
One hour in the morning,
And another hour at night.
Nothing. Emptiness. Peace.

Beloved Granddaughter, Khaleesi,

Mother of Dragons

Now it is here, a time of balance.
My life and my spirit.
What I believe and what I do.
How I live as a man.
There is a balance now
That was missing for so long.
I am warmed by the sun
And the sun is loved by me.
Growing old isn’t bad at all.

Dharma Lessons

“Walk softly and carry a big stick.”

—An American President said that.
As leaders go, he was quick to violence;
This isn’t advice I admire.

May we walk softly and carry water to the thirsty,
Walk softly and carry food to the hungry.

May our footprints be so gentle
That we leave no mark upon the Earth.

May that which we carry, in truth,
Be kindness. Simple human kindness.

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

May we simply refuse to compete
And begin to share.

—James Lee Jobe

_________________

Thank you, James Lee, for today’s fine poetry and photos!

Today from 2-4pm, Poetic License poetry read-around will meet in Placerville in the Sr. Center lobby on Spring Street. The suggested topic for this month is “Scotland”, but other subjects also 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.

And Gail Entrekin writes that the newest issue of Canary Literary Journalis available at canarylitmag.org/.

—Medusa

Buddha in the Rainforest

—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.

—Anonymous Photo

THE BELLS
—Adam Zagajewski (b. 1945)

We’ll take refuge in bells, in the swinging bells,
in the peal, the air, the heart of ringing.
We’ll take refuge in bells and we’ll float
over the earth in their heavy casings.

Over the earth, over meadows
and a single white daisy, over the bench on which love
carved its imperfect symbol, over a willow
obedient to the will of cool wind,

over the Tatras’ green lake, over crying
and mourning, over binoculars shining
in sun.

Over the border, over your attentive gaze,
over the pupil of somebody’s eye, over a rusty cannon,
over the garden gate which no longer exists,
over clouds, over rain drinking dew,

over the town park where a Swiss Army knife,
lost lifetimes ago, lies hidden still.

When the night comes, we’ll take refuge
in bells, those airy carriages,
those bronze balloons.

(trans. by Renata Gorczynski, Benjamin Ivry and C. K. Williams)

__________________

For more about Adam Zagajewski, see www.poets.org/poetsorg/poet/adam-zagajewski/. For more about his Bell poem, go to therumpus.net/2012/08/the-last-poem-i-loved-the-bells-by-adam-zagajewski/.

—Medusa

—Anonymous Photos

MATER IRA FILIUM
(part-song by Bax for double choir, 1921)
—Tom Goff, Carmichael, CA

Devotion, for this pagan, comes easy and clear.
What can his secret be? Look at the words
behind the song. In colors as of bright birds,
the meaning. This God’s Son, here and not here.

Mother, pray thy Son that, after exile,
He may grant us the utmost of all joys,
a place with the Blessed Ones, in joyful noise.
Exile, worked into the weave, with harmonious guile…

In what sense exile for Jesus? Here on Earth,
doomed soon to meet with torments and with mocks
of roughness undreamed where a cradle softly rocks?
Exile to a Heaven uncaring for human worth?

So painful-gentle the weaving. Simple tunes,
one tapestry: close is the night to the breath of beasts
in straw, young mother in no condition for feasts,
the air yet to ignite with so much more than moon.

Propped on one elbow Mary greets the strange kings.
The white stars turn gold. Night, palpably intense,
spins air into myrrh. Breeze wafts us frankincense.
To high C, a brave singing angel clings and clings.

Why climax on the rich largesse kings bestow?
Symbolic perhaps: for one instant, curtains part.
In seraphs’ faces, song, this once, visual art.
We sing One Whose Rise proceeds from Buried Below.

What Babe, so blessed, could descend to a world of gray,
of straw, of splintered wood and thorn-strewn bloom,
without a gathering-sandstorm sense of doom?
The cow’s moaning low, her echo the donkey’s bray…

From heartsore dismay must love regather fire.
Eight voices, three octaves, Amen: to reaffirm
that in This One, we lose our terror of the Worm.
No more unring a bell than unsing this choir.

CHRISTMAS EVE ON THE MOUNTAINS
(symphonic poem)

—Tom Goff

This is, Bax insists, no holiday, seasonal song.
We know by inflection the Irishly keening tune
as, isolate under the chill December moon,
a traveler shivers with aches more wintry strong
than any the mutable County Dublin weather
can offer in upended urns of storm and wet,
more piercing of bone than all that razor net
of frost there, or by turns frost and storm together.
Then all is changed: as if from Bethlehem
a beam encircling the world lit on this soul,
changing him for the span of a spell to foal
new-rising on limbs that shudder, or to one gem
of skin turned ruby: derivative Wagner notes
dissolve in new distillations, drifts and floats.

SQUARE NAILS AND OLD ROSES
—Dewell H. Byrd, Central Point, OR

A young couple filled with hope built
a log cabin with square nails and
planted rosebushes by the yard door.

Now the pecan tree shelters them
beneath marble markers that sum their lives.
Two more headstones simply say, “Baby.”

An autumn breeze quilts the farm pond.
Vanilla light leans into the hour
as the chimney’s shadow creeps long.

Seasons turn by faith alone and
children scatter leaving time at rest
like an hour glass reclining on its side.

An old man, exiled by winter, leans
on his cane, picks the last rose
from the bush that entwines yesterday.

I wish television at Christmastime would have something humorous about Jesus’s birth
      I’m sure Jesus Christ, who was born Jewish by the way, probably loved a good laugh too
      He wouldn’t be offended by any comedy that was about him—
      Jesus would especially probably love to hear jokes that would acknowledge His vital role in history—
      including that about he was Jewish,
      For instance adding Yiddish to the Christmas carol that says “Born Is The King of Israel”, “O’Vey!"
      or Jesus as a child celebrating “Hanukkah” as a child proclaiming that he will be “the great miracle” rather than Maccabees and oil
      Anything poking fun of "the nativity” is also absent—
      it is like they don’t want to talk about it at all
      The 1965’s Charles Shultz’s animated “It’s Christmas, Charlie Brown”
      no one else since appears to make such a bold move on a “comedy" to proclaim “Jesus’s Birthday”
      "Saturday Night Live" could have by now made a “classic” and beloved episode about Christmas nativity and Jesus
       but even SNL won’t go there, perhaps fearing it will offend too much
       Many of those television writers who are afraid of offending religion
       ought to realize that, unlike that calling itself the voice of “Islam”,
       one can make jokes about Jesus without getting death threats for blasphemy
       So far I’m hoping for networks who will dare to air the animated 2017 movie, The Star
       even though it has animals discussing the Savior who came to save people’s lives.

—Michelle Kunert, Sacramento, CA

A HISTORY OF FEARS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

(Composed of elements found in Joyce Odam’s
“A History of Tears”, “Recall”, and “A Small Bridge
Over Quietness”, December 11, 2018, Medusa’s
Kitchen)

Recently axed willows, rolling with laughter,
heading downriver to the saw mills while
their weeping widows, having faced this
before, hastily build a cocoon made from a
card table and butterfly folding chairs to
engage in a small bridge game played in

complete quietness.

