Medusa's Kitchen

—Winter Garden Photos by Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

OLYMPIC FIRE AND ICE
—Jennifer Fenn, Fresno, CA

Some say the world will end in fire, some in ice.
—Robert Frost

Snow blankets Seoul stadium,
burying news broadcasts
of fiery tensions
between North and South Korea.
It glows under red and blue rain
of fireworks spreading
long, embracing arms
across the night sky.

Dignitaries from both sides watch,
eyes widening, mouths falling open
at drones forming a glistening dove.
Four singers from both nations
take turns singing “Imagine”.

Runners, one at a time,
bear the flame closer to the cauldron.
Athletes, one from each nation,
both wearing white,
carry it up the icy slope together,
each with one hand on the torch.

The flame is lit.

____________________

THE BLANKET PROJECT
—Jennifer Fenn

Toddlers and teenagers at Shriners’ Hospital
curl up into balls in metal hospital beds,
peering over their covers,
anxious about what their time will be like
away from friends, pets, and schools.
Will surgery hurt? Will stitches tear open?
Will leg braces be heavy?
How long will therapy take?
Will the scars on their skin go away?
Such mountains to conquer!

Groups of Rainbow Girls of all ages
sit around tables
to start their blanket project
for these children.
Each group takes two sheet-sized pieces
of bright colored flannel, one plain,
one with flowers or cartoons.
They carefully cut fringe on each one,
then tie the pieces together,
making the blankets twice as warm.
Chattering about future service projects,
their college and career goals,
and school soccer games,
they dream of the days
when children at the hospital
will be able to do those same things.
They imagine a blanket
draped over each child,
like an embracing rainbow
over their mountains.

THE RED-SILK BANNER
OF DOUBLE-HAPPINESS
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

The red-silk,
Chinese banner of Double-Happiness,
With four peacock-couples
One couple, each,
Posted at each corner of the banner,
All facing the center, the middle, the heart,
Where the world was centered between them,
Somehow came
To the groom’s grandmother
Twenty years before
Her grandson’s wedding-day
To his Chinese wife.

When their lives were joined
Under the banner,
They were reminded
That the happiness of one
May be doubled to two
When two are joined
As one,
And the peacocks danced
The dance of silken peacocks
On the wall
As they achieved their fate,
And a wonderful time
Was had by all!

_________________

THE GHOSTS I LIKE MOST
—Joseph Nolan

My ghosts linger.
They come to measure
And comfort me
At any time of day.
Sometimes they
Want my body
As their own
And display
Aggressive,
Intrusive
Intentions
To take
My body
Away!
As their own.
So I,
Must disown
Them
And send
Them
Away,
Though I
Do not like to.
I wish I
Could keep them
By my side
The ghosts
I like
The most!
And maybe later
We might
Drink a toast
To older days
When they
Were still alive.

WHY POETS WAKE IN THE NIGHT
—Joseph Nolan

There’s a meaning to our madness
And symbols in our rhyme:
Prolific poets
Work overtime,
Overnight,
When they awake
With a line or two
They dare not shake
And their burning,
Vain ambition
Pursues them in the dark
When they’d be better off
On a lark.

So they throw
Warm covers off
And get up in the night,
To let elusive
Thoughts and images
Into light—
For morning saved!

Since they
Oh! So easily
Do slip away,
Confounded and blurred
By dreams,
And stretching time
That does betray!

_________________

NO UPSIDE GETTING DRUNK
IN FRONT OF THE RELATIVES
—Joseph Nolan

There’s no upside
Getting drunk
In front of the relatives.

It’s sort of like
Being a psychic-flasher.
Nobody likes a flasher
No matter what!
No matter how perfect
The body
Or well-chiseled
The gut.

Something bad always comes out
Surprise! for all to see!
Any they’ll never
Ever forget it
And that’s pure misery.

Forever after
And-a-day
You’ll hear
The tales be told
Of the day,
The week,
The month,
The year
You thought you
Might be bold.
And it grows old!

LIPSTICK ON A PIG
—Joseph Nolan

Lipstick on a pig
Lipstick on a pig
At the beauty counter
They said this was really big!

I went to buy a wig
I need to wear a wig
And have a drink of whisky
And take a real, big swig.

I voted in the election,
I voted for our new king
Who wore a bright, red MAGA hat
And promised heaven to bring.

The news is bought and paid for,
Paid for on TV,
By all the advertisers
Who can’t sell their stuff for free.

And so are the elections.
And so are all the votes.
Even if you won’t admit it,
It’s all an awesome hoax!

Follow all the money!
Find a money-tree,
Pluck the dollars before they fall
And buy a new TV!

This world is full of wonders—
Wonders for us to see!
It makes you stop to wonder
If anyone’s really free?

WHAT IF…
—Caschwa

…man has really destroyed the very
possibility for life on Earth to continue?

Let’s say that once the polar ice caps have
fully melted away, sea levels will rise, land
masses will shrink, and our continental
shelves will suffer damaging changes beyond
recognition.

All major metropolitan areas will become
Atlantis. Those who manage to survive will
face endless struggles to control what little is
left of dry land.

Our whole package of daily concerns, from
screaming, banner headlines to everything of
lesser degrees will become virtually irrelevant.
From collusion, to war, to major crimes, to rare
and monumental political events, to product
recalls due to undeclared allergens, all will be
overridden by tides and waves.

In addition to the fact that most dead bodies will
simply be flushed away, the entire end-of-life
industry will die from lack of material resources.

IN THE MEANTIME…

…each and every post in the news is just a distraction,
while those individuals who already own enormous
parcels of land make every effort to ensure their own
safety and prosperity. Period.

____________________

TOUGH ALLEY
—Caschwa

I still have that pair of bowling shoes
I bought brand new ages ago, when
my new bride and I were in a league

seeking to overcome all the walls,
plateaus, blocks, and infinite other
barriers to raising our modest scores

the perfect game just kept glaring
down at us like some stony, medieval
gargoyle fiercely guarding a very
exclusive private entrance

daring unwary on-comers to “make it
look easy” while colluding with too
many left feet to swallow the balance
of anyone gazing upward to read the
scoreboard…

…my senior feet no longer remember
those nice shoes that used to fit well,
but now don’t fit at all, like the prices
from decades ago, like some of our
elected officials, like I am going to need
a new pair of “Go Shoe Me” accounts.

MISFIT
—Caschwa

I like my little sedan
it fits in my small
garage, my wife and
I can both easily enter
or exit, and it has a
comfy ride

But now the very
same carmaker that
happily sold me the
sedan posts TV ads
to announce that one
of their new pickup
trucks or SUVs would
better suit my needs
and be the vehicle
really worth having

all of this shaming me
and my comfy sedan
makes me reconsider
doing business with
this same carmaker
ever again

___________________

Today’s LittleNip(s) by Caschwa:

The OPTION Law Office

Other
Peoples’
Trouble
Is
Our
Nourishment

* * *

FRENCH ODE, RANDOM MODE

Flowers often receive mail from
our rugged men flying over rural
Memphis, ferreting out rude
meanings for opening rose mallow.

(fire six hidden forms in this poem)

* * *

PHRASING

The penis, mightier than the sword.

___________________

Thanks to today’s varied contributors, including rarely-heard-from Jennifer Fenn from Fresno, who was featured on Medusa 1/11/17 and hasn’t appeared much since. Welcome back, Jennifer!

Want to get away from it all for ten days and focus on your writing? Alexa Mergen writes that the Ely Pink House in Pulga, Nevada, has a ten-day residency program for poets, writers, photographers, and other artists. Write to her at alexamergen@gmail.com or see www.pulgatown.com/artist-residency-1/. Deadline is Feb. 28, but there will be another residency offered later this year.

Alas, convergence Managing Editor Cynthia Linville writes that their final issue is online at www.convergence-journal.com/winter18/ and that she appreciates the support of all of the contributors and readers over the fifteen years of publication. All issues, from 2003-2018, are archived at www.convergence-journal.com/archive.html/.  This snappy local online publication will be sorely missed!

As for poetry readings in our area, things are heating up again, now that the holidays are over. Sac Poetry Center readings are back tonight, 7:30pm, with Khaya “Khalypso” Osborne plus open mic. Poetry Off-the-Shelves poetry read-around in El Dorado Hills meets on Tuesday from 5-7pm at the El Dorado Hills Library on Silva Valley Parkway. On Wednesday, SPC’s new writing workshop with various facilitators, MarieWriters, meets at SPC at 6pm, tonight’s group facilitated by Laura Rosenthal. [This workshop is primarily to generate writing in a small group, as opposed to SPC's long-running Tuesday Night Workshop which meets at the Hart Sr. Center as a critique group.]

Thursday night at 8pm, Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe presents Traci Gourdine plus open mic. Then on Saturday, Sac. Poetry Center Gallery features its Second Sat. Reception for Paradise Relief: An Invitational Art Show to Benefit the Camp Fire Survivors. From 5-6:30pm, come look at the art which was selected; then at 6:30pm, some poets (including Susan Kelly-DeWitt and others) will read poems based on the theme, followed by 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

Alley Cat Opinions

—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.

Night Sounds

—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

THE WORLD IS MUCH TOO SLOW
WITH WAKING

and there is the white moon hanging
and a dark cat passing under,
prissy-footed in a stubble-field,
and a slow-motioned dog is barking,
far away it seems,
and the moon is sharp and full
and the cat is slowly stepping
through the shadows
and has almost reached the end now
and is just an abstract motion
in the field’s absorption
and the dog has hushed
and the moon has not quite paled
and the soft blue tone of morning
is just beginning
and a slight cold breeze
gets through as a crow takes
its dark silhouette across the window
and a long block away, across the field,
a jogger runs, tiny as a toy, and the cars
flow by him with their headlights on
and the spell is breaking

_________________

FERAL

the midnight cat slinks
through the yellow moonlight
trailing its enormous shadow
              ~
night smudges the dark,
rustles the leaves,
muffles the sounds that follow
                 ~
the white fence gleams
the lane curves
the stars inspect the gravel
              ~
the late night warns
night sounds crunch
the slow moon loses its yellow
              ~
the hushed leaves listen
the cat returns
dragging its ragged shadow

The Hushed Leaves

THE MYTH OF MEMORY
After Young Girl in the Park, 1957
by Tsugouhara Foujita (1886-1968)

You are fenced in with the roses, stroking the demented
cat that squirms against you. Behind you, park-goers are
unaware of your domestic wilderness. In distances of time
their lives are lived in theirs, and you in yours. As the time-
less day recedes, they become even smaller, growing back-
wards into a previous history,
though you never move
past this moment.

The possessive roses
preen around you in the last
low light, sheathing their thorns,
the revelers but tiny silhouettes now, specks of dark-
ness, proof of your confinement. The trees have over-
grown the meadow. Light has softened there as well
as where you are. Look away, mind-dreaming child,
unfasten your gaze, your strange melancholy, the mind-
less way you hold onto your childhood which stays in
the overshadowed meadow with the revelers.

The Murmurings

AS FALSE AS MARDI GRAS

young and wild
wine and confetti
danger in the alleys…

intoxicate each other
the night is drunk with you
and fickle unto others…

morning will catch you
in a smothering wing,
sink and dream the pretty sleep…

your masks
will also sleep
and remember none of this…

The Brevity of Flowers

PROGRESSIONS

She bends down to feed a cat
and she praises her own goodness.

