Medusa's Kitchen

DOMESTIC MYSTICISM
—Lucie Brock-Broido (1956-2018)

In thrice 10,000 seasons, I will come back to this world
In a white cotton dress. Kingdom of After My Own Heart.
Kingdom of Fragile. Kingdom of Dwarves. When I come home,
Teacups will quiver in their Dresden saucers, pentatonic chimes
Will move in wind. A covey of alley cats will swarm on the side
Porch & perch there, portents with quickened heartbeats
You will feel against your ankles as you pass through.

After the first millennium, we were supposed to die out.
You had your face pressed up against the coarse dyed velvet
Of the curtain, always looking out for your own transmigration:
What colors you would wear, what cut of jewel,
What kind of pageantry, if your legs would be tied
Down, if there would be wandering tribes of minstrels
Following with woodwinds in your wake.

This work of mine, the kind of work which takes no arms to do,
Is least noble of all. It’s peopled by Wizards, the Forlorn,
The Awkward, the Blinkers, the Spoon-Fingered, Agnostic Lispers,
Stutterers of Prayer, the Flatulent, the Closet Weepers,
The Charlatans. I am one of those. In January, the month the owls
Nest in, I am a witness & a small thing altogether. The Kingdom
Of Ingratitude. Kingdom of Lies. Kingdom of How Dare I.
I go on dropping words like little pink fish eggs, unawares, slightly
Illiterate, often on the mark. Waiting for the clear whoosh
Of fluid to descend & cover them. A train like a silver
Russian love pill for the sick at heart passes by
My bedroom window in the night at the speed of mirage.
In the next millenium, I will be middle aged. I do not do well
In the marrow of things. Kingdom of Trick. Kingdom of Drug.

In a lung-shaped suburb of Virginia, my sister will be childless
Inside the ice storm, forcing the narcissus. We will send
Each other valentines. The radio blowing out
Vaughan Williams on the highway’s purple moor.
At nine o’clock, we will put away our sewing to speak
Of lofty things while, in the pantry, little plants will nudge
Their frail tips toward the light we made last century.

When I come home, the dwarves will be long
In their shadows & promiscuous. The alley cats will sneak
Inside, curl about the legs of furniture, close the skins
Inside their eyelids, sleep. Orchids will be intercrossed & sturdy.
The sun will go down as I sit, thin armed, small breasted
In my cotton dress, poked with eyelet stitches, a little lace,
In the queer light left when a room snuffs out.

I draw a bath, enter the water as a god enters water:
Fertile, knowing, kind, surrounded by glass objects
Which could break easily if mishandled or ill-touched.
Everyone knows an unworshipped woman will betray you.
There is always that promise, I like that. Kingdom of Kinesis.
Kingdom of Benevolent. I will betray as a god betrays,
With tenderheartedness. I’ve got this mystic streak in me.

_____________________

—Medusa

For more about Lucie Brock-Broido, see www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/lucie-brock-broido/.

—Anonymous Photo

BUNCH OF VIOLETS
—Ann Wehrman, Sacramento, CA

just a bunch of violets
made from words and love
still too early to find them growing
tender purple petals in
a nest of dark green leaves
humble and wild
stems taste sweet
shy, shocking, heralds of spring

—Photo by Ann Privateer, Davis, CA

MY GARDEN
—Ann Privateer

dirt where I play
in Summer's heat
by moonlight
in Winter's remorse
alone

dirt collects under nails
toes free from clean
roam with insects
fly with birds
sing

all grow where planted
all share abundances
all labor rewarded
all returns return
now

—Photo by Ann Privateer

THIS GARDEN
—Ann Privateer

Where my father stands
In front of a tool shed
That looks like a tiny house
And he is gigantic
As fathers are to their little girls.
His pose, serious on this Sunday
Ready to pick tomatoes
It must be August
The old black and white
Does not divulge the season
Yet feelings communicate
To the camera
Through the photographer
Caught in time on paper.