RUNNERS ON SUNSET BEACH
—Joseph Nolan

Fleet of foot,
Fast runners go,
Upon the beach,
As though
Through snow,
Lightly and
Full-sprightly,
Into sundown,
On a beach
They know.

Running faster
As the day
Goes down,
Shadows that
Creep over sand,
Betray the end
That calls, demand!
To runners
To run farther,
Faster, longer!

Beaconed
From the beach
To Sea
The runners
Run on easily
Into the evening’s sand!

___________________

Today's LittleNip:

THE PEN OF WILL’S SONNETS
—Nora Staklis, Carmichael, CA

There once was a writer, “Shakespeare,”
whose true name was held back, left unclear;
he kept on with his quill
by the nom de plume, “Will,”
but he really was Edward de Vere.

__________________

Many thanks to today’s poets as we celebrate in visuals our Seed of the Week: Christmas Bells! Sac. Poetry Center will NOT have a reading tonight, but I’m assuming Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe will meet on Thursday at 8pm. Speak Up will meet at The Avid Reader on Friday, 7pm; this month’s theme will be New Beginnings. 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

The Perfect Gift...

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.

Empathy

—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

CROSS STITCH

My grandmother sings the blues to my mother in
heaven. Lullabies. Hymns. Toneless and beautiful.
How did they find each other?

This is how long it is between stories never told.
Who makes the rules for memory? Soft, folding
things that make up patterns.

Once there was a riddle. Its name was love. It
carried a long distance, like faith and loneliness.
A riddle solved is a disappointment.

Sometimes I carry a tune for years, remember it
differently—think I composed it. My grandmother
holds my infant mother and asks about me.

She is almost complete now and I feel a ravel begin,
a slow sensation. I tie another knot and move more
carefully.

My mother used to teach me embroidery: “This is a
French Knot,” she would tell me, “for the centers of
flowers, and this is a Satin Stitch for their leaves.”

And we would sit in my childhood for hours, making
arm rests, and head-rests, pillow cases
and pretty dresser scarves.

Manifestation

THE CHARCOAL SKETCH
After Child on Horse by William M. Duff

Lines
drawn simply

like a primitive mural
on a gray wall:

a thin-legged, feisty horse,
rounding its back—

joyous child
astride—

grinning
and flinging

Watch Me arms
out wide.

Praying

TREMOLO FOR A VIOLIN

This exalting music—its power—
to be moved beyond listening,
to merge into and become
what it is—find my soul—
weep for the healing
I trust to find
in this sad
vio-
lin

_________________

FOUR TREMOLOS

The Dying Note

Listening still to music’s echo
fill the long-empty theatre
where the old violinist—
in his last performance,
holds the bow just a
bit longer—all
his music
dying
there.

The Cacophony

Raucous music, holding its noise still,
like a metronome at a loss,
before the measuring of
the echo—the silence
that rings in the room
memory—
thrill.

The Still Air

All the driven winds have done their worst,
wind chimes have quit their clamoring,
the air no longer trembles,
tiny breezes steal in,
two unbroken chimes
touch each other—
make little
chiming
sounds.

In Loving Memory

Do you remember how the old bell
of the tiny church would echo
to all the listening dead
and those who did not stay,
how the church tower
can still echo
its heart out
to the
birds.

Not Necessarily a Bramble

THE SIGN-OFF HYMN ON TV

Once
late at night

we wept
in each other’s arms

and you
comforted me

for a reason
other

than
why I wept, and I wept the harder…

____________________

SIMPLE THINGS

Fragmentary. This old light out of older light. Repetitions.
Believe in it. Let it lead you into its farther self. You can
go as deep as you dare. Its name is night. It has many stars.
Count them. Take forever. A child sits watching you, blow-
ing soap bubbles into planets. Wings without angels fly
everywhere. Oh, this is such a night. Go with joy, that old
foe of sorrow. Tell the child not to cry. The child does not
listen. The child rubs an old tear into its eye, watching you
for pity. You are both lost and at home in this night-city
which has opened up its wing for you. Do not try to under-
stand this—you are not here. The child has dreamed you.
Hold the child until you die.

(first pub. in Blue Violin, 1999)

Resurrection

STREET BLUES

The music that haunts the most
is always blue, the kind of blue
that merges into black and gray,

that comes from every ragged hurt
there is to share and what the
inarticulate will ever try to say;

some city-street-musician plays it
every day—wailing inward like a
winter soul, long-beaten down and

long-removed from hymn or lullaby,
though, here, the lost still try to
pray—too poor for more than what

they have become, scavenging at
emptiness with hungry hands, being
everything the street blues say.

__________________

THIS HORIZON

It is only a thought away—and reachable—this
horizon. There is enough strength and enough
breath. There is the path, already traveled. Oh,
how many, and how many more. I dig into
memory. Have I passed here before—is there
a valley beyond—another mountain?

The Glory Of

WHAT BELLS

for
what ringing,
what singing sound

what silence to fill
from where
and why

not then—
for then is now
time for the celebration

someone has told the bells
and they ring
who will come

from where do they come
—all this echoing—
spreading

and
thinning.
silence now . . . .

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

MY SHOES FILL WITH FLOWERS

—Joyce Odam

My feet are bare—
     it is another winter.
          but where am I—

I am on a far hill
     counting cows
          that moo at me—

they frighten
     me,
          but I love them —

the soft grass of distance
     the strange maneuver
          of my winter mind.

______________________

Many thanks to Joyce Odam for her bells and music on this Christmas Day, 2018! Joyce says the tremolo form is “a gradation form of nine lines in descending order of 9,8,7,6,5,4,3,2,1 syllables with subject matter that evokes a tension of human emotion as can be felt in response to music (such as a perfectly-executed ‘tremolo’ of a violin).

Our new Seed of the Week is for New Year’s: Starting Fresh. 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. . .
. . . and let there be peace.

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.

—Poems by Ahmad Al-Khatat, Montreal, Quebec, Canada

PAINTING YOU

I will be painting you below
the curious moon next to
a pallet of mixed emotions
with a brush full of feeling
The truth is I am a sad tear
and not a colour of rainbow
in your eyes all the colours
dance all over your canvas
I see the smile of yours truly
similar and the arrival of the
summer sunrise and feel the
thirst of your lips from the rain
Make me your model for a second
catch me with your will for an hour
my soul and eyes must be awake
to feel your touch like an angel kiss
And I will colour your moist
lips with a rare leaf from autumn
with your hair, I will draw the running
horses around your scent forever

INSIDE OF MY DREAM

Inside of my dream 

there’s a bird flying

 from one nest to an-

 other, without wings
Inside of my dream 

there’s a man holding

 a sign that says, I

 have serious cancer
Inside of my dream 

there’s one refugee

with tears of grief  

because he lost hope
Inside of my dream t

here’s a young lady

smoking, and waiting 

for the train to suicide
Inside of my dream 

there's a black cat

 staring at me, and  

waiting to the end of my dream

DEATH OF A POET

Tonight is calm but windy
It feels like someone is around
To murder the drunk man in the bar
Or maybe it will be the death of a poet