        .

Her eyes are quieter than a statue’s
and her skin is cold in
the thin hands of beginners.

        .

Consider her smile.
She is opportunity and loss.
She is patient and her anger smoulders.

        .

She is basic,
letting her naked children
rise to her shoulders like angels.

        .

She belongs to the mirrors
which disembody her
mood by mood and season by season.

        .

She will not complain
unless she be cruel about it.

        .

How can she be old . . .
she is humming her safe tune
to the brevity of flowers.

Mood by Mood

THE MUSE OF REVERIE
After Russian Impressionism (works by twenty-two academy
trained master Russian Artists of the past and present)

She is the center—her own muse—
her hands on her lap, her face in a stare.
Memories rest in layers around her:
the closed distance of her mother,
the mute presence of her father;
the attentive white cat on the lap
of an ancestor—seven lives ago.
She feels herself merge,
tries to pull away,
but the past has got her :

the visions swirl :
the old house she lived in,
the murmuring linger of vanished voices,
the thick scent of flowers in heavy vases,
the road of tall trees down to the lake,
the old cabin on the eroding bank,
the drift of summers,
the place where it snowed—
the polished fruit on the polished table
back to the present room that fits around her.

A Strange Melancholy

DISPLACEMENT

driving slowly
on a road with three undulations
with a dangerous curve at the end
and a rag on the road that
looks like a cat
which we swerve to avoid

_________________

EPISTLE

Dear Rain,
I’m glad
you’re back; I heard
you all last night. . . .
you soothed my restless sleep
and now at day’s first light
my cat sits on the windowsill
and watches you…and watches you . . .
I just
listen.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

BOY WITH CAT
After A Boy with a Cat by Renoir

Absently staring
into day-dream’s distance,
he strokes the cat
which purrs against his face . . .

___________________

Thanks to Joyce Odam for today’s peek at some cats, alley (our Seed of the Week) and otherwise. Her “Epistle” is a Double Cinquain: that’s 2244668822 syllables.

Our new Seed of the Week is Twilight. For the three different types of twilight, go to www.timeanddate.com/astronomy/different-types-twilight.html/. 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.

Tonight, drive up to El Dorado Hills for Poetry Off-the-Shelves from 5-7pm at the El Dorado Hills Library on Silva Valley Parkway. 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

Alley Cat Opinions, Part Deux
—Anonymous Photo
(Celebrate Poetry!—and opinions everywhere!)

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 Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
—Anonymous Photos of Dandelion Moons

BORDER CROSSING*

All the lost children
who trudge long and far
families fleeing
violence, gangs, rape,
asylum begged for,

mercy, just a chance.
All the lost children
arriving worn-out
at guarded border,
captives pulled away

like quarantined sheep.
parents plead: "Quando"?
All the lost children
shipped north or caged in
tents, the heat intense!

These innocente,
twenty-three hundred
traumatized, poor, hurt.
All the lost children
left to cope alone,

love disregarded—
migrants are weapons.
Millions mourn for these
political pawns—
all the lost children.

*(Form: “Sliding Fiver”—
everything in fives)

STREET PORTRAIT

Every morning
a handsome youth
pushes
a shopping cart
past our place.
Cans, bottles, a blanket
under bulging plastic.

This tall calm young man
might be painting bridges,
shouldering a blue sky,
a net to catch him
should he fall
or try to fly?

Someone's son, brother,
father?
This modern-day David
of the Streets—
a turnabout coming soon?

AROUND A KITCHEN TABLE
(a poem of the 70s)

She and I sketched our souls:
her panther near a cloud,
my one-legged gull at cliff edge.

We named our sneakers
"Slippers of the Gods."
Toes poked out like bad jokes.

Adventuresome dreamers, we
rose above her cold marriage
and my abusive past.

One night, pricking fingers,
we held them together,
blended our blood.

Her husband's job transferred;
they moved to Europe.
We lost contact...

Fifty years later
kitchen-table epiphanies still
flow oxygen through my arteries.

ONE WINTER

You, warm and real
as you were
became a scrap
of address
found one winter
while looking
for matches—
you, warm and real
as you were.

(a similar version was first
pub. in Blue Unicorn)

POEM FOR A MAN
COMING DOWN THE TRAIL

"What's up there?" I ask the hiker
as I start my climb.
"Cows, only cows," he says
and walks glumly to his car.

I climb the hill trail. A breeze
skips my breath over grassland
like a seed or tumbleweed.

Dandelion moons, tossed
nearly bare, fuzz the air.
Poppies candle the fields,
petaled flames burning
wildly through wind flurries.
Buckeye blooms
extend white torches.
Anise exudes
a calming fragrance.

From valley to peak, animal
tracks faintly section the hills.
Salt licks catch the sun
like patches of snow.

Blinking at my footsteps,
Winslow Homer cows feast
as cloud-shadows move
over their backs, like maps
on the move.

Hike over, I return to my truck,
drive off to strains of
Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony.

EXPANSIVE VIEW

Is
each
expanded
spirit
in essence
another name
for God?

WHAT MAKES & SEPARATES
THE CLOUDS

What makes and separates the clouds?
What causes them to fade away?
Why do some people weep in crowds?

Should we pick the garden flower?
Step back and simply let it grow?
A human time, no ivory tower.

Can we tell these two apart—
what arises from an avid mind
and what comes from an ample heart?

A quirky question, call it small.
Yet, world, we are the only species
we know to wonder this at all.

(first pub. in Blue Unicorn, Nov. 2018)

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

AFTER RAIN, A CINQUAIN
—Claire J. Baker

Morning,
we spot street oil
transformed into pastels—
prisms on asphalt as fresh sun
returns.

____________________

Many thanks to Claire Baker for her poems of dandelion moons and other wonders!

And a note that MarieWriters Generative Workshop will meet tonight at 6pm at Sac. Poetry Center, 25th & R Sts., Sac. 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—and the rain!

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.

Latches, the Latest Graham

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

REPLACEMENT CAT

Latches might have been a stray, a street-
ruffian. Instead, he spent half his young life
at the no-kill shelter, aging kitten-into-
everything, too darkly handsome for adoption.
People don’t want black cats, they say.
But our last black cat disappeared, seasonal
escape-artist through a crack of door.
Mid-winter. Time for another black cat.
We took Latches home. He teases our bitch
to a chase. Limber-crazy like he’d lost his
linchpin all over the house. Between chases,
Loki occupies her benchmark couch
as senior dog. A truce. Last night Latches
sharpened his claws on couch-leather;
peered up at her dangling feet;
raised to his mini-cougar height and
sniffed her toe. Loki slept on. He leaped
and snuggled briefly to her chest.
Winter freeze begins its gradual thaw.

SHELTER CAT

She curls her claws around the pimples
of her pads. Black feet of a cat who unfurls
darkly about a purr. How long it’s taken
for that ease against my fingers; how long
before she learned to trust a stroke
along her spine.

Cats keep their histories to themselves.
I don’t know why this cat came to me. But
tonight—eyes closed, taut arched skull, cougar
profile in miniature—she rises to my hand.
Startle of static under fur.

(first pub. in Free Lunch)

LOKI’S WATCH

Percussion of shepherd tail-wag
against wall, pendulum of dog-patrol.

Kitten’s in the sink, spoon against kettle.
Crackle of cellophane in pantry,

mouse scuttling on prowl. Alert
at rodent-crevice, Loki’s on guard.

Spirit of the household, she’s
survived the birth and death of puppies.

Unjaundiced, she superintends us,
keeps our schedule by a clock

more primitive than hourglass,
embedded in brain:

our times for waking, for bed-walk
and its return, for her reward.

See her precision sit-at-attention
at dog-cookie jar on kitchen counter

safe from both mouse and kitten.
Now begins her night-watch.

BEYOND THE SIGHT OF MAIN

At edge of pothole pavement
it hides in the thick of blackberry,
at home in exuberant thorns.
It ripples in waves of dark beyond
streetlights to hunt the crevices,
a lace of spider web on ear and eye-
lash. It lashes its tail, obligates
a passing dog to be wary. Invisible
by daylight, from nowhere it
springs ferocious with fang and
claw on unsuspecting canine
minding a master’s business.
Cat’s the brains of the alley.

SKELTONIC ALLEYCAT

A back-way cat    does not grow fat
but slinks the edge   of cobble and hedge,
perches on ledge   mocking the sphinx
a make-believe lynx   hot-wired hi-jinx
cougar in miniature   (propane-tank furniture
skeleton cat,    spoor of rat)
he lies in wait    with claws of fate
for travelers late—
mouse rat dog    head all a-gog
or in a fog—an alley-cat leap
sinks claws deep    in life’s flanks,
no please or thanks   don’t call it pranks
to guard with fangs    against fate’s gangs
he has no shame    life’s his aim
his secret name

NIGHT TO REMEMBER

You ask about our New Year’s Eve.
Were there fireworks in town?
We stayed home, hoping for—what?
Lightning over the mountain.
My office, a favorable lookout
for spying Polaris through leafless
oaks. Remember that storm
years ago, a long wide brilliance
over the river—too distant
to hear its thunder. It pulled me
out the door. It kept on flashing for
hours. As if the gods were
assiduously scrubbing the sky
with steel scouring pads, metal on
metal, sparking that far-off radiance.
I couldn’t go back inside. It held
me half the night in awe.
Next morning sparkled a new world
brighter than new year fireworks.

Today’s LittleNip:

WIND’S THEME
—Taylor Graham

January Northwind’s frigid
metal exuding ice, current
connecting metal to bone.
We walk without talking.
Wind’s theme is Leaving,
dead leaves squabbling.
Flag’s wound on the pole
that keeps it from flying.
Northwind sings,
if you keep on walking,
it keeps you from dying.

__________________________

Our thanks to Taylor Graham for today’s cat, alley and otherwise, and tales of her newly adopted kitten, Latches. Her alley cat photos were taken of the feral cats who live in the Placerville Fairgrounds.

Traci Gourdine will read tonight at Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe, plus open mic, 8pm. 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

Scram—this is my alley!
—Anonymous Cartoon
(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 JD DeHart, Chattanooga, TN

—Anonymous Drawings

2018

Gains and losses, this moment
of looking backward, worried
that, like Lot’s wife, I will be made
salt in a moment.

A cold snap, the feeling of new
travels. Yesterday is as one-hundred
years ago,

each year, something peels away,
replacing past harms with divine
trust. We move forward, press on,

through mud and through grief,
through the disappointments of others
we thought we knew and the victory
of knowing ourselves a little better.

Dear one, we had to say goodbye
last year, a farewell that led to some
new greetings. Is the loss of a family
pet enough to inspire a verse?

Apparently.

And what then of the new year,
where we will uncover more, shedding
the children we were, putting
on new faces—no, we will only know
more details about the features

we already possess, the path,
our plans, our present reborn hope.

STAMPER THE INVENTOR

He's invented the great underwater apparatus
It allows us to converge
Make our way across the canal
Up the inlets
Invading new lands
sweet noble imperialism
His great feet tread new ground
Bridger, his assistant
Makes all the necessary connections
Applies the patents
as weapons of war run down the chain
unhook and then find their way
into the hands of the power-hungry.