—Photo by Ann Privateer

GARDENING
—Ann Privateer

With ubiquitous flare
Under a silver moon
Umbrella plants whirl
Their delicate leaves.

Unctuous and ingratiating
They uncurl then recoil
Underscoring an unconscionable
Underbelly, so wooly and white.

Not to be underhanded
Nor underscored
They undulate, wasted by undue
Dances of uniformity.

—Photo by Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA

METEOROLOGY 101
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

    1) Take a few dice-size blank cubes
    2) On each face of each cube print one weather word,
               such as Clear, Dry, Rain, Fog, Cloudy

    3) Put the cubes in a cup
    4) Have a chimpanzee shake the cup
    5) Let the chimp spill the cubes from the cup onto a
               level surface
    6) Populate the weather forecast for each day using
               whatever weather words are facing up

7) Feed the chimp, you’ll need again him tomorrow.

____________________

BEHOLDER
—Caschwa

(Response to “Domestic Mysticism”
by Lucie Brock-Broido, Medusa’s
Kitchen, January 27, 2019)

Unleash the Kingdom of Arbitrary
Conventions and virtually everything
we sense is some excerpt of fiction
from a storybook, whether the behavior
of alley cats or the location and rotation
of the planets.

As storybooks go, an ordinary piece of
granite stone could describe itself much
the same as a stunningly beautiful, rare
diamond. If we could only run a DNA
test on both materials, it would surely
show some distinct family connection.

So are we humans the brilliant idea of
some higher power? Or was that higher
power itself our own poem, troubled into
its making? For an answer, just ask that
granite stone and be very, very patient.
Rocks don’t think fast.

—Photo by Carol Louise Moon

ONE ELEMENT
—Caschwa

(following Joyce Odam’s
“Thinking of the Sea”, Medusa’s
Kitchen, Jan. 15, 2019)

What if earth, sea, and sky are
all really one element in its
different forms, such as ice,
water, and vapor?

Maybe our entire universe is just
one little part of a much larger
construction of similar parts…

On a much smaller scale, consider
how often the family of businesses in
a shopping center will include a dental
office conveniently close to a donut
shop.

It is not so bad, though, to be
marooned on Earth, with so many
consumable feasts to tickle our
fancy. Ice cream, hot tea, snow cones,
all part of the same family.

___________________

CLONING GONE WRONG
—Caschwa

As we live and learn it has become
more and more obvious that ants
are more like people than we may
care to admit:

Ants totally ignore any and all rules
of grammar, punctuation, and
spelling, with no apologies

Ants retreat from foul weather to
the cozy confines of our abodes

Ants take out the trash, one little
speck at a time, don’t rush me

Ants form trails that fastidiously
maneuver around barriers, much
like some humans who artfully
salvage the usable portions of
moldy bread

Nowhere will you find farmers who
are harder working or lower paid

Their ranks include unsung heroes
who sacrifice their very all for the
benefit of the colony

It takes only one to spoil all those
elaborate preparations for a perfect
picnic

—Photo by Carol Louise Moon

COLORS FOR LIFE’S STAGES
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

Abstruse chartreuse
On the loose!
Catch that wilding color
Before it leaves
The page!

We all need
Random colors.
Chartreuse is
Just a stage
On the way
To Maroon.

We all feel
Marooned,
Sometimes,
But maroon is
So less painful
Than simple
Black-and-blue!

So tell me,
Wouldn’t you?
Rather float
On azure
In pink
Sunset hue
Than to be,
Forever,
Black and blue?

___________________

DRAGOON GULCH TRAIL, SONORA
—Joseph Nolan

I walk
Dragoon Gulch Trail
In sandals
In the summer.

I linger
In the long view
From the top.
I look to see
The things I know
And soak
In all the beauty.

I thank my
Able knees
And thighs
For carrying me,
So willingly,
To my perch
I fill
With .........sighs!