Perhaps that means I will die
Death will strip my spirit bare
To see my family and watch their tears
As I observe if my friends are the loyal ones

Unfortunately trust is lost to me
As I have deep sorrows inside my life
My eyes weep with tears flying as
Autumn leaves to the front door of my neighbour

Painful griefs draw my darkness below
The moonlight and colour me with colours
It will be the way to lift me up and be strong
As a flower dancing from the sensual drops of rain

I would love to envision my own funeral
Since there is wrong or right to observe the
Faces will be dark as a raining cloud or the other
Ones that smile as the rainbow is seen from my coffin

IN THE CEMETERY

In the cemetery, I was standing on my knees,

reading verses of the holy book to the tombs

I was praying with tears on my cheeks

 until the graveyard stopped me and asked me if

I was reading verses or reading sorrows  

with an emotionless face, he asked to repeat

I started reading again and his face was getting

 red as his eyes were dropping my unrhymed tears

he stopped me with anger and screamed out 

why more griefs, why more death and less peace

I responded to him, why did hope sell us to traitors  

why life is struggling with us, why did the wars rape us

shamelessly

we cried together as he was saying that he’s listening to

 spirits weeping with us, as the clouds will rain again

he asked me again why our world is no longer bright,

 instead it’s full of darkness and lots of bloody cuts

our grandparents were the farmers who lifted the sunshine

 and brunt themselves to death, just to protect the seeds

our mothers stole the moon from the wall of the night

 they hid in their coffins and the stars after our fathers

turned the rainbow into a solider in the zone of death  

and made the snow into a drinkable water to survive

SIGN OF A BITTER END

Next week,
I will be older than usual
Tuesday coming,
I will meet with a sign of a bitter end

Anxiety, depression, low self-esteem
Are in my mind and heart growing
With no strength to talk about them to anyone
I can't offer to meet with a psychological

I tattoo love, joys, and inspiration to
The people I love and to the ones that
Still have a death wish against me without
Realizing that I can't be happy anymore

In my days, I met with so many clowns
Some they taught me how to cry with
No falling tears, I have learned how to
Hold my broken heart like a homeless

I always wanted to live a life of a angel
No worries, no more stress from haters
I wish I could chose to live a quiet,
Simple, and basic survival of the day

I can never judge my life as wonderful
It's full of downs more than ups
Even though, I don't go to clubs or
Bars to meet with priceless bodies

I'm very sensitive and my friends stab me
As if I won't bleed by myself in darkness
My problem is I never appreciate my life
And I can't weep for my own griefs

The rain forces me to dance in the mist
Without the moon and the stars I see you
From the lights of my homeland in which
Death could observe well and not you

Five of my good friends passed away
I will be the sixth to reach them soon
But I can't because you are my true love

I learned from you to be stronger than ever

ADOPTION

When I was a teenager 

I donated to a little orphan

 since then I made a vow that  

I would adopt her, and marry her
Days go by and nights come

 I learned how to hurt myself  

by doing bad habits that will  

guide me to die below the bridge
I lost count of my harmful cuts  

I lost all the joyful memories and  

moments from weeping beneath

 the lights of the miserable bar
My mother thought that I was well,

 As my smile hid the tears that  

damaged my physical therapist  

within minutes after hearing me
I lost many chances and luck

 until I met a broken heart, 

she cried when she knew that I

 found what was missing of me
I found her  

between all of my poetry

 between all of my cigarette smoke

 I tried to lose her 

as I saw my shadow following her
Ann, you didn't adopted a regular girl 

you have definitely raised one angel

that showed me life with colours 

From your love and care for my princess
the grief inside of me has smiled when

your daughter kissed my salty lips and  

wiped my tears, hopefully she will

 close my eyes after my smiling face rests

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Love consists in this, that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other.

—Rainer Maria Rilke

_____________________

Welcome, Ahmad Al-Khatat, to the Kitchen! Ahmad Al-Khatat was born in Baghdad, Iraq on May 8th, 1989. He moved to Canada with his family at the age of 10. He has been published in several press publications and anthologies all over the world and has poems translated into several languages. He has published two poetry books, The Bleeding Heart Poet and Love On The War’s Frontline which are available on Amazon (www.amazon.com/Bleeding-Heart-Poet-Ahmad-Al-khatat/dp/1977507972). Most of his new and old poems are also available on his official Facebook page, Bleeding Heart Poet (www.facebook.com/Bleedingheartpoet). He now lives in Montreal, Quebec. Thanks for your poems, Ahmad, and don’t be a stranger!

—Medusa

Ahmad Al-Khatat

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.

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

HOLY NIGHT WITH BELLS

Remember when we were stuck in a snow-
bank on the 4W road to the cow-camp.
We couldn’t muscle the truck out—
arms, shovel, boot-stomping the shoulder
of the blade.
       So we camped right there.
Like the time the VW Kombi broke down
on Christmas Eve. Second nature,
to travel with camping gear, when you
go adventuring.
       Our dogs set off exploring, finding
new paths as we made camp. Memory
plays with our stories, mixes them together,
makes them legend.
       Mountain nights are cold as onyx;
dizzy with stars; wind-harps and angel-
scarves in flickering red and green, every
color of Northern Lights.
       Our dogs kept us warm as shepherds’
sheep as we crossed the invisible line
to sleep, to another holy day:
bells not meant to be heard out loud.
   And all those stars!

CHRISTMAS SHIFT

Typewriter Improv Poetry at the Artists Co-op

Ten more shopping days. My Royal has
a blank sheet waiting for a word, a sentence,
poem on-request of a stranger. It all starts
when someone walks in the gallery door, out
of Main Street’s bright garlands hung like
unrung bells. Here, Art is the illumination,
vibrant flow of line, color, words. Oh where’s
a lone seeker among the crowd? just one
traveler of Imagination… Everyone’s heading
head-down preoccupied elsewhere, not into
this gallery, with its watercolor of Waxwings,
its photograph of wild Mustangs in a blizzard;
my unwritten ode to an old moon-eye Dog
at wakeful watch for Master at midnight.

WALK ON THE RIDGE TRAIL

Smudge of storm’s gone behind Baltic Peak.
Breeze sends a fallen leaf skating
on frozen puddle. Silence.
No. Birdsong. Wings bustle in bare limbs
of the great black oak festooned in mistletoe.
Bluebird and titmouse, one after another
plucking snippets of cheer,
berries a Christmas gift for wintering birds.

CHRISTMAS TREE BELLS

at the tree preserve

As I walked among the giant Christmas trees,
a bell rang in my head. Something
out of place. Familiar leaf-feather grace of—
eucalyptus? glimpsed through boughs
of ponderosa pine and white fir. I skirted
the ravine, climbed up the ridge and there—one
eucalyptus among conifers. Its leafy
greenery, its bell-shaped pods.
Back at the station, I asked “what’s
with the eucalyptus?” The keepers insisted,
“Not in our plantation. A fire hazard.
Impossible.” I showed them my iPad photo.
“We never planted it,” they averred.
A bird must have dropped its seed right
where I found it. My pantlegs starred with stick-
tights. Christmas-tree bells in my head.