(first pub. at Exercise Bowler)

THE MESS

Life is messy, the wise sage.
Teaching is messy business,
so I picture spills in each seat,
a slight overlapping of intention.
They are lips and thoughts, ever
so subtly out of place, pushing
and resisting, attempting to secure
a foothold, a place in the world,
to move the Archimedean earth
even with a surging tide of inquiry.

(first pub. at Pyrokinection)

NAME IS NOT

Do not call me the cardboard one
or mistake me with the guy
lumbering across the hall,
swinging his well-intentioned yardstick.
Look at my face closely, I beg them,
do not simply see me as representation
of the title on my desk, a cartoon figure
casting all the projections of prior experience,
but a real flesh figure, blood being,
pulsing and variable, with a name and purpose.

(first pub. at Pyrokinection)

SNAKESKIN

I was shed like snakeskin,
left in the dry sun with no water,
no sweaty palm to rest on my aching
blistered back. Small crabs began
to scutter across my new flesh.
I know the feeling of being hollowed,
cast aside, and disregarded.
This is why I do not go to parties
unless they are small and I know

most of the people there.

(first pub. at Pyrokinection)

I DON’T GAMBLE (2)

Yes, it's true, I used to play
at being. Maybe a bit more than I do now.
Justifications and jokes. Excuses
mingled with my self-doubts.

Now, I don't gamble. Not
even a little. My risks are placed
in the best of faith. I'm not the boy
I used to be. But probably still

a boy in many ways.

I've lived enough to know the swallow
of a full moon, the contentment of a grassy
yard in the yellow light of winter. The silence
of a room I expected to be a din.

To know it's not blame or opinion
I seek, nor to make a name. I fashion
my life out of the fabric of the day,
noticing and noting.

 __________________

Today’s LittleNip:

A bridge of silver wings stretches from the dead ashes of an unforgiving nightmare to the jeweled vision of a life started anew.

—Aberjhani, Journey through the Power of the Rainbow: Quotations from a Life Made Out of Poetry (www.amazon.com/Journey-through-Power-Rainbow-Quotations/dp/1312194111/).

__________________

—Medusa, with thanks to JD DeHart for today’s fine poetry!

—Anonymous
(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.

Pablo the Parakeet, Enjoying Some Early Pink Floyd

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

After a fine but somewhat late lunch
On a summer’s afternoon
I nap for a couple of hours
With Blues playing in the background.
Muddy Waters, Buddy Guy, Howlin’ Wolf,
Son House. Like that.
Waking up later, I return to the poems
I had just been reading:
Jack Gilbert and Bei Dao.
Afternoon reaches out toward evening,
And the shadows reach across the yard,
Past the window, like a laughing child
Reaching for her father when he returns.
His day’s work was long, but honest,
And his soul is clean.
The poems go on, my life goes on,
And that child laughs and laughs.

Troubled Poet

Vertigo at 61. My mind swirls.
I can hear the brightness
Of light. I can hear
The colors of this world.
Life in spin cycle.
Life in a blender.
But life it is, my friend,
So hold on.

______________

Where my wife and I walk,
The little creek has dried up for the summer,
Waiting for the promised return of winter rains.
We walk slower now, in our sixties,
Our legs contain old sloths.
These sloths are covered with algae
And blend in perfectly with the summer trees.
As we walk, our hands reach out, touch, and clasp.

Biking in the Fog on the Jibboom Street Bridge Between

Discovery Park and Old Sacramento

Tonight you'll slip between the shadows;
An angular space where humans seldom go.
A place where the moonlight can't find you.
There is only you, just like you thought.
No one is listening, and no one is watching,
The next move is up to you. Don't think
About tomorrow, or about how things seem.
Just be the moonlight. Be the shadows.
There is only you, nothing else, and friend,
That was all you ever really needed.

Poet in Downieville, CA at Rush Hour

A summer day. Lovely on its own.
My patio, cool with shade
And made especially nice from the jasmine scent.
Poems from Kenneth Rexroth and Carolyn Kizer.
Everything that lives, dies. That’s a fact.
All the more reason to snuggle with beauty
While we can. Love every second, my friend.
Breathe in the jasmine.

Yes, You Are

We have descended like starlight
Across the smile of the earth.
All we have to do now
Is shine.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The wife and husband
hold hands under bright moonlight.
Hard years, and good ones.

—James Lee Jobe

___________________

Our thanks to James Lee Jobe for his fine Saturday fare this morning, and a reminder that Sac. Poetry Center Gallery will host a Second Sat. Reception tonight from 5-8pm for its art show, Paradise Relief: An Invitational Art Show to Benefit the Camp Fire Survivors, curated by Bethanie Humphreys and Heather Judy. At 6:30pm: Poets (including Susan Kelly-DeWitt) will read on the show’s theme, plus open mic. 25th & R Sts., Sac. 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
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 D.R. Wagner, Locke, CA

 OPEN CHANNEL

I awoke being pursued
Down a shadowed flight
Of steel stairs, loud
With footsteps. My heart
Holding terrible knowledge
In fragile glass vials of fear.

Memories had been torn
From my body. Box cars,
Doors open, speeding past,
Each one full of colored flame.
A whistle screaming my name,
Caught in a distance where falling
Insists it is the only reality.

You are a close friend.
Don’t leave me standing here.
The night may dissolve at any minute.
Surely there is something we can do.

Teapot

THE VICISSITUDES OF NOMENCLATURE

Death has been covered a little.
The tempest has whirled in,
Showing its white hands in greeting.

How many horizons will we be
Required to notice before we begin
To understand these beautiful
Vessels

Cupped around the faces of murder?
We have been given everything
We might need to allow us to sleep.

This is as pure an island as water
Will allow our spirits. It opens
Its gates to a neverending house.

Here we will be shown a light
Unlike any other we have seen.
Here we are told the name that will
Awaken great seas in our blood.

Heron

SILVER NITRATE

New ghosts bring their own ghosts.
They have learned to smile.
I have asked them to leave before I
Went to bed.

They dragged emptiness
Behind them and spoke as if they
Didn’t know me.

I tightened my hands around their
Throats. My family wondered
What I was doing at two A.M.

I didn’t want any part of this.
I was brought up to be strong.
I had hair like a cat. I could
Hitchhike through dust storms.

Don’t think I will forget your name.
I’m the freak from your hometown.
I develop like photographic film.
You never know what you will see.

Looking in the Kitchen

I HAVE RETURNED

I extrude these words from cells
In the middle of my back
As bees do.

But these are words that glow
With dystopian import and I use them
To gather things around me,
Accretions, I suspect, that form
Strophes.

My fingers dissolve into black ink.
I release memories as quiet, pale
Gasses that you will understand
As language. These lift from
My back and we somehow
Communicate.

One life is inadequate; still, it drips
Through my bones and forms
Melodies unlike any music known,
A long, curving sound in the air.

Bend me like a bow. I distill a pure
Kind of sweet you will crave
For the rest of your life.
You have already listened too long.

TERRIBLE SWIFT SWORD

She shot and killed three people
During lucid dreaming. I was there
In the choir, singing next to a soprano
Who fell at my feet.

I could hear the spirit of her bones
Breaking softly inside her skin.
Her soul was blue and could not
Make words, but it could sing.

I awoke as a large flock of birds
Burst from a tree and scattered
In many directions. The singing
Did not stop for hours. I had to drink
Coffee and stare at the smoke-filled
Air. There had been huge fires all night.

I saw someone who used to love me
Forever. “You’ve moved away,” she said.

“Yes, I’ve moved closer to the ocean
So I can hear the waves better.”

“Does it help your dreaming?” she asked.
“No, just as many people are being killed.”
“I thought so,” she said. “I could never
Depend on you.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“You were always sorry,” she said,
Just before she died.

Rio Vista

STREET DRAMA

Touch wasn’t answer. Even being
Pushed hard away from his body
Doesn’t convey much information.

His breath leaving his lungs
Carried pain but was less than
An idea. There was a reason
People who lived here were armed.

He wouldn’t get a chance to explain
Any of this. There were too many
Witnesses to construct a decent
Story. Things had happened too
Quickly. The gunshot sounded
Like someone snapping their fingers.
Maybe there wasn’t a gunshot.

A voice asked if he was okay.
“I think so,” he said.
Crows began to land around him.
They seemed to recognize him.

When he closed his eyes, he could
Understand what they were saying.

Household Gods

THE PIANO
…for Barry Andrews

In the desert, far from all,
The piano recalls hats,
Hundreds of them
Poised like music notation
In the air.

A carnival of sweet malaria
Nights has fallen but nobody
Listens.

Come cry with me,
Sigh with me,
Die with me.
Lean over the edge
Of the stairs. Still
Nobody listens.

Can I say what I really want?
Can I say what I really want?
I try to stop breathing but
I only glisten.

I’m not going to move much
Closer to the edge. I’ve mixed
Stars with it, cars with it,
Started fires in the bars with it.
I bow my head. I clasp my hands,
Won’t meet your eyes with common
Glance. Don’t speak my name.
Nobody listens.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Trees are the earth’s endless effort to speak to the listening heaven.

—Rabindranath Tagore

_____________________

—Medusa, with a hearty welcome back to surprise guest D.R. Wagner today, and many thanks for his fine Sunday fare!

Tara

—Photo by D.R. Wagner
(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 Photos

TWILIGHT
—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove, CA

Somewhere
Between the
Wistful pastels
Of a western sunset
And a raucous, bawdy,
Too-early promise
Of sunrise, though
No one knows quite
Where, lies Twilight.

It is a time of ineffable,
Indescribable, probably
Unbearable blue, and
Perhaps the only time
A navy blue velvet cape
Is appropriate attire.

It is a time when beings,
Things, are as they are,
Rather than as they appear.
Careful not to step
On that frog. It
Could be a prince.
Or a toad.

LULLABY
—Michael H. Brownstein, Chicago, IL

orange moon,
orange sun,
witch's brew,
witching run

orange moon,
orange sun,
storm of wind,
storm of drum

and then the moon
lets loose the night—
orange moon, orange sun,
witch-less light.

THOMAS OF THE HUNDRED TRIBE
—Michael H. Brownstein

Thomas of the hundred silent women
Thomas of the million masochistic march
Thomas of the blood-lit beacon

Thomas did not speak dreams
nor did he communicate in mix-match or mis-matched

Thomas of the beef griping tribe
Thomas of the hibernator and migratory
Thomas of the suicide detention league

Thomas did not speak the language of eyes
Nor did he communicate with hands and arms

DOWNHILL DREAMIN’
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Mulholland Drive on
a 10-speed bicycle
catch your breath
check the brakes

Coasting downhill
to Westwood Village
occasionally faster
than some autos

Lots of wind in the face
careful to engage rear
braking system only,
no real need to pedal

Sold that bike
kept the leg muscles
for a while, now just
memories in the face

________________

I DEMAND A RAISE
—Caschwa

As we watch campaigns
taking shape for the 2020
presidential election, we
see contenders ranked
according to their ability to
raise enormous funds….

….while nothing could be
further from representing
the value set of everyday
American citizens who are
24/7 preoccupied with the
enormous responsibility of
properly raising their children.

Show me a ballot that just lists
all the barefoot candidates who
can easily walk a mile while still
keeping up with their chores,
and spare me the glossy image
of their opponents’ expensive
designer shoes!