—Photo by Carol Louise Moon

YOGA CLASS
—Joseph Nolan

I’m spending some time in my body!
I’m putting the world on the shelf.
I’m devoting a quiet hour
To relaxing, renewing myself.

It won’t hurt to be guided along
Deeply, in deep relaxation,
After I’m all stretched out on the floor,
Comfortable and warm.

If, when I am done,
And it’s time to go back home,
I’m floating, instead of walking,
I’ll know I had a good OM!

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

LIFE, SO SHORT!
—Joseph Nolan

Life,
So short,
Will strike you
Starker!

Shorn
Of pleasure,
Like a
Circus-barker.

Anemone’d,
From pleasure
Freed,
As the nights
Grow darker.

___________________

Thanks to our contributors today, our photographers and poets, some of whom have worked with recent Seeds of the Week, and some of whom are thinking of spring and their awakening gardens!

Poetry events in our area begin tonight with Poetry in Motion in Placerville at the Sr. Center, 6-7pm; then you can drive down to Sac. Poetry Center to share the release of Josh McKinney’s new book (he says “with accomplices”) plus open mic., 7:30pm. On Wednesday, also at SPC but two doors down in the Women’s Wisdom Room, MarieWriters Generative Writing Workshop will meet at 6pm, facilitated this week by Patricia Wentzel. And Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe meets on Thursday at 8pm with featured readers and open mic, 1414 16th St., Sac.

Back in Placerville on Friday: this time at the Good Earth Movement on Main St., Ladies of the Knight will be featured from 6:30-8pm. And on Saturday in Elk Grove, Word Candy presents a number of poets at the KAST Academy on Grant Line Road, 9-11:30pm. 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

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.

Rumors

—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

THE FATALISTS AT LAND’S END

Here we are with all that we deplore—this low-tide
shore, a small impatient boat creaks in the moonlight
like a metaphor—could we steal it—could we simply
float away from lives that Fate so badly wrote—change
an ending, could we still resist—just sail away—just
sail away from this?

____________________

WITH LONGING

And the heart beats with longing, even as
the blood flows. What does love know
of this—or hate—or any passion?

It is all slow completion, even as it begins.
Take fear, which is delicious—
surface and depth—like a terrible wish.

Is it death we know—
cat and toy—
the prize on the end of a question?

And the blood goes round and round
the body’s universe,
bearing the life along like a tireless swimmer.

Evidence of Rain

THE ENDLESS SORROW

somewhere the
endless sorrow
like a long blue pain

moans my name
for it thinks
it knows me

and that I am
its reason to remain
a sorrow

(first pub. in Oblong Press, 1992)

___________________

ENDURANCE

Do not ask them anything—the women of silences wrap
their tongues in cotton syllables. The women of silences
phrase their eyes with secret blindfolds. The women of
silences mask their faces with feigned expressions. The
women of silences shape their love into heavy wings.
The women of silences cannot fly through walls. The
women of silences cannot break their own strings.

Contrast

ON VALIDATION

I …, alone …, walk among others
and am alone

I walk with my shadow
which forgives me my singularity

which has no wish to become part of
any other shadow

thus, we are never
estranged from one another

and are ever faithful
to our singular existence.

A Calling

THE DIFFERENT ENDING

A child
going into a fairy tale,
that woods
of deep light,
the playground
full of childhood rules
and riddles…

what waits in the center?
a way out?
a way never to return?

the child goes in
and becomes a part
of what is there,
becomes the hushed sound,
the figment of light,
the different ending
to the story.

(first pub. in Red Cedar Review, 1993)

Homage

AN ENDING

She rose from herself on a true day of being—healed and
forlorn for all days done—for all loves loved—for all
false seeing, and opened herself like a door and went
through to her own freeing, where, for a moment, she
held fast, and was not harmed, and was not sent back to
any rending.