BACH IN THE FOREST

Chiming in the trees
louder with wind—a pause
then we’re stepping carefully

over fallen leaves and needles step
by step as if each indelible

caught in mud or crystal frost—
a crow overhead—no, the tilt-wing
sweep that brushes clear

the sky, an old year on this earth
beneath our feet, a distance-

haze, and look! a lake
too far below us to be found
on our map, blue waves scoring

music played by wind
a riffle on the mind passing as

morning afternoon and evening
soft and softer fading away to dark
of forest, its silent night vision.

RAT TRAP BLUES
(a paradelle for year’s end)

The rats hang a-round cause we feed ‘em.
The rats hang a-round cause we feed ‘em…
there’s scuttling in the corners.
There’s scuttling in the corners!
There’s ‘em scuttling round, hangin’
the corners cause-a the rats we feed.

They shred plastic, the important papers.
They shred plastic—the important papers!
They’re gonna take over the world,
they’re gonna take over the world.
They’re over the important plastic world.
Take the papers!—shred they gonna.

They eat the cheese, they trip the trap.
They eat the cheese, they trip the trap,
they get away slick as a rat.
They get away slick as a rat,
they eat the trip-trap,
they slick away the cheese. They rat.

Cause-a the important trap-slick
world, we trip over a rat in the feed.
Eat papers they’re gonna. Hang!
As they take the corners they plastic ‘em.
Away! They the rats scuttling shred
around the cheese. They get!

Today’s LittleNip:

BREATHING SUNSET
—Taylor Graham

Through a reef of oaks on the west hill,
the sky’s a wash of color. Not pink,
not orange, a watercolor mix that wavers
hues between daylight’s bold palette
and night’s black ink. My iPad camera
can never capture sunset. Sky
is ever-tiding ocean above us, changing
shades as we watch. Hold your breath
to see, for just this moment, such color.

__________________

Our thanks to Taylor Graham as her poems move us into the twelve days of Christmas—plus a sassy paradelle for the coming new year! The Paradelle is a modern poetic form invented by Billy Collins as a parody of the villanelle. For more about it, go to www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/paradelle.html/.

—Medusa

—Anony-mouse

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.

—Poems by John Grochalski, Brooklyn, NY
—Anonymous Photos of the Chicago Blue Line L

the ice cream man

the ice cream man
is drunk on the avenue

he keeps walking past the ice cream shop
where they serve
double-scoop artisan cones
like red velvet donut and green tea

the ice cream man
is shouting at all of the pretty families
finishing up another pretty day
under pretty blue skies
tired from playing in pretty parks

the ice cream man
walks in the middle of traffic
he brings cars to a halt
he runs up behind women
and hugs them until they scream

the ice cream man gets yelled at
by the ice cream shop clerk

some pimply teen kid
who just wants a girlfriend or a boyfriend
who just wants to make a summer buck
slinging scoops of red velvet donut

some dumb kid the craven manager threw out there
to yell at the ice cream man
and chase him away

so that pretty families
can continue eating their ice cream cones in peace

for at least a few minutes

before the ice cream man comes stumbling back
stinking of brandy

trying once again
to ruin america for everyone
who knows how to be tame

and play by the stupid rules.

this black and blue

there
it
is
this
black
and
blue
palm
from
swatting
at
house
flies
with
my
bare
hand
a
whole
apartment
full
of
old
newspapers
and
i
do
this
not
even
drunk
sitting
on
the
couch
a
cold
drink
pressed
to
swollen
palm
swollen
thumb
thinking
there
are
a
lot
of
idiots
outside
but
only
the
king
reigns
supreme
up
in
here.

man crying on the blue line L (chicago)

it’s probably true
that in big cities
you can sob on a train
and people will most likely
leave you alone
it’s not even rush hour here
in the great city of chicago
and we’re packed on this train
some people coming home from work
others doing touristy things
like me
talking to my wife
about deep dish pizza and wrigley field
about maybe moving
out of new york city and coming here
he’s in a seat midway
down the train car
head buried in his hands
sobbing openly
chest heaving into his knees
the seats around him empty
even though people have to stand
the seats around him diseased
with his sadness
he doesn’t look homeless
so i wonder what else
america has done to him
in these dark days
it could be any number of things
in this country
we treat each other like animals
we watch america chew
someone up
take in the spectacle
like it’s on video and not right before our eyes
then we check the weather
and our twitter feed for more
i don’t know
what’s happened to this guy
but, jesus christ,
there should be some comfort
only i know
i’m not going to be the one
to ask him what’s wrong
i know my role in this hard land
only too well
and that’s to get off the train
at the next stop
just like everyone else
pull myself up
by my worn-out bootstraps
shake that scene out of my mind
his crying
his bellowing into flesh
and metal and plastic
pray to god that’s never me
then turn with a smile
to ask my wife
what it is that she thinks she wants
for lunch.

america

chew us up
spit us out
every single day

america

maim yourself
murder yourself
every single day

america

hurl these lifeless bodies
that you’ve robbed of liberty

back into your violent abyss
and scream.

too old to be

i am
either hungover
or still drunk
but the sun is too much this morning
crossing the street
unwashed and a ball of sweat
smelling of last night’s vodka
i pass the president of the company
close-cropped beard
silver shirt tucked into
designer slacks
he nods at me
and i wave back
a death rattle
of my tingling gaseous hand
in the bodega
that stinks of raw eggs
grabbing gum to cover my breath
and water to keep me from vomiting
up the scent
of hearty american breakfasts on the go
i spy him across the street
playing on his cell phone
still looking like a million bucks in the summer sun
and i think
some people can just keep it together
better than others
how maybe i’m just too old to be
living this way
and i pay for the gum
the water
from an angry bodega owner
who hates my kind upon sight
then hobble back outside
into the glaring gloom
of people racing off to work or nowhere
and wait for the big boss
to go on his merry way
before i even think
of trying to get my shit together
while crossing back
along that sun-soaked street.

 _____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

As if a great creature had grown old without being able to express its feelings. Not that it didn't know how to express them, but rather it didn't know what to express.

—Haruki Murakami, A Wild Sheep Chase

_____________________

Welcome back to the Kitchen, John! John Grochalski appeared on Medusa’s Kitchen a few times in the Fall of 2016, and now he’s back with poems from Brooklyn—and we’re all the better for it!

Tonight in Sacramento at the Avid Reader on Broadway, Speak Up: The Art of Storytelling and Poetry will present stories and poems on the theme of New Beginnings, 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

John Grochalski
Celebrate poetry!—and prodigal poets…

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

Hawaiian Crow

—Poems by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA

—Crow Photos Courtesy of James Lee Jobe

A book of poems was left on my desk,
The Mountain Poems of Meng Hao-jan.
In the dark before sunrise a wood spider
Walks across the old book cover.
I am up already, working on poems.
I have coffee, some toast, and an apple
Sitting nearby. I nibble, sip, and write,
Sometimes just sitting and thinking
For a while, language moving around
Inside my mind, taking shape.
The spider pauses. Is it watching me?
I don’t know how to tell, of course,
But I leave it alone and just keep working.
I am well into editing a third poem
When I notice that I am again alone
And the morning light is pouring in
From around the closed and dirty curtains.