OH YEAH, WE’RE AT WAR
—Caschwa

When we entered the Second World War
life was no longer business as usual;
documentary b&w films show major sporting
events in progress halting at once so the
players can leave to serve as soldiers

and now we come to the Twenty First Century
when the world is still at war, our nation is
still involved, and the Commander In Chief
nonchalantly shuts down the government
under the pretense of border security

No longer are we drawing on professional
athletes to fight our wars; the new resource
seems to be convenience store clerks,
students, and just about anyone who gathers
in a crowd somewhere, since they are already
quite used to being a target, so we might as
well put them in uniform.

__________________

CAMELOT BEFORE GPS
—Caschwa

I asked to be born rich,
but someone else got it instead.

I applied for unemployment,
but someone else got it instead.

I voted for a responsible candidate,
but someone else got it instead.

I once had an original thought,
but someone else got it instead.

I live another day to annoy people,
got that, and it’s a keeper!

POETS NEEDING GAS MONEY
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

Do you have
Twenty dollars
For gas?
I’d like to attend
Your meeting,
But, if not,
I’ll have to pass.

Poetry don’t
Pay much
And so
I have to ask
If you’ve got
Twenty dollars
For gas?

My car
Doesn’t run
Without fuel.
Some people
Think
Poets are all fools;
Some think
We’re all crazy
And need to
Get a life.

If you don’t
Have twenty,
Could I
Ask your wife?

__________________

THE PERFECTION OF POETRY
—Joseph Nolan

Plants grow toward light;
Poetry toward pain.
Sophistry,
A wizard,
In darkness
May explain—
A thousand roses
Draw much blood
Dragging up the slope;
Perfection of poetry—
Relinquishment of hope.

Plants grow toward light;
Poetry toward pain.
Darkness,
The will of night,
Forlorn, the
Need for rain,
Leaking into buckets
Upon the floors
In vain,
Never to be emptied
By resident,
Insane.

WERE WE WISER, MIGHT WE
HOLD OUR BREATH?

It seems that poets
Live not long,
That they
Too early
Die!

Lowell, at 60
Sexton, at 45
Plath, at 30
Roethke, at 55.

It seems that poetry
May be
A short-fused
Dalliance
With death.

Perhaps if
We were wiser,
We poets
Might hold
Our breath?

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

DO SNAILS EVER FAIL?
—Joseph Nolan

Do snails
Ever fail
To slip along?
Ever say,
“My pseudopod
Hurts today?”
And then
Just stay
Where they are
And gaze
Upon a star
The whole
Night long?

____________________

Thanks to our fine contributors today, with a few riffs on our Seed of the Week: Twilight.

This week’s poetry readings in our area begin tonight at 7:30pm at Sac. Poetry Center with Emily Wallis Hughes and her new book, Sugar Factory. Then on Wednesday, the new weekly MarieWriters Generative Workshop meets at SPC, 6pm, facilitated this week by Cristin O’Cuddehy. Or head over to San Andreas for their first-ever Poetry Slam from 4-6pm.

Thursday at noon, Third Thursdays at the Central Library meets; bring poems by someone other than yourself. That evening, Emily Wallis Hughes and Meredith Herndon read at Poetry in Davis, 8pm, or, also at 8pm, Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe presents featured readers plus open mic.
And on Friday, Robert Ramming and Deborah Shaw Hickerson read at The Other Voice in Davis, Unitarian Universalist Church on Patwin Rd., 7:30pm.

Akinto and Pachamama Coffee Co-op on 20th St. are hosting poetry and conversation with Margaret Ronda and Marilyn McEntyre, plus open mic, Saturday from 5-7pm. Then Sunday, more poetry in Davis, this time at the Davis Arts Center Poetry Series, featuring Tim Kahl and Taylor Graham, 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

Vanilla Twilight: Between Sunset and Serenity
—Anonymous
(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.

Winter Doodles

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

PROVING

Silence.
Dust of silence.
Dust-light at the windows.
Time flowing backward into time.
Silence.

Light cannot enter windows now.
Grime of old light has built to a refusal.
Memories have no wish to be remembered.

Emptiness is heavy with an old weight.
A barrier now. Breath cannot breathe.
The door too far—the lock too rusty.

Folding chairs move in the light,
ever-so-slightly.
It’s not just their shadows,

glowing;
dusk is forming.
Soon the moons will enter—
every window with its soft light,
proving.

Winter Woods

IF THIS TWILIGHT

Where does it go, the old prayer, the old
“for the sake of mercy”
where does it go?

The words are spread over the mind
like falling like fainted gulls made of
slow, indelible ecstasy.

If this twilight takes them
under its broad wing under its darkness
may they be simplified
into landscapes and drawings.

(first pub. in Yes, A Magazine of Poetry, 1974)

Scrapbook

PROCRASTINATION
After “Coming Home at Twilight in Late Summer”
by Jane Kenyon (from Otherwise)

It was simply this—as simple as
simple is—as slow and careful
as procrastination—almost
deliberate, the way we

drifted away from tedium
and went out into the
cool sad dusk to let our shadows
touch the shadows there.

It was something we would
remember and care about—
our little deviation from duty . . .
from clock . . . from need to do . . .

we took a walk—
it was as simple and easy as that,
not caring what piled up
behind us, or out-waited our return.

Winter Tree

TWILIGHT MOOD
(An Octo)

Wandering through the mauve garden,
bending like old trees toward night,
leaning our shadows together.
Is it sadness that we feel—or

something unknown that we deplore.
Leaning our shadows together,
bending like old trees toward night,
we wander through the mauve garden.

___________________

TWILIGHT’S CURTAIN

I fake no grief, nor listen for its doom;
I watch the way the late light fills the room
and listen to the noisy shadows loom

removed awhile from time and timeless space
I watch the way the mirror tears my face
with light and shadow as if it were lace.

Accumulations

THINKING OF THE SEA
After Thoughts of the Sea, 1919 by William Cahill

Thinking of the sea,
how it seems to follow you
as if it needs your return;

this morning’s wet blue air
brings back the sound and scent
of long-ago summers.

The harrowing cries of gulls
fill your open window,
the sea so close now

it could be right outside—
you could step out the door
and walk out to its edge.

The power is yours, this memory.
You open your door
to the sea—

gone quiet now that you have returned.
This calmness
is what you have waited for—

the three levels:
earth, sea, and sky
all perfectly fastened to each other.

Coloring Book

GLOAMING

Fading twilight pulls toward the hills
which turn to lavender in softened light—

that interval of time just as the winter sun
goes down and shadow cancels out the light.

____________________

WHERE TWILIGHT ENDS

This is where the gold metallic water
and the swans drift out in elegant relief,

where the buildings illustrate themselves
with their reflections along the banks,

and where the dark descending light
drowns in the gold metallic water.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

RED DUSK
—Joyce Odam

. . . it was the burnished way
light shook itself from trees

and spilled into the red air,
closing down the day . . .

____________________

Many thanks to Joyce Odam for painting visions of our past Seed of the Week, Twilight, with her poetry and original artwork. Our new Seed of the Week is Marooned. Has your boat sunk? Are you stuck on a deserted island? Or are you marooned in some other place, some other way, some state of mind, maybe? 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

—Anonymous
To see how to live on a deserted island, go to

www.wikihow.com/Live-on-a-Deserted-Island/.
(And celebrate poetry while you're there!)

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 Marilyn Wallner, Carmichael, CA
—Anonymous Photos

REFLECTIONS ON OLD AGE

I no longer consult mirrors.
They have nothing new
to tell me.
Oh, there’s no avoiding them
when say, brushing teeth or
hair, obsequious intruders
on my field of vision.
Orthodox Jews cover them when
there is a death in the family.
Vanitas vanitatum.
To do this for the death of one’s youth
would not be kosher.

I note the young
checking themselves
in any reflecting surface
like store or car windows.
I want to shout
“If you’re not sure
you are here, why
don’t you just ask me?”

REFLECTIONS ON OLD AGE II

I have joined the ranks
of old women
who move among you
food stains
on jackets
glasses occluded
with dust motes
manufacturers’ labels
at attention on
neck’s nape
telling the world
“I live alone.”

EARLY MORNING WALK

This is how I like it best.
Just my little dog
and I owning the neighborhood.
Nobody out but us.
I can concentrate on
what there is here:
the season’s colors,
bird gossip, airplane’s drone
Union Pacific’s distant salute,
agonizing sound of old redwood shakes
yielding to the workmen on  Yates’ roof.
They are going with wood again.
Tomorrow this stretch
will smell like freshly sharpened pencils.

CURATING THE SUN

Once a neighbor’s rooster
brought it up
even adjusting
for daylight saving.
But they moved
taking their egg factory
with them.
So it fell to Tom
who Romeoed out
our east window
“But, soft! What light
through yonder window breaks?
It is the east and Juliet is the sun.”
It never failed.
Now he’s gone so
I stand in for clamoring cock
and poetizer,
mute, offering
neither gift nor incantation
still it rises
in spite of me.

THE POETRY WORKSHOP

Nothing good can come from this:
six heads, mine among them,
parallel with blank paper
fingers strangling pencils
trying to squeeze metaphors, similes,
words, anything out of them.
The professor tilts back in his chair
behind the desk, eyes half-lidded,
and the faint smile of someone
who has committed poetry
and gotten away with it.
Nothing good can come from this
save something wonderful.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

A workshop is a way of renting an audience, and making sure you're communicating what you think you're communicating. It's so easy as a young writer to think you're been very clear when in fact you haven't.

—Octavia E. Butler

___________________

Many thanks to new SnakePal Marilyn Wallner for her poems today! Marilyn writes: “I am a 90-year-old poet in Carmichael, eternally vigilant to keep technology at bay, writing my poems using a pre-WWII manual typewriter. I entertain a troupe of wild turkeys in my backyard who graciously reciprocate with feathers for my garden hat. My wish? That when I am speaking, my companion will give me the gift of their listening, and when we are walking, will walk at my pace.” Welcome to the Kitchen, Marilyn, and don’t be a stranger!

Marilyn Wallner and Pal

Speaking of workshops, MarieWriters meets tonight at Sac. Poetry Center, 6pm, facilitated this week by Cristin O’Cuddehy. 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—and the noble art of the pun!)

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

NEW STEP

It’s Senior Fitness Class. “Rock Around the
Clock” is playing on Pandora. Dolly and Flo
can’t quite manage the boot-camp cardio
routine anymore. An upwards leap becomes
a slide-subsidence-lean to the right, lift
the arms high, graceful as ballerinas—two
old gals facing each other on the floor,
doing the latest Jumping-Jack slow-dance.

A DOG’S JOB

Loki’s softened her intensity of stare as she
watches the new kitten closely, set to castigate
when he attacks a tangle of electronic cords
and cables under the desk. A shepherd-dog’s
portion in life is to keep order; her breeding’s
her credential. And still, I’ve caught the two
of them—Loki and Latches—companionably
stretched out on the bed meant for humans.