Hooded Crows

Loved in hidden rooms, behind delicate curtains.
Held in firm brown arms, the feel of clean sheets.
Every moment we shared still exists
Somewhere in time; stepping across the distance
Is as easy as memory, as easy as passion.
No past, no present, no future.
Just the sensuality of us, ourselves.
Together.

Indian Jungle Crow

In this dream, a nebbish little fellow
Was struggling to reach a pie.
He had already given me a gift
And it seemed the least I could do
To reach down that pie for him.
Perhaps I would even join him
For a slice or two. It’s neighborly.
In the dream I turned to my left
And reached up, and as I did so
I sat upright in my bed and woke up.
I was reaching up, but no pie
Was there, no little fellow. Too bad.
Thinking back, I am pretty sure
That the pie was peach. Delicious.

Torresian Crows

The winter sky at night. A cold storm blows in.
I raise my arms up to heaven; love and compassion.

Then emptiness. No thought at all
Is the best thought after all.

The idea of giving up all of my absurd ambitions
Seems like a gift to me now. A Christmas present.

________________

In the mirror, in the photographs, a much older man.
Near my ramshackle house is a railroad track,
Still in use with several freight trains a day,
Either direction. If I had my ‘young strength’ again
I would load my frame pack and walk that line north.
Mount Shasta, Oregon, Washington, Canada.
I would walk until I got tired and then I would rest
In the shade of the evergreen trees; pine, fir, red alder.
Hidden by bayberry and shallon shrubs, I would sleep.
Daytime, nighttime, what’s the difference, really?

Northwestern Crow

On this, the day when your grief made you stronger,
The day when your sorrow opened your being to love,
Say these words when the world around you is empty.

Death will not take me, it will deliver me.
Pain will not change me, but love will.
Yes, I will walk straight into the darkness,
And I will come out on the other side.
I reject the fear, I accept the courage.
I will not deny love, I will proclaim it.

The day comes for each of us to stand or fall,
To open the door or to close it. Friend,
I urge you—open up your heart and live.

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Chamomile tea and fresh night air—
Walking in brand new slippers!

—James Lee Jobe

_________________

—Medusa, with thanks to James Lee Jobe for his fine poems (and upstart crows) on this, the cusp of the new year!

For more about The Mountain Poems of Meng Hao-jan,

go to www.enotes.com/topics/mountain-poems-meng-hao-jan/.

And elebrate 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.

—Photo by David Iribarne, Sacramento, CA

BURROW 

—Ann Wehrman, Sacramento, CA

to move or not to move...
look around at one main room
pocket kitchen, bath, closet aside
I’ve been ten years here, alone

it should be next to nothing
to go through it all
winnow what to keep
shred, recycle, donate the rest
should take a few months till lease’s end
do a little each day

Be strong!
this rent is too high
there is only one window
carpet was old when I moved here
leaf blowers outside drive me nuts every Thursday

Yet, life has been sweet here
one-room studio like an animal’s winter burrow
dark, warm cave when window blinds closed
sheltered me through mid-life college
finally, teaching work
holding, sustaining, overwhelming me
worked in solitude
late into nights here
year after year

walls with their spider webs
I admit to ignoring
have nurtured hundreds of poems
walls and several rounds
of short-term, gracious neighbors
put up with my playing flute
music both solace and challenge
new shining silver intermediate flute
proudly bought with teaching pay
walls have listened to her sing

pool held me
floating, cooling in raging summer heat
water strewn with rosy petals as summer waned
until management
ripped out the crape myrtle trees

I’ve cooked delicious meals here
then absently spooned them in
perched on that annoying barstool
no room for a kitchen table

eating while pouring through books
ignoring the hole in my heart
lacking loving discourse, shared meals—
of course, living alone
has meant no fights during dinner, too

in the corner, day bed / night bed has not judged
as I struggled and tossed, cried
napped too often
slept exhausted in warm blankets
some of them friends’ loving gifts
now moving toward threadbare—
another sign that it’s time
or I could buy new blankets

winds bring the call to move
create a new, happier home
rub my eyes, squint to see the way
still unsure of where to place my feet
when the time comes
they will fly down that road
but at this year’s end
I wrap my small, single home
around me, search my heart, wait for the moment
ready myself for inevitable change

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Ann Wehrman for her fine, Starting Fresh poem, and to David Iribarne for his lovely butterfly!

—Anonymous Photos

AN AWKWARDNESS TO PHILOSOPHY
—Michael H. Brownstein, Chicago, IL

The house on the third quadrant of Mars
Parallel to the polarities of Earth
Perpendicular to the central strategies of Venus
Where are we? Who are we? How are we?
Rock flats, salt crevices, copper linings,
Asteroid one, asteroid two, asteroid three
What are we? Why are we? Where are we?
Travel through cloud storms and ether
Paths of light and dark and solar flares
You can wake to sleep and sleep to wake
In the dreamscape of landscaped spacescape
Look outside the feeding tube, breathing tube,
Breasting tube, beating tube and you still
Won’t know the question from the answers.

__________________

A POND OF TIRES AND DEBRIS, A HAND BLOCKING A HAND
—Michael H. Brownstein

The dirty gods never need a bath or haircut.
The dirty gods never learn to shave.
The dirty gods have perfect pearls for teeth,
clean underwear and clean fingernails
The dirty gods breath smells of fresh baked bread,
perfume, the fragrance of a woman in love.

Spine of brick
Flow of water

This is what crushed the water,
this is how the trees died
and do you see in the distance?—
This is how the mud grew up
slipping from limestone and slate.

Water comes between us.

WHAT THINGS MAY COME
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

What things may come
Before the dawn
To eyelids closed,
Inside the mind,
To mind’s eye
On its screen?

Brilliant colors,
Flowers emerging,
The touch of
Creeping light
Upon a floor,
A visitation!
These things and
Many more—

Faces
Of loved ones
Gone,
Smiles,
Gently reassuring,
Or worried frowns—
Warnings
Of a life lived
Upside-down.

________________

GOING SOUR
—Joseph Nolan

There’s always something wrong, eventually.
Cabbage that turns into kim-chee
Grape juice into wine
Or worse yet, vinegar.

Milk into yogurt
Curds into cheese
Smiles into complaints
Feelings to unease.

Unease into avoidance
Avoidance into distance
Distance into departure
For a different existence.

Some people eat these things
On a daily basis.
They say it’s good for your digestion.
If you eat enough of that sort of thing,
You can swallow rusty nails
Without it bothering you much
Or get a job
Chewing barnacles
Off the bottoms of ships.
It toughens you up, they say.

For those who can endure,
There are rewards.

LIGHTNESS INTO DARKNESS
—Joseph Nolan

How many ways
May light come in,
Into a darkened room,
Into a darkened soul?

How many ways
Might we
Be made whole,
Against the wind,
Against cruel time,
Against a juggler’s
Cursed rhyme,
And how might
We let the light
Come in?