SPIDERS IN THE DARK

I was cleaning out old webs,
busy with spiders all summer, dusty now.
I’m with Issa—Don’t worry, spiders,
I keep house casually. But the repairman
was coming, I was sweeping out
derelict kitchen-corner webs.
Wait! in a far corner, the largest live
Sierra Dome I’ve ever seen,
resting at easy indolence on her web.
Body engorged—household spider
“pleasantly plump.” No caught flies
ready to be sucked dry; no husks of fly
already consumed. What was keeping her
alive? I spared her web.
Next morning, just before dawn, I checked
again. Flicked on the light.
Grandmother spider was a skeleton—
bulbous body gone; splayed legs
part of the furniture now. And a smaller,
younger Sierra Dome was lounging
on a lower cobweb level, digesting. So much
I don’t know about spiders.

NEVER ENDING CIRCLES

Strange twilight vision. You were sitting on
the couch, eyes open. An infinite line of people,
bundled against cold, filed silently in front
of the TV (not turned on), around the living
room. Like an old-time newsreel drained
of color, bonafide refugees, applicants for a job,
or bread. A reminder of traveling in another
country. I think of that woman in rebozo,
selling jalapenos fresh and smoked chipotles,
and men lined up elbow to elbow on a curb
at dawn, hoping for day labor. And still
you watched the human procession circling
the room never stopping. In my mind, one old
woman walks the berm of a road, forever
walking. Alone. Not bundled in drab; wrapped
in all the colors of her life against the twilight.

TWILIGHT OF THE SKY
on “Smog Collectors” by Kim Abeles

Dusk has settled on the porcelain.
It’s darkened the features on collectors’ plates,
the faces of decades that saw blue sky
as entitled, as not requiring
blessing. It darkens with particulates
what we’ll eat for dinner, on table linen
patterned dark with acid in air. An artist’s
vision, like the ceiling downtown,
mosaic of photos from around the world,
so many views of sky. Blue or brown or stormy.
The sky above us that’s not ours, but moves
above us gathering its share of every
human gathering and riddance. It becomes us.

UNLOCK AND LEAVE

Sun’s dropping through storm clouds,
eyes brilliant white. More rain’s due with dusk.
I’m at edge between gated community
and chaparral wildland—neither’s mine. All
changed since last time. Someone used
a lot of initiative and muscle to hack a way
through mixtures of chamise, manzanita,
scrubby gray pine. Not just a way—a maze.
Paths broad and beckoning, others sly
as game trails. Who lives here?
Memorize the camel-back of a leaning
ghost-pine—landmark for finding my car.
Lock and leave. A path pulls me
down twists and windings, forks, dead-ends—
a labyrinth. Who made this?
Suddenly, a clearing. Someone’s leveled
the space of a room graded smooth and level
as a floor; a pile of small boulders at a corner.
So far from the nearest road. No sign
of occupancy, no belongings left behind.
A mystery. Did someone evacuate in a hurry?
Time to get back to my car, unlock
and leave, be home by twilight.

Today’s LittleNip:

AT THE OLD HOUSE
—Taylor Graham

By the front door, the old dog
collects stiff joints for the steps down
to morning. Dogs are trust and patience.
Acceptance, anticipating kibble in his
bowl. The cat appears from dark corners
spiderweb-wreathed with night hunting.
Behind the ridge, sun collects all its
colors for the graves of old dead dogs;
ready to bloom as white-saffron crocus.

___________________

Our thanks to Taylor Graham for today’s fine poems and photos about the magic hour, Twilight, our recent Seed of the Week. Taylor will be reading with Tim Kahl tomorrow night at The Other Voice in Davis at the Unitarian Universalist Church on Patwin Road, and she will also be reading a poem in Placerville this coming Sunday for Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.

Poetry events in our area today include Third Thursdays at the Central Library in Sac at noon today; Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe (featured readers and open mic) at 8pm; and Emily Wallis Hughes and Meredith Herndon (plus open mic) at Poetry in Davis, also 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

Waiting for Twilight
—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.

60 Pigeons

—Poems and Photos by Smith, Cleveland, OH

ANTHROPOCENED

I was born in Dead Leaf Montana
raised near Brown Grass Gone
my momma loved walking the ridges
daddy was the Devil's son
ate insects in swamp water for dinner
for fun watched roadkill drying in dawn
trying to catch our breath
as pus oozed from corporate spawn
so took what we could from the dying earth
knowing we wouldn't be here long

Tin Woodman

TIME TURN

Sitting in dead woman's chair
facing north
third floor of Victorian house
looking east out window 30 feet up
at 80-foot Sycamore in next yard
its upper 2/3s a friendly glow
of setting sun slanting up
softening through added air
to an old glow
of once-bright memories
the leaves rustle shudder shimmy shake
in breeze as branches sway and bounce
a thousand leaves agleam
in suss of gold and bustle

Eyerise

COYOTE WAITS

Coyote waits with trinkets in bushes
to trick you out of your foreskin
baubles as bait
the luxury of lie
he'll fuck your wife
eat your kids
crash your car
and debit your deeds in doubt and deception
Coyote lies
that's what he do
what Gods does
he points here while stealing there
nowhere good
he'll wear your skin better'n you
make your wife happier too

Vintage

A GOOD MAN IS HARD TO FIND

Give us a kiss, miss
the male men say
as they reach for her tits
offering to pay
to play with the possum
between her legs
swearing it'll be awesome
and hopefully often
their bag in a beg
broken body bits
dripping down their leg
between this the myth
and the mist that it made

Wormhole

COMPLICIT

The three wishes way
is complicated in cost...

sometimes a finger, sometimes the forearm
sometimes forever lost

the cost of complicity
factors the formula:

you wish for money,
your insured child dies

you wish the child back,
it shambles in rot from grave

so wish three must always be
"make it like it was before I fluxed it up"

it always costs, each and every way,
all the time, every day

pay now, pay later,
pay

wish, or not
costs a lot

Eye of Darkness

IN THE EYE OF THE EAST

Some run with rabbits
some hoe the corn
come daylight in Damascus
it's all part of morn
morn built on yesterday
morn torn from tomorrow
form come what may
in shadow, silence, sorrow

Bearduskdawn

SISYPHUS SCHEMES

There's no reward
for getting rock to top
no good job, no take a rest
no go home, you're done
so always when almost won
I stumble strain
let rock roll back
rest as it tumbles low
while I look long at valley
from mountain's high
the trees
the breeze
the sun in ease
delight sight
then slow stroll down
to start up again
dropping one chip of rock
since with each failure at top
I chop one chip of hill
to carry down
so day after day
rock roll after rock roll
mountain gets shorter
smaller
one nick at a time
till eons down the line
top of mountain and bottom
will align
and rock won't roll

Snowblow

DUELING IN THE DARK

Dodging disasters
dancing thin ice
checking for monsters
who aren't very nice
salt over shoulder
creeping down stairs
bad getting bolder
playing unfair
mirrors of Narcissus
snorting up sins
rocking with Sisyphus
boredom within
holes in my pockets
no cash to fall through
my future's a fuck-it
of past payment due
heart she be hurting
brain may explode
rich out there lurking
life to erode
yet loved in my loving
and friends to abide
though society's grueling
right here is right fine
my wife is my sweetheart
our cat quite divine
in poetry art
we walk one fine line
so pockets of pearls
in pus must one seek
for life but rehearsal
of endless repeat

The Temple Pillars

Today’s LittleNip:

AS IS

—Smith

I am tall, the ground far,
gravity heavy, back ache.

So? Better over than under,
better running than rot.

Hope's possible, though not probable,
no one yet may save the day.

_____________________

Thanks to Smith (Steven B. Smith) for today’s fine potpourri of poems and pix! As he says, hope’s possible . . .

The Other Voice in Davis meets tonight, featuring Deborah Shaw Hickerson plus open mic. That’s 7:30pm at the Unitarian Universalist Church on Patwin Road in Davis. I misspoke on the early edition of the Kitchen yesterday, saying Taylor Graham and Tim Kahl would be reading there tonight. (I also said Taylor would be reading at the Placerville MLK Commemoration on Sunday, when it’s actually Monday. WhatEVER was I thinking…?) Actually, Tim and Taylor will be reading on Sunday at the Davis Arts Center Poetry Series on F St., 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

Coconut Sloth

—Photo by Smith
(Celebrate poetry—and hope!)

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 Trees

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

Part of my way of being a person in the world
Is to say Good Morning to that first glimpse of light
In the morning sky.
Around me the earth still seems asleep,
But I have been up for a bit already.
Meditating. Sipping coffee. Puttering around
Since the morning was really still night.
I have no job to go to, no real reason to be up then.
I just love that first bit of light.
It opens the dark sky like a child opens a gift
And then graces us down below on this earth.
It is a kindness. A blessing.
And I am there to receive it.
To give praise, to give thanks.

A Poet's Reading Material

Midnight. Last quarter of the moon.
Fascism rises up across America.
Race hate. Religion hate. Above all,
A hatred exists for the people in need
And for those would want to help them.
White America. Christian America.
Step in the wrong yard and it’s death.
I say the same prayers as I always do.
I meditate, sometimes at midnight,
Sometimes at dawn, sometimes both.
The fascism has a name and face,
And it is easy to find. It lives next door.

Mt. Diablo, CA

A small boat crosses a still lake,
A plane flying through a gray sky.
After? No mark that anything happened.
Such is life.

_______________

I live. And those I still hold close bring me comfort.
Family. Home. Earth. The green pines.
The owls. The sounds and sights of living. Still.
Come death, I will depart this valley. Not before.
With death I will let go of those few things to which I still hold.
Family. Home. Earth.
I do not need to know what comes after,
Or if anything comes after. I accept it,
Even if it is endless darkness, endless silence.
It is what it is, and I am mortal.
Such is the way of all flesh.

What a Poet Needs

Sweet sleep, under my own roof.
Breeze for a blanket, night sounds
For my entertainment. A quiet house.
Empty and still.
Empty and still.
Night is my friend once again.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

High above, in heaven, big winds.
Here below, on earth, all of our souls.
And in between?

—James Lee Jobe

__________________

Our thanks to James Lee Jobe for today’s fine wake-up poetry and photos! Tomorrow, James will be hosting Taylor Graham and Tim Kahl at the Davis Arts Center Poetry Series on F St. in Davis, 2pm. And this afternoon, Pachamama Coffee Co-op and Akinto will be hosting poetry and conversation with Margaret Ronda and Marilyn McEntyre (plus open mic) at 919 20th St., Sac., 5-7pm. 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

James working part-time as a Playboy Playmate

(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.

Chief Coppa Hembo, 1816-1898

—Anonymous Photo

PEACE ON THE DIVIDE
—Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

I come to your patient meadow, brown in summer,
boggy with springs this time of year,
and I think of you, Coppa Hembo, last chief of the Hill Nisenan.

I think of you, and of Dr. King,
far-seers moving in your own ways toward the same vision:
Peace, equality, brotherhood, a fair chance to all people.

In this meadow the good earth springs
with clear water to gather in ponds that float lily-pads in summer.

From here the creek flows down-canyon, always aiming—
around rocks, down pediments,
past old abandoned gold mines; by twists, turns and falls—
toward that great water, the sea.

Cedar-bark tepees stand in the meadow, remembrance of your tribe,
and in the grassy center is a great quartz stone inscribed:

Chief Coppa Hembo 1816-98… Leader in Civil Rights
and Humanitarian to All People… .
You lived through the frenzy of our Gold Rush,
miners driving native people from ancestral lands,
the First and Second Indian Wars of El Dorado County.