A simple
Pantomime
Might do,
To quell a frown,
Let barriers down,
When hopeful minds
Pursue
Something new
To occupy our time.

____________________

ENAMORED
—Joseph Nolan

A hawk,
A dove
A fierce and
Hungry love
Devouring flesh.

Morning
Rise refreshed,
A simple giggle
At the window
Through the shades
And curtains,

A turning,
Naked glance
Suggests
There’s more
To come!

HERO TODAY, GONE TOMORROW
—Caschwa, Sacramento

As long as he is Casey at bat, the
whole game is in the balance, he could
hit the next pitch clear over the tallest
wall for the roaring cheers and the win.

It has been done a few times before,
like people really winning the lottery,
so a cluster of gamblers in the crowd
holds onto that one thread of hope.

With all of that tension in the air, he
swings, and misses, STRIKE THREE!
This one little statistic changes everything.
No longer President, his loyal followers

are drawn to the more pleasing scent of
another trail, of another player who can
also offer heroic tales of winning games,
winning elections, a treasure of fan candy.

_________________

WAITING FOR THE OTHER SHOE TO DROP
—Caschwa

We have seen the movement
across many cities to remove
their statues of Confederate
figureheads, as they no longer
represent the will of the majority
of local voters.

Yet there remains one relic from
that same point in history which
still functions to reinforce the
absolute power of privilege that
certain men held over everyone
else: the Stock Market.

Just try to envision the daily
closing bell ceremony without
also catching a glimpse of entire
families of black slaves on the
auction block…

HAPPY NEW YEAR!
—Caschwa

Number 2 pencil
big, giant eraser
Yes, I am now ready
to draw a conclusion…

***

Ahem!!
No one knows borders
better than a humble
seamstress. Seek her
counsel before starting
your damn wall.

***

For Thanksgiving and
Christmas we are supposed
to go to the marketplace for
little reminders that once upon
a time an all-powerful God
made us less so.

***

Every day we read the
horoscope for each family
member and our President;
one of these invariably defines
a person who is not wired to
understand these thoughts.

***

Pets are almost poets
Fate made me a father
The sum of our dreams becomes summer
Too much law is a flaw
But there is no pig in a poke.

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

RULES!!!
—Caschwa

Verb’s pretty wife
was too busy to
give him a conjugal
visit in prison

because she just
couldn’t decline a
noun.

__________________

Many thanks to today’s poets, and a reminder that there will be no reading at Sac. Poetry Center tonight. On this coming Saturday 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/. 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 in the New Year!

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 Sky Filling With Blue

—Poems and Original Art by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

NEW DAY

The sky, filling with blue, then a fragile cloud or
two, threading. A sharpness of birdsong, penetrating

the silence—brief—and from no distance other than
where it was a startled moment back. Then, that slow,

soft tone of whiteness that takes the place of early
blue, the way you slowly surrender the owned moment

to the swift intrusion of sounds and urgencies, your
reluctance to rise from the warm bed—seductive with

comfort—warm around you. The sky again—gone flat
outside your window-measure, full of daylight now,

the clouds, losing their pink direction, taking on the
heavy factory gray that smudges them.

You stretch and sigh. You look at the clock.

Ingress

STARTING IN THE MIDDLE

Writing in parenthesis, (thinking in parenthesis)
to think twice in two ways,
rounding the second meanings from the first.

And so it flows, (the talk between talk)
the innuendos that do research
(against the mind)
that interrupt and have their say.
               ~
Oh, speak
(like this)
and say (like this)
all there is to say.
Book.
Pages.
Open anywhere
(like fingers to a map)
Explore.
                ~
We almost rhyme. It’s in the warning.
The grope through sound with effort,
(even meaning) to communicate and explain.
when little furtive rhymes keep interrupting.
               ~
Like butting in line,
(one item only)
with sorry,
and please
(your hurry).
               ~
The book so long, can’t begin at beginning,
open book at random, read that page
(for guidance) through the book.

Pending

How well I know the muse now

in our
old hide-&-seek game
taking years
to play,
efforts to make,
then, obedient to her,
trying to catch
all those words she flashes through the mind

___________________

CRISIS

Hey, now the siren . . .
hey now, coming for us . . .

coming through the far-away streets,
pushing dog-howl ahead of it . . .

stirring up
the fog . . .

it is sure of its destination,
knows its job.

From Your Guitar

NOW IS THE TIME FOR YOUR MUSIC
After Young Spanish Woman with Guitar by Renoir

Long before
I would ever yearn to hear it

you have been chronicled in art
for me to decipher,

sure of your smoldering style,
the intensity

of your concentration—
oblivious of me,

your hands at work.
And I am only your poor listener

for what I would hear :
wild flamenco from your guitar.

_________________

NEVER AS NOW

What’s never is now. What’s the use
of hiding it? It will out, as in will in.

Heavy with doubt, we reassess.
Excuses—ever what we use.

Why confuse this
with fact.

Fact is an act.
Act. 1. Done.

Pure nonsense?
How pure?

Mix this
with that and drink slowly.

In a hurry, she asks?
Here is only here.

Elsewhere is nowhere.
Here is here.

Spinning. A gold child in the center of
her spin. Look. She is happy. She can spin.

And Now

and now there will be nothing to say

too easily the parting moves away from the holding
the long journey away from goodbye,
so easily the tender sorrow after sorrow
torn now into aftermath—
a long word apart,
nothing said,
just the last connection of eyes
so full of what they want from each other—
what they need,
the quick kiss on the cheek and the waving goodbye

Ideography

CARTOGRAPHY
“That the science of cartography is limited”
                                   —Eavan Boland

Now let there be, let there be,
a falling of words, following the mind-path,
which is blind, with only pre-knowledge of going

into the far interior of the soul-magic,
which is old and new, and not ever known,
but known only by an intuitive knowing.

Let the words be harmonious with troubled mind,
with seeking mind, with lonely mind—ever
following the mind’s impulse, which is blind.

Let the scripture of the heart forego its worries,
trust in the language of life, that is particulate
with mood and query. Everything is known at

the core and will be reluctant to let go its power.
Every evil has a companion, hovering and advising,
echoing the dark streets of luminous desire,

stroking the thoughts that ache from confusion,
and caressing the dreams beneath sleep.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

READINESS
—Joyce Odam

And here is paper
     ready to be poem
tucked between the pages
     of this poetry book.

__________________

A big new-year thank-you to Joyce Odam for her starting-fresh poems and lively artwork! Our new Seed of the Week is Alleycats. 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

Young Woman With a Guitar by Auguste Renoir
Celebrate poetry!

Insert New Year’s resolutions here:

1.
2.
3.

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.

—Poems by Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento, CA
—Anonymous Photos of Hedgehogs, Bronze & Otherwise

BRONZE, THE HEDGEHOG

Did I mention to you
the blue-green of the bluegrass
here in Kentucky?
Did I remind you
that the bronze hedgehog
is still staring a blank stare
from his place in the garden,
out to the horse palace
with its copper steeples?