Sentiments festered against immigrants.
So many nations’ languages gathered in these hills and canyons,
so many colors of spirit and skin.

Chinese and Chilean, Spanish, Mexican, Irish, Cherokee….
miners from the eastern States—abolitionist and pro-slavery—
as our country moved toward Civil War.

Like Dr. King, you saw all men alike, to be treated honestly, fairly,
as neighbors to you and your tribe.
You made peace with them all; made all your friends—

all except the slave traders
who rode across the river to steal your people,
drive them to mercury mines on the coast where they’d die soon,
poisoned by the metal that mates with gold.

What harm one group of humans does to another!
But you saw each man truly. You were made a judge among them.
You built schools to teach all children together,
believing that knowledge makes justice and peace.

Your name means Grizzly Fighter.
You earned it by chance, as a youth, coming upon the bear
you couldn’t escape.
The grizzly almost killed you, you were left for dead.

But you killed the bear
and returned to your village next day
as if a ghost of yourself—
scarred for life, warmed by the skin of the bear.

Did the scars give you voice and vision?
As chief of your tribe, you led your people
in peace and brotherhood, in far-seeing.

I walk the meadow thinking of you
on this day when we honor Dr. King and his far-seeing dream—
the sort of dream you kept in your own words.

That dream flows beside me
down the creek singing on its way to the sea
that gathers all waters in its tides.

_____________________

Our thanks to Taylor Graham for her fine poem about human rights on this Martin Luther King, Jr. weekend. Tomorrow she will read this poem at the Placerville Martin Luther King, Jr. Commemoration in Placerville.

And today at 2pm, Taylor will read with Tim Kahl at the Davis Arts Center Poetry Series, 1919 F St. in Davis. 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.

For more about El Dorado County’s Chief Coppa Hembo, go to cdnc.ucr.edu/cgi-bin/cdnc?a=d&d=SDU18920407.2.53&e=-------en--20--1--txt-txIN--------1/ or to see his biography, A River Divided, at www.amazon.com/River-Divided-Story-Biography-Chief/dp/1477133526/.

—Medusa

Celebrate poetry—and the rights of all peoples!

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.

—Rainy Day Photos by Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

LOVE POEM
—Ian Copestick, Stoke on Trent, England

Living apart from you is like
Being in prison, there is a
Constant pain inside of my
Head. Telling me that a part
Of me is missing, an important
Part, like an arm, or a lung.
I suppose that I could learn
To live without it, but it would
Be painful and I simply don't
Want to. Without you, that's
What I am, half a man. The
Best part of me disappears
With you.

_________________

THE WOMAN THAT ISN’T THERE
—Ian Copestick

They lobotomised the woman next door.
I don't know why, but they did.
One day she was a normal woman
Same as anyone else. The next
She was just a vegetable. They
Say she was found wandering the streets
Not knowing who, or where, she was
All I know is that I didn't see her
For a week or two, then the next time
I saw her, she had forgotten how to speak
Then she was in a wheelchair
When before she had no problems
Walking at all. I just saw her
In the street, with her husband
Pushing her, I bent down to
Say Hello. There was nothing
There, nothing at all. Her poor
Husband said to me, "I'm sorry
Ian, but she won't recognise
You anymore."
How the hell did this happen?
I didn't think they'd be allowed
To do this kind of shit anymore
People have rights, surely?
All I know is that she was a
Normal, if slightly opinionated
Woman, and they reduced her
To nothing, less than nothing.
How do the doctors sleep
At night?
They've gotten away with murder.
No, it's something worse than
That.

WEATHER WOES
—Caschwa

On these wintry days with
storm systems lining up like
masked executioners ready
to deliver volumes of volleys

my long-ago crushed and
broken ankle, now healed and
toned, only knows one song
to sing, knock and ping, loudly

appetite unmet by pantry bare,
confining me to my favorite
chair, easy to tell which one:
it has the warmest armrest

and an electric motor to power
the footrest, as long as we don’t,
in fact, lose power as has happened
countless times before and more

provoking comments so sour they
make all 7 of the deadly cinquains
so red-faced ashamed they hop
and sputter back into the gutter

__________________

DUE CREDIT
—Caschwa

Ages before a thermometer was
ever invented, people were aware
of temperature and its changes.
So by the time a device was made
to measure temperature, we didn’t
feel the need to express those
feelings or sensations as a by-product
of the device (e.g. “thermometric
temperature”).

Same history for air pressure, but once
barometers were invented some 400
years ago to measure it, we have been
inundated with “barometric air pressure”
readings, as if no one had ever recognized
this experience before barometers were
invented. Where will this take us?

Future generations may have to deal
with terms like “rain gauge flood waters”,
“radar gun speed violations”, “egg timer
undercooked breakfast”, or “calendar
missed appointment”.

HARDBALL
—Caschwa

I admit to being a regular viewer of this
television show where the moderator, like
a hungry alley cat, lies in wait to pounce on
anything that moves, whether valid foodstuff
or not, because that makes for good TV.

Say, for example, the discussion topic is
how to bake potatoes. As befits our messed-
up world today, one of those potatoes is
actually a live hand grenade.

Just dare to bring out that point and the alley
cat dons his debate police uniform to force
the discussion to cover only citations that can
be duly attributed to a reputable cook book.

Good luck finding that book!

__________________

A BIGGER AND HAIRIER BUT
—Caschwa

Like the taste of Welch’s Grape Juice
but don’t want to support the John Welch Society

Love the wonderful sound of the Empire Brass
but don’t support the overthrow of free democracies by
totalitarian empires

Enjoy the catchy phrase “it’s the economy, stupid”
but not on board with an economic system that only
works well for the top 1%

Appreciate the convenience of smart phones
but some cited sources are sorely lax on fact-checking

Happy with the performance of our new freezer
but the standard warranty didn’t cover certain parts
most likely to fail, and they did

GROWING MORE ALONE AS THOUGH
WE WERE STILL TOGETHER
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

Things I notice
As we lumber
Through our sixties
Is how you never call
To tell me of your day,
When you are away.

How you
Like to be
Left alone
And free
When you’re out
In the world
On your own
And how you
Hate to tell me
Where you
Will be going
Or when
You might be home—
How you like to be
Left alone.

___________________

TOGETHER, ALL ALONE
—Joseph Nolan

What if nobody’s home?
What if we’re all empty
To the bone,
What if all the ghosts
Vacated all their homes,
And everyone, together—
All were all alone?

American River

THE LEAST, THE BEST
—Joseph Nolan

All the dust will settle
Obeying gravity’s call
Little by little
All of it falls,
Falling and
Settling, low.

Earth reclaims
All her particles
Briefly held aloft
By electrical charges
And flutter of breezes
To dance the dance
Of separation, independence,
Making a way alone,
Away from the nest.

Rain, too, gives
The prodigal rest
At Mother’s breast,
Back to where
They belong.
She holds them all,
The least, the best.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

QUEENS AND SERVANTS
—Joseph Nolan

There are many forms of madness
Encompassing the seas.
Her majesty’s a mystery,
Her servants, there to please.
She’s got them all bamboozled
With her beauty and her brains.
They all seem pleased to serve her.
None of them complains.

___________________

Thanks to today’s fine contributors from near and far on this Martin Luther King, Jr. Day! Poetry events in our area begin tonight at Sac. Poetry Center with Chris Olander and AndYes (David Loret de Mola), plus open mic, 7:30pm. SPC workshops this week include Tuesday Night Workshop for critiquing of poems at the Hart Center (27th and J Sts.) on Tuesday, 7:30pm (call Danyen Powell at 530-681-0026 for info); and MarieWriters Generative Writing Workshop for writing poems, facilitated this week by Laura Martin, SPC, 6pm.

Saturday will be busy, including the fourth annual Sierra Writers’ Conference at Sierra College in Grass Valley from 9:15am-4:15pm; Writers on the Air at SPC, featuring five poets and open mic, 9:30am-1pm; and Poetic License poetry read-around at the Placerville Sr. Center, 2-4pm. 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

All Alone

—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 Singleness of a Flower

—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

PICTORIAL

a flurry of birds
a white fence
a house

an old road stretching by with no one on it
a time of day
not noted for this verse
. . . all that motion . . . all that stillness . . .

a wide play of sky to hold the birds
a frame of land to hold the house
a boundary to hold the fence

an isolation so severe the birds break free to escape it

a house
a fence
a lack of birds

two disappearing ends for the road that stretches by
with no one on it

______________________

DISCONNECTION

You are the one I almost love.
How will I hold you now,
my arms are cold and distant;
I wear an old song in my mouth.

You are coming toward me in warm light.
You are carrying a rose,
oh, you are carrying a rose.
I reach out into the emptiness between us.

You are walking through me
in the warm light. It is the mirror.
It is the mirror between us.
I am on both sides. You are on neither.

It is the false light that hinders everywhere.
It shifts and loses us too easily.
It cannot hold.
No wonder I cannot find you.

Now you are sitting in a circle,
your own reflection, a new-formed sea,
surreal as always,
I move toward you,

but there is no substance of reality,
you cannot hear me or see me.
I am under water,
deeply breathing.

Questioning The Dark

THE FIGMENT LANDSCAPE
After Tree by Alice Neel

It is so far now to the house, past the old tree
that is such an embarrassment in winter and
such a poor hiding place for winter birds
and summer’s memory, the snow
piled up against its trunk
and the empty doghouse
in the yard, the snow
covering any
footsteps
that were
there,
the
house,
unlit and
cold, showing
no new sign of
chimney smoke
or curtain pulling
back to look out—no
breath-circle on the glass—
best not to make the effort—
best not create a new disturbance
in the snow not deep enough yet
to become an isolation from the
world—best let it all obliterate and
swirl away again; it’s all an old ghost-look
can really do—there’s nothing there except
the privacy of snow, not ever me, not ever you.

Stem As Answer

GODS OF A HUNDRED ILLUSIONS

Angels flutter their wings
In their transparency
I see them

or is that an error of human imagination :
what are gods without angels
angels without gods

but I see them from the hundred windows
that my mind creates,   believes,   denies,
these spellings of illogical truth.

I feel the chill at my back
and turn around to the disconnection
of a receding, dispassionate landscape.

___________________

SLEEP STRATUM
               the white pallet the moon
               spreads across the leaves
               is like a fairytale
               turning dark at the edges
                                —Lloyd Van Brunt

You hear yourself weep softly in the night.
You hear night answer with its own release.

The room of misery opens out
into a sad endlessness.

You feel yourself enter the permission
of the dark.

You are unhealed.
You are unfound.

Nowhere is there light,
though light surrounds you—

elsewhere—in some soft memory,
like a sheet.

It hums with direction—melts against
the cold enclosing shadow, and goes out.

Against the Unknown

THE PRICELESS DOOR
Brussels, 6 Rue du Lac

The beautiful blue door stands in the way of the city and
the vanishing land. On one side is the ideal, on the other,
the real. Which is which, asks the glorified blue window
through which the difference intensifies.

The door is the art of the mind, holding time against the
forces of time; there is only this division, praise for the
developers; upheaval and crumble vie for balance.

What is the door to this; it is one of a kind, designed
for awe and envy; it has only one true side for its
admiration—who would know otherwise—
the door is bewildered by what is demanded:

remain thus forever, open to eyes of passersby,
fame for its creator. The entrance is closed to all but
the curiosity of wealth and elegance, of rank and stature.
The door is the reminder of the work—the house of it—the
unattainability of it, though the unprivileged are told otherwise.