The horses are well-fed
and run twice a day,
so I don’t worry about them.
My concern is this:
Has anyone polished
Bronze the Hedgehog lately?
Does he desire, or require, polishing?

The grass has grown around
his girth and up in front of his face.
He’s still staring the horses down.
Perhaps Bronze really is unflappable.

HER SON SHINES THROUGH GLASS

A dark man smiles through
a sculpted brass picture frame
which rests on polished maple.

This brass-framed picture sits
near a triangular spot of light
reflected from the mirror behind.

This triangular spot of light glows
beside a small flower-painted urn
which holds a blue carnation.

The small flower-painted urn
is companion to a white teapot
which wears a gold-rimmed hat.

For company, she pours the teapot
which, dressed in white, tips his
gold-rimmed hat and whispers,

“Good day, Ma’am, whose
son shines through glass.”

TANGLE-HAIR SPIDER

A large black spider sat above my chair
as I slept and dreamt of my gentle lover’s hand.
I woke to find my matted, tangled hair.
Among my gray he’d found a light-red strand
and wove while running fingers round and round.
Among the locks of auburn, gray and dense,
he’d found a strand more pleasing on the crown.
The spider tucked it in, I am convinced—
the light-red strand he tucked is evidence.

THAT OL’ CAROUSER SUN

The Sun looks refreshed this morning
after a half day of carousing
on the other side of the world.

His ogle strikes a note of curiosity,
for which I wonder about his
pandering among the stars.

Has he encouraged a galaxy rave
with careless talk of light speed? Has he
drunk the gin of meteor showers?

Who’s to know, except residents on the
other side of the globe?—they, too busy
carousing in their nap-dreams to notice.

Sonic Hedgehog

ZAMPHIR, PAN FLUTIST

i.
I lie down in the meadow,
bare-foot and round-eared.
I hope to meet him here:
Zamphir, Pan Flutist.

ii.
He appears near a tree trunk,
leans his back against the bark,
draws in his first breath—
just as the sun is rising.

iii.
Zamphir’s breath slips over
his tongue and through his flute,
music flowing like blue through green.

iv.
Does Zamphir’s hand hold the pan flute?
Or, has the flute threatened to take away
his breath if he puts the flute down?

v.
Zamphir’s heart is throbbing
with each black note escaping
little-pipe-organ-holes;
little-pipe-organ-holes.

vi.
I thought he was a bird.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Write it on your heart that every day is the best day in the year.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

____________________

—Medusa, with many thanks to Carol Louise Moon for her fine poems today!

Chia Hedgehog

Celebrate poetry in 2019!

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.

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

A NEW DAY

Sleeping dog and cat
on our bed early rising
in a full moon mist—
from dreaming of owl and dove
I’m slow to turn on the lights.

NEW YEAR SURVEY

This pared-down time of year—
early afternoon but the sun’s aslant,
trees almost leafless,
new grass barely boot-tread high.
A chance for starting fresh.
We see things we never noticed.
Maybe they weren’t there, by autumn
light or late last summer.
Things that make us wonder:
a stretch of two-strand wire
fence across a swale that isn’t
pasture. Who put that up? why?
A puzzle for the new year.
So many stories only partly told
by January slant of cold light.
And here, prints impressed in mud—
bigfoot? bear? human?—
off-road tire tracks breaking
soil where driving’s not allowed.
So much can happen
when we’re not around.

A FRESH START?

Now is the winter of our lessened days
made easy by the paving of our road—
our neighborhood rutted, eroded way
from county two-lane up to hilltop home.
I liked it like that, bucking the breakers,
the bedrock risers and iceberg boulders.
It kept out strangers and salesmen. It kept
us to ourselves and our land. Now it’s paved,
life will be easier though every chore
grows heavier with passing years. We should
be glad, our road graded, spread, rolled flat
as anywhere else in the paved gray world.

FINDING THE WAY
for the Rev. Charles Caleb Peirce

He was born on a pathway and so he lives
with what possessions the fire spares.
Light of the Lord is a cleansing flame—
oh, a Gold Rush town is flammable!

With what possessions the fire spares
he follows his Master and he travels light.
Oh, a Gold Rush town is flammable,
the stuff of parable, of instruction.

He follows his Master and he travels light
about the countryside, God’s land
the stuff of parable, of instruction
on river and ridge, the joy of His earth.

About the countryside—God’s land—
light of the Lord is a cleansing flame
on river and ridge. The joy of His earth!
Born on a pathway, this is how he lives.

PHOTO ONCE TAKEN, UNTITLED

When the wolf’s at the door,
do you close it? But it’s already shut

behind her. Out on the street,
long skirt black against snow, last

night’s fall already trampled
by the day’s traffic, dirty soles.

Bare hands, she holds some-
thing close. End of an old familiar

year, its known intersections, street
numbers. Vestibule of what’s to come.

Too cold to just stand there
for the lens. Time to start walking,

pad softly, wolf-dog at her flank.

LAST OF THE OLD YEAR

Who was that girl wending among shoppers
on Main Street at the side of my Prince,
my dog long gone? His image

glanced my way, curious but aloof.
What pedigree—a line we lost long ago?
Golden grace loved beyond reason.

My living dog is silver-sable
electric, wild energy barely contained.
Joyous.

I almost followed the image
burnished gold fading across Main Street.
A lost thing

should lie down quiet on command.
My silver-sable dog waits to be
unleashed, to show me a living world entire.

Today’s LittleNip:

ON THE WOODS PATH
—Taylor Graham

Here we find wild scat
full of berries and grape skins;
a little farther,
wild scat full of fur and bones—
leftover mysteries of night.

_________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Taylor Graham for her fine poems today, as she reflects on the new year and Starting Fresh!

Girl With Wolf

—Anonymous Photo Courtesy of Taylor Graham
Celebrate the poetry of the past, present and future!

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.

Alley Cats in Panama

—Anonymous Photos

RECITATIVE
—A.E. Stallings (b. 1968)

Every night, we couldn’t sleep.
Our upstairs neighbors had to keep
Dropping something down the hall—
A barbell or a bowling ball,

And from the window by the bed,
Echoing inside my head,
Alley cats expended breath
In arias of love and death.

Dawn again, across the street,
Jackhammers began to beat
Like hangovers, and you would frown—
That well-built house, why tear it down?

Noon, the radiator grill
Groaned, gave off a lesser chill
So that we could take off our coats.
The pipes coughed to clear their throats.

Our nerves were frayed like ravelled sleeves,
We cherished each our minor griefs
To keep them warm until the night,
When it was time again to fight;

But we were young, did not need much
To make us laugh instead, and touch,
And could not hear ourselves above
The arias of death and love.

ALLEY CATS
—Dahlov Ipcar (1917-2017)

One little alley cat singing a solo.
All alone in the lonesome street,
Nothing to eat.
Pity a kitty
Singing a lonely ditty.
One little alley cat
Singing her own song,
A lone song,
A solo.

Two little alley cats singing a duet.
Out on the backyard fences,
Out of their senses.
Caterwauling and bawling,
Wailing and calling.
Two little alley cats
Singing a love song,
A heaven-above song,
A duet.

Three little alley cats singing a trio.
Out in the rainy night,
Under the dim street light.
Singing in rain-fog and wheezing,
Shivering there and sneezing.
Three little alley cats
Singing wet songs,
In rain-fog,
A trio.

Four little alley cats sing a quartet.
Out in the wind and the weather.
Huddling together.
Rain in their cold wet fur;
Still they can purr.
Four little alley cats
Singing a sweet song,
A city street song,
A quartet.

ANOTHER INSANE DEVOTION
—Gerald Stern (b. 1925)

This was gruesome—fighting over a ham sandwich
with one of the tiny cats of Rome, he leaped
on my arm and half hung on to the food and half
hung on to my shirt and coat. I tore it apart
and let him have his portion, I think I lifted him
down, sandwich and all, on the sidewalk and sat
with my own sandwich beside him, maybe I petted
his bony head and felt him shiver. I have
told this story over and over; some things
root in the mind; his boldness, of course, was frightening
and unexpected—his stubbornness—though hunger
drove him mad. It was the breaking of boundaries,
the sudden invasion, but not only that it was
the sharing of food and the sharing of space; he didn't
run into an alley or into a cellar,
he sat beside me, eating, and I didn't run
into a trattoria, say, shaking,
with food on my lips and blood on my cheek, sobbing;
but not only that, I had gone there to eat
and wait for someone. I had maybe an hour
before she would come and I was full of hope
and excitement. I have resisted for years
interpreting this, but now I think I was given
a clue, or I was giving myself a clue,
across the street from the glass sandwich shop.
That was my last night with her, the next day
I would leave on the train for Paris and she would
meet her husband. Thirty-five years ago
I ate my sandwich and moaned in her arms, we were
dying together; we never met again
although she was pregnant when I left her—I have
a daughter or son somewhere, darling grandchildren
in Norwich, Connecticut, or Canton, Ohio.
Every five years I think about her again
and plan on looking her up. The last time
I was sitting in New Brunswick, New Jersey,
and heard that her husband was teaching at Princeton,
if she was still married, or still alive, and tried
calling. I went that far. We lived
in Florence and Rome. We rowed in the bay of Naples
and floated, naked, on the boards. I started
to think of her again today. I still
am horrified by the cat's hunger. I still
am puzzled by the connection. This is another
insane devotion, there must be hundreds, although
it isn't just that, there is no pain, and the thought
is fleeting and sweet. I think it's my own dumb boyhood,
walking around with Slavic cheeks and burning
stupid eyes. I think I gave the cat
half of my sandwich to buy my life, I think
I broke it in half as a decent sacrifice.
It was this I bought, the red coleus,
the split rocking chair, the silk lampshade.
Happiness. I watched him with pleasure.
I bought memory. I could have lost it.
How crazy it sounds. His face twisted with cunning.
The wind blowing through his hair. His jaw working.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Amorous cat, alas
You too must yowl with your love...
or even worse, without!

―Yaha

__________________

—Medusa

For more about Dahlov Ipcar, go to www.islandportpress.com/dahlov-ipcar.html/.

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.

—Poems and Photos by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA

Time hasn't slowed my heart
And so it is that I still lift my spirit
Up to the blueberries of the sun.
Even now, the light that blesses me
Is also available for you, for anyone.
Sit or stand so that you feel at ease.
Hold up your hands, your arms,
Your joy. The love that is inside of you.
Lift up the soft eggs of your eyes
And give praise. It isn’t yesterday
And it isn’t tomorrow; this is now,
Feel your heart. Feel your strength.
Feel the blueberries of the sun.
All that we have is simply enough.

Altar of my flesh, temple of my spirit.
After three seasons of a lifetime I give praise and thanks.
Mi alma es mío, como mi corazón.
Here, where my heart beats.
Here, where my soul dwells.

Lift me now from the black water,
And all of the life that is left to me
Is a consequence of that life I have already lived.
Naked and rising, the water drips from my skin.
I will be bone dry before I reach the stars.
A young child, I can't tell if it is a boy or a girl,
Holds out a hand for me to touch as I pass by,
But it is too late, I am gone,
Looking down on a smiling face.

4:06 AM. A Delta breeze. Stars. Clouds.
My Redwood trees dance just a little,
As if they wanted to sashay their skirts
Above the dance floor of Mother Earth.

Life from the air in each breath, joyful.
Life from the fire that gives warmth, joyful.
Life from the light from the sun, joyful.
Life from the water that falls and flows, joyful.
Life from the fruit of the earth, joyful.
Life from the love within us, joyful.
Let my thanks be joyful also.

Today’s LittleNip:

May I find a way to heal that which needs healing—
In myself, in others, and in the world.
May I find the courage, wisdom, and kindness to do this.

—James Lee Jobe

_____________________

Many thanks to James Lee Jobe for today’s fine celebration of poetry and photos, and a reminder that today you are 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. Drop off submissions at SPC today between 12-2pm. (See www.facebook.com/events/202445027323910/?active_tab=about/ for info.) 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

—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.

Alley Sign
—Poem and Photos by Charles Mariano, Sacramento, CA

SIGN OF THE TIMES
(Sacramento 2019)

shouldn’t bother me
after all these years
and it doesn’t
not really, but…

before i saw this sign
on a recent walk
through the stylishly new
trendy area in Sactown,
couldn’t help
but let my dusty brain
wander backwards

i’m standing in front of
freshly minted, upscale stores,
formerly Crystal Ice,

staring across the way
where Orchard Supply
used to be
and shake my head
in cross-eyed amazement

flashy shops, eating stops,
and a line for coffee
out the door

further down, spittin’ distance really,
where Safeway is (and that shiny horse)
and wondering what happened
to the stampeding buffalo mural

change for the better?
yeah, i guess,
just not for someone like me,
who prefers walk speed,
rotary dial phones, and cheap beer
at cozy hole-in-the-walls

about a block
from the high-ho hubbub,
i spotted
a freshly minted street sign
no, it was an alley sign,

Tomato Alley

stopped dead in my tracks
had to touch it
make sure it was real

i looked down the alley
and across the street
clean as a whistle
no field, no plants,
not even a patch of dirt

“means nothing,”
i tell myself,
“just a sign”

sure, i worked the fields
a hundred-thousand acres
of tomatoes, and everything else
that grew out of the ground
backbreaking labor, blinding heat,
for peanuts

means nothing,
another time, another life

i mean,
it’s not exactly sacred ground,
living and dying
in those fields,
nobody remembers, nobody cares
anymore

shouldn’t bother me
after all these years,
and it doesn’t,
not really

_____________________

—Medusa, with our thanks to Charles Mariano for today’s fine poetry and photos!

Farmworkers, 1966

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.

Butterfly Dance

Love's Disrepair

Royal Magic

Unreined, Dear

The Crop Is In

Refuge

No More Unring A Bell . . .

Go With Joy

A Pallet of Mixed Emotions

Bells In My Head

Crying on the Blue Line L

Open Your Heart

Change

Finishing Up 2018

Starting Fresh

Unflappable

New Days

Arias of Love and Death

Blueberries of the Sun

Change for the Better?