Mysterious Depths

SELF PORTRAIT, REFIGURED
After Le Peintre by Henri Matisse, 1916

Swaddled on the canvas, on the chaise,
the room light barely there. Outdoors,
the small tree shivers, casts no hint
of shadow in the watery sunlight.

The artist—nude—
and from a wooden
chair, contemplates the
wretched model, huddled
from the cold—her dull face
turned toward the open window.
Time ticks forward—involves the
trio : nude, canvas, model, waiting
for the winter light to be sufficient.

Many As One

LOCKED IN FLIGHT
After Flight of Birds by Morris Graves, 1955

terror-force of movement—
the skies intruding—a collage
of birds becoming a wingless blur
taking on the shape of one comet-fall
through ultimate migration.

                              which way forward
which way back ?
                              the skies change,

making a hole ( ) to fly through.

now they are each )( part of the other,

each one leading > < each one following:

        how
                else
                        should
                                   we
                                        remember them ?

_______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

COUPLETS AS TWO’S
After Psychological Morphology by Roberto Matta

The sun is the eye now
How it sees

Spilled jars of colors
Oil on water    Caught by the eye

A fold in the middle
A division     Two sides and an edge

Somewhere a signature. In code.
An “N” and an “N”: no vowels.

There is always a focal point
That shimmers      It has a center.

There are knobs and tryings
Too slow to verify.

Let us leave this panel
Before it overwhelms.

—Joyce Odam

_______________________

Our thanks to Joyce Odam today as she weaves her way through our Seed of the Week, Marooned, playing up the isolation of people and hearts and houses, even some “concrete” poetry to help drive home her images.

Our new Seed of the Week is Dead Ends. 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!)

Psychological Morphology
—Painting by Robert Matta, 1938

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 Photos of Her Majesty’s Swans on the Thames
—Poems by Thomas Goff, Carmichael, CA

SE OFFENDENDO

In Hamlet, vengeful-minded Danish prince
looms over guilty poisoner at prayer.
The kneeling king admits truth, will not mince
with smooth evasions his role as a slayer.
How does he speak? What if this curséd hand
were thicker than itself with brother’s blood?
Such imagery, I wager, would not stand
save from a poet stained in some such flood
of red. The author of this drama knew
how shocks of outrage press the rapier point
to skewer human skin, strike vein, imbrue
hand, wrist, arm crimson. What oil could anoint
with second innocence our young De Vere?
Rinsed in black ink, that sword hand, as “Shakespeare.”

***

Baronial doublespeak: se defendendo,
how Cecil gives by legal means the slip
to Edward de Vere, acquits the slayer. No,
if Yea or Nay comes muttered out the lip
of Cecil, count on it, something below
the surface, seven-eighths under iceberg-tip,
lurks darkest. Hamlet’s term, se offendendo:
that it comes from an old Gravedigger’s mouth
should clue us to a burial of sorts.
Ophelia drowns—a suicide, and not.
If we can swallow that much fluid truth,
why not claim, Eagerly into the fencing sword
ran the rash youth…Two burials, in one plot?

But see how black the ink with which they paint
Edward de Vere. A man of violence,
bray Shakespeare critics, bray the historians.
Ignore how honest-red the crimson taint
bleeds into the admissions, when alone,
of villains who soliloquize their guilt
with agonizing wishes to atone
they know by course of choice can’t be fulfilled.
De Vere felt shame in several different forms:
he thought his first wife an adulteress;
he played in “motley” counter to social norms;
yet foremost, this first time he so transgressed?
Ben Jonson killed, yet stands excused from shame
—whose hide’s most callous, oft bears least of blame.

***

Polonius at home: Lord Burghley’s house.
Edward de Vere lodged in it: a Queen’s ward.
The greatest of grandees (with tart-tongued spouse).
The boy “Shakespeare.” Two menfolk, each on guard.
Yet how, but by this young earl’s presence here,
will Cecil ascend to Stamford Burghley estate?
If not wed to Edward, does daughter boost Cecil in sphere?
Alas, young love will discandy, or abate.
How oft has Chief Snoop Burghley spied and skulked
on youth, devoid of all age-becoming shame?
The Burghley mode: Let Edward spend. Now mulct.
Who’s Edward? Black sheep. Lord Burghley keeps the fame.
Lord Treasurer: Revenge’s ghost is heard.
“Shakespeare” will stab you, with “no sword, but words.”

DEAD INDEED

Dead indeed is the Shakespeare of orthodox biographies.
—Charlton Ogburn, in The Mysterious William Shakespeare

Discern on this ill-figured cenotaph
one slightest speck of Shakespeare’s mind, his “race”
of humane eloquence, his force of laugh
at politics’ each infamous disgrace.
Are we to believe this grocer’s countenance
our true playwright’s? Ah yes: the Stratford story
—a Stratford, London, starred by circumstance
to house a playwright lord whose works gave glory
to all that green ideal England, ruled
by one great queen in whose Thames River swam
a bird, a bard in all refinement schooled,
his name hid under a pseudonym, a sham.
Read Alexander Waugh on “Avonundum.”*
Swan-flights at Hampton Court. End of conundrum.

*Alexander Waugh, grandson of novelist Evelyn Waugh,
champion of the theory that Edward de Vere, 17th Earl of
Oxford, wrote the Shakespeare plays. Waugh is the first
person in modern times to discern, on solid evidence, that
Ben Jonson's words, "Sweet Swan of Avon!" refer to per-
formances of Shakespeare plays at Hampton Court, a
favored court theater venue: "Hampton" is a corruption
of the Latin "Avonundum," which refers to "river" but here
indicates the Thames; the abbreviated "Hampton" pronun-
ciation was common among nearby residents during and
perhaps before Elizabethan times.

In other words, "Shakespeare" was no late arrival from a
remote village, writing for the public playhouses, but an
aristocrat steeped in court theater practice.

THOU LESSER STAR

Shine forth, thou star of poets!
—Ben Jonson, in Shakespeare’s First Folio

CSU Sacramento: there I saw
Bartholomew Fair, that vivid comedy
of yours, Ben Jonson. Worthy who gave law
to poets, albeit a bawd’s obscenity
in each laugh thundered from your “mountain belly.”
While envying that subtler wit, De Vere,
you yet spun, swift as whirling “spoke and felly,”
a noble estimation of “Shakespeare.”
We fully do believe him your “Belovéd,”
your Helicon whose pool’s waters nourished art,
your art and that of all others. One drop of it
sufficient to provoke, uplift, upstart
young red-blood wits like proud steeds given rein.
In praising him, at least, you were not vain.

PENSIVE TWILIGHT
—from Four Orchestral Pieces (1912-13) by Arnold Bax

Flute duo, harp. How do we know all dawn
advents look different from all twilight fades?
Midwinter clarinet, violet, mauve, or fawn;
a languid mood no sunrise ever made.
The stop-and-start reiterating phrase
lends lightning clarities to dusk opaques.
Irish mysticism in this cloud-maze.
Transfiguring forces render sky-grey lakes
in Dublin ground day rules by horizon line.
What can be seen by full orchestral sun,
dipping its last, unites diffuse with fine.
The Wicklow Mountains, Hellfire Club, undone
in silhouette or faint embroidery.
Late flame yields to black-pearl serenity.

SMOKELESS
After Arnold Bax: portrait by Vera Bax

In Vera’s picture of you, we see no smoke.
Odd. No coiled toy-clouds upfloat from your pipe
to distort your lineaments, veil your facial type.
Briar’s empty of tamped tobacco that might choke
you in its wreathy snares, or it would cloak
your ash-blue eye-glow in fumes whose unseen snipe
infiltrates dark tars no oxygen-intake may wipe:
lung-lodgements wriggle in deeper, toke by toke.
Young scally-cap tough, mouth shut around
hand-rolled cig,
Majorca vacationer, strangling on a great log
of licorice-black cigar you and three friends find too big
to finish. Did nicotine muddy your downhill slog,
young lion turned inertially heartsore lamb,
smoke trapped in the clench
of your “Lipsbury Pinfold” clam?

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

_____________________

Our thanks to Tom Goff for today’s musings on the Shakespeare/Edward de Vere controversy or, as the Brits would say, “con-TRO-ver-sy”. All of which gave me occasion to post some of ER’s wonderful swan photos. For more about Her Majesty’s swans, see www.smithsonianmag.com/history/fascinating-history-british-thrones-swans-180964249/.

Need to jump-start your writing? Head over to Sac. Poetry Center tonight, 6pm, for a session of MarieWriters Generative Writing Workshop, facilitated this week by Laura Martin. 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 the poetry of the swan!

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

ISLAND IN THE SNOW

Morning dawned gray as twilit snow.
No sun. No lights—power’s out.
Oak trees weighted down by comforters
of cold.
       Scrape the windshield—no.
Driveway’s blocked, a jackstraw heap
of fallen trees & broken branches all the way
down to the gate. Live oak can’t bear snow.
Nobody’s plowed the road.
                It’s not supposed to snow
like this, so low. Remember up the mountain—
6 days snowbound without power, road,
or phone. But who expected it here?
        Back in the house, throw another log
on the fire, we’re not going anywhere.
                Water beads popping
on the wood-stove, kettle simmering for tea,
toast in the cast-iron skillet.
        No TV news? it’s all bad anyway.
No phone? no robo calls! The room’s
warm with scent of oak cozying to flame,
faint fragrance of woodsmoke.
                Primal smells to take us
back—maybe this won’t last 6 days.
        Enjoy it while it lasts.

THREE TURKEYS TWO

Three wild turkeys foraged the lawn at Human
Services, strolling Spring St. Always three,
at home in this easy-going part of town.

Last week—two wild turkeys poised on Spring
St. centerline gazing off in opposite directions.

Lost. Yesterday, two turkeys wandering slowly,
slowly giving long-drawn urgent unmusical calls.

Has hope given up to grief? Are those the
proper terms, in speaking of turkeys?

GREEN VELVET STEPS

Find the path that’s mossed,
sunlit on the climbing side,
and shadowed under.
It beckons us to follow
the way the winter woods go.

LOOK

Black kitten, image of indolence stretched out
on the chair. Kudos to whoever said
“Love is a four-legged word.”
Still, in an instant—imperceptibly, a flowing—
he’s under the table with a pen, pencil,
bird-quill stolen from the stoneware bowl—
batting it out of sight.
Now fumbling the kitchen cabinet
to slither inside, hunt the dark, clink the glass-
ware. I retrieve my pencil
and put the cupboard to rights
and he’s at the sliding glass door
jabbering his kitty “chit-chit-chitter” at birds
scrabbling seed right in front of him
on the other side of glass—
a tease that throws him into a race
around the room causing
the dog to chase him. Immediate
gratification as he leaps beyond her reach,
sending a lamp flying, and we humans
blame the dog. Look! is a four-legged word.

THE NEW KITTEN

Sunlight filters his sleep through glass,
pinpoint pupils alight-wakeful.

We picked him on faith not asking
his provenance.

A latch is proof
he needs no wrench to enter.

Don’t confuse him with mini-panther.
He sweetens your lap with purr.

Paper Person

WHAT CAN WE DO?

inspired by D.R. Wagner’s “Open Channel”
and “Paper Person” sculpture by Kim Abeles
He pursues in white-shadow flight
my footsteps in the hollow hall. Terrible
knowledge in his heart, his paper innards—
collected transcripts of our lives, bills paid
or not, plates and straws, maps and wipes,
homework assignments and old drafts,
memos and memories put down black on
white. He’s made, they say, of a single
day’s paper-trash, but he’s heavy as fate.
Suspended above the great hall he pursues
us. With no mouth he screams my name,
our collective names salvaged from
the dumpster, cleaned and ironed flat,
fabricated as monster Man.

Note: Paper Person Sculpture made from paper trash that was generated by visitors to California Science Center on Earth Day 2009, 5’ x 40’ x 48’ (www.wescover.com/p/art-and-wall-decor-by-kim-abeles-at-california-science-center--PrJB4ktfEUX/.)

Today’s LittleNip:

ON THE EDGE BETWEEN
—Taylor Graham

Oak woods and weedy
field—cover for small creatures—
hawk sits on fencepost
not moving except for her
quicker-than-iPad-lens eyes.

_______________________

A big thank-you to Taylor Graham for today’s fine poems and pix! Tonight’s poetry event in Sacramento is Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe, with featured readers and open mic, 8pm. 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

Love is in the air…
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.

Bird of Prey
—Photo by Chris Moon
—Poems by Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA

PALE YELLOW

There is a place in your childhood house
where, among dust bunnies you found
three things:

1) a paperclip, only slightly bent
      from its original shape

2) a copper penny, tails up

3) a blue and pale yellow marble
      that reminded you of your homeland
      between seas.

You managed to reuse the paperclip, and
you saved the penny in an army tank
piggy bank.

When you left your homeland between seas
and never returned, your neighborhood
buddies all cried real hard. Paul still has a
POW sticker on his pale yellow microbus.

(first pub. in Grist, Anthology of the MSPS, 2012)

SONGS OF BIRDS AND SHADOWS
       “... where poems are born in the souls of birds;
        where old trees listen to the songs of shadows”
                                                          —Joyce Odam

Where poems are born in the souls of birds
is a crisp green meadow with herds
of cattle chewing on the green of words;

where bright yellow gowen bloom in the spring,
the cows all chew and the birds all sing,
is where I’d want to be found nesting.

Where old trees listen to the songs of shadows
and tell their stories to the fox and the crows—
in a place like this I could lose my sorrows

and gain some insight, or philosophy. I would
listen, while sitting in the great elm tree,
to the leaves as they whisper back to me.

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

ORIENTAL SALAD DRESSING—and
Birds of North America
(Found poem created by Carol Louise Moon
with a recipe from Sunset: Wok Cook Book,
pg.89, Lane Publication Company)

Spread two teaspoons of sesame seeds in a pan:
A Roseate Spoonbill of pink and white coloration
found in mangroves, swamps, and shallow
lagoons moves its partly opened bill from side to
side through water, or mud, feeling for its prey.

Cook over low heat, shaking the pan occasionally
until seeds turn golden: The song of the Oven
Bird, teacher, teacher, teacher, teacher... begins
softly and builds to a ringing crescendo!

In a bowl mix 4 tablespoons of white vinegar,
3 teaspoons of sugar: In spite of the Snowy
Egret’s quick darting motions and “golden
slippers”, it is often confused with the immature
Little Blue Heron, a white bird with green legs.

Add 1 teaspoon of salad oil and 2 teaspoons
each of soy sauce and lemon peel: The hand-
some Yellow-headed Black Bird weaves its nest
of soggy blades of dead grass, and slings it
between reed stems.

On a Mission

RECIPE FOR RELATIONSHIP
A Hai-Moon created by Carol Louise Moon

Grandma and Grandpa took Cooper to the
barber shop for his first haircut, and saved
some in an envelope. The older two are
growing tall “like sunflowers,” Grandma said.
Coming home, Grandma noticed I’d planted
her favorite little white flowers by the steps.

    cut green onion tops
    lengthwise into strips
    chop the white and set aside

Thanksgiving found all nine of us crammed
into Grandma’s tiny dining room. She wanted
so much to serve us this year. Except for setting
the yam-and-marshmallows on fire, it was a
delightful time. Grandma honestly believes it
will be her last. Each made sure to hug the
other before departing.

    flake crab into bowl
    add browned cracker crumbs
    shape mixture with your hands

The tumor in Grandma’s throat is threatening;
the brain tumor sits by, watching the clock.
Meantime, Grandma writes letters, pastes more
pictures into scrapbooks for each grandchild.
After fainting in the bathroom, she told Grandpa,
“Hold on another day—paste up another page.”
Grandpa took down the kitchen calendar.

    delicate, crisp
    celery-like stalks
    pale green leaves

My sister is secretly seeking a small apartment
near her house. The newspaper offers little
hope for prospects, but Grandpa’s going to
need a smaller place after... you know...
Grandma’s gone.

    serve kidney beans
    and plum sauce
    in separate bowls

BURIAL

I lie here near tree roots on moss-laden
lawn, cracked tree bark, yellowed leaves.

I am remembering you, Father—
the last time. Hospital beds are for
clinging to, and for letting go of… flying away.

And wasps fly at the base of this tree on
this summer day. Do angels fly prone, or
upright? Forward, or backward like memory?

I turn on this summer grass, blades pricking
my belly, and I inquire of the angels.

We all have questions about the afterlife,
even the wasp, his stinger engaged.
Is he so informed?

The gray squirrel knows of these things
better than I. He flicks his tail, buries
a large seed, then scurries off.

Gotta Go

Today’s LittleNip:

SUSANNA
—Carol Louise Moon

Sit beside her in your alpine cabin,
snow packed to windows.
Sip cider together and tell her
September Truths—that her breast
surgery in autumn moves a
single mountain, keeps her near in
spring, you sighing on her one breast.

(first pub. in September Truths Chapbook, 2014)

_________________

Thanks today to Carol Louise Moon for her fine poems and rock ring photo, and to her brother, Chris Moon, for his wonderful bird photos. To see more of the work the Moons have done together, go to www.ckmphotography.com/.

About her poems, Carol Louise says that “Recipe for Relationship" is what she calls a Hai-Moon, a take-off on the Haibun. Instead of prose paragraphs about a journey interlaced with haiku, she has designed a poem with paragraphs about family relationships interlaced with three recipe lines (no syllabic count required). Just like the haiku reflecting the previous paragraph, so the three recipe lines reflect the previous paragraph of the poem about family relationships.

Tonight from 7-8:30pm, Speak Up: The Art of Storytelling and Poetry will meet at Avid Reader on Broadway in Sac., featuring poems, stories, and open mic on the theme of “Resolutions”. 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

Rock Ring

—Photo by Carol Louise 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.

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

______________________

Haibun, the Japanese form combining short prose and haiku, is a favorite of mine to read, especially those of Bashō in Japan three hundred years ago, and in the last couple of years I have worked on some of my own.
—James Lee Jobe

I live in the Sacramento Valley, it is tremendous, it goes on and on. Each of us here walks through the valley the same way, and yet each of us is different. A life is a life, yet no two are truly the same. And my life? In summer, I trust the morning dew, and in winter I trust the valley tule fog. I put my faith in the deer grass and manzanita, in the blue oak and the grey pine. I live in this valley, a part of it.

In summer, the dew—
In winter, the tule fog.
Listen now, the crows!

It’s mid-July in California’s huge central valley, and it’s hot. Well over 100 degrees. If you’re walking the sidewalks of downtown Davis, there is something in your favor; there are nine or ten places within a few blocks of each other to sip on an iced coffee in the air conditioning. In fact, there so many coffee houses that three are my favorites; a three-way tie.

A frosty cold drink
On a day as hot as Texas.
Yes, I eat the ice.

It is that time of the summer when the sunflowers in the field are looking down, away from the sun. A rare summer rain would lift them again. It happens to all of us. That man in the bathroom mirror, don’t I know him from somewhere? If so, he’s changed, like the sunflowers. Still, it’s good to see him there. Maybe he knows something that I can learn, perhaps something about rain.

Bending down I see
A million dewdrops, each one
Reflects my own face.

__________________

Before they built the Berryessa dam, Putah Creek slipped along through the Vaca Hills like a lovely snake, from one low spot to the next lower spot, and then so on into the valley. Now, in the hills, the creek canyon is a big lake and everything below is changed. And by man, not by nature; or, since man is a part of nature, does that count?

This old creek moves slow
Below the huge dam they built—
My son's ashes drift.

It was not a night meant for sleeping. It was very late before the July heat of the day even began to cool down. Then I tried to go to bed too early, I wasn’t sleepy and ended reading Gary Snyder poems in bed for a couple of hours, then getting back up and watching part of some weird 1950s sit-com on TV, called I Married Joan. It was awful and I fell asleep in the chair. This was followed by troublesome dreams, an adventure I just couldn't work out. I have a pet conure, a noisy pet, and he woke me prior to sunrise, screeching for fresh food and for his cage to be uncovered. This is where things turned around for me. It was beautiful and cool as the sun came up. It might be 100 degrees later, but now, getting into my coffee and breakfast, it is 65 and cool. A lovely day begins in Davis, California.

Dawn, perfect and cool.
And for my breakfast? Peaches
Picked fresh from my tree!

I was recovering from a bad bout with vertigo, and for the first time in days I was outside having a walk by myself. It was a beautiful summer day here in the valley and I was walking across the UC Davis campus, something I have done many times over twenty years. I had water and a walking stick. A shady hat. So, of course I got lost; my sense of direction was a joke. The short walk which would have been good for me became a hellish staggering journey. A fool wandering the Sahara. Until I finally remembered that my phone has GPS. I rested until a valley oak for an hour, drinking water and reading the Diamond Sutra. Then I found my way to a nearby bus stop and went home.

Exhausted, resting
Under an oak, above me
All eternity.

_______________

Today’s LittleNip:

The mind is a Trickster, fools us, but the breath
Is always true. Which one will you follow?

—James Lee Jobe

_______________

Thank you, James, for today’s poems and photos! On yesterday’s post, Carol Louise Moon talked about the haibun poetry form, and James Lee Jobe has served us some fine examples of this form here in the Kitchen this morning.

It’s a busy day in NorCal poetry today! Sierra Writes’ Conference will take place in Grass Valley from 9:15am-4:15pm; Writers on the Air will meet at Sac. Poetry Center from 9:30am-1pm; Poetic License will meet in Placerville at the Sr. Center from 2-4pm; and Women’s Wisdom Art will present Poetry, Prose & Art at the Brazilian Center, 2420 N St., Sac. 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!)

—Anonymous Wooden Panel, Buddha's Face

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.

Pig Lipstick and Other Monday Morning Thoughts

The Brevity of Flowers

Dandelion Moons

The Brains of the Alley

The Fabric of the Day

The Poems Go On

Bend Me Like A Bow

Twililght: The Magic Hour

Leaning Our Shadows Together

Committing Poetry

Home by Twilight

Hope's Possible

Empty and Still

The Dream That Flows Beside Me

All Alone

Wearing That Old Song

Bards of the Thames

Black Cats and Paper People

Songs of Birds and Shadows

That Man in the Mirror