Early Evening

POEM WITHOUT AN ENDING

Let us begin a poem and never finish

it—just let it dwindle off the page as if

there is more to be said, but when you

turn the page another one begins. And

let us title it “Poem Without an Ending”

and give it only that one page to struggle

on, ending there, maybe with the word

and, or at least no punctuation-mark in

a punctuated poem. And let it enjamb—

and have too big a gap of meaning—built

up to, but not quite conveyed. And it will

be intense rough draft—the way first

thought comes, so quick and obscure we

can only follow to see where it leads.

And it will lead us away from itself, as if

it resented our awakening—though it is

the one that came to us—tossing like

stones at our window, our faces frozen

there against the darkness, looking out to

see—as if this is the way life is— on its

single page the long quick scribbling—the—

(first pub. in Poetry Now, 1999)

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

HAPPY ENDINGS
—Joyce Odam

How frail we were
falling like petals
into each other’s tearing love,

we only wanted
our miracles to happen,
our dreams to come true,

our fairy tales
to have
happy endings.

_____________________

A big thank-you to Joyce Odam for today’s fine poems and photos, as she explores endings, happy or otherwise, for our Seed of the Week: Dead End. Our new Seed of the Week is the poetry form, the Haibun; for an explanation and example, go to www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/haibun.htm/. 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!)

—Anonymous

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.

—Driftwood Photos by John Westling

WHERE THE LAVANDULA GROWS…
(Triple Quintilla)
—Janet L. Pantoja, Woodinville, WA

Rows of purple flowers lure me
with their aroma. I inhale. . .
ah. . . a fragrance so heavenly
I nearly swoon, but then exhale
glorious lavender I see

everywhere, and I move slowly
up and down through a narrow trail
absorbing all the scenery,
imagining myself a snail. . .
unhurried. . . my pace leisurely.

But time passes very quickly,
and twilight will soon assail.
I then return reluctantly,
saddened now that I must curtail
moments that were so savory.

Driftwood

Klaskimo Inlet

Vancouver Island, B.C.

HOW?
(Couplet Sonnet)
—Jennifer Fenn, Fresno, CA

How does one write the world inside these lines?
Its forests do not fit in these confines.
Its winds that sound the chimes and play in trees
cannot be put in metered one-two-threes.
The foaming of its waves and waterfalls
that freely flow to us with crashing calls
are hard to fit inside some made-up forms,
just like it is with rain in streaming storms.
And then the fleeting rainbow’s bright array,
reflected through each dot of misty spray
just disappears too fast to capture here,
while we are left beneath the sun’s dry sear.
Each tiny mouse or hummingbird
cannot be trapped or caught within a word.

_____________________

THE OCTOBER HOUR
(Triple Quintilla)
—Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA

We’re gaining time! Today’s the day
to set our clocks in such a way
to gain an hour. But I have found
that hour-for-hour and pound-for-pound
it’s all the same. This fine Sunday

before we go to church we’ll stay
in bed an hour. At night we’ll pay
the hour we stole when we were gowned
and pillow-fluffed. We have been bound
like all of those in this foray

and through summer we’ve had to play
along with this charade. We say
that this is how it is—we’ve wound
our clocks like this for years—we’ve crowned
our summer hours in sun’s bright ray.

WINTER BEACH
(Couplet Sonnet)
—Carol Eve Ford, Kenai, AK

The winter beach is crouched along
the strand
with fisted kelp in tangles on the sand.
Cemented tight above the tidal zones
are frost-encrusted summer skipping stones.
‘Mid ice the tide has scattered in its wake
dark exclamation points the ravens make,
while eagles pose like effigies in brass
on each abandoned rooftop peak I pass.
Cold winter sun is slant against the day
and casts my shadow far and thin away.
A sanderling, alone, except for me,
bustles busy by among the scree.
So small and quick and scurrying is she,
that summer—sudden—
floods the beach, the sea.

SEA GRACES
(Couplet Sonnet)
—Carol Eve Ford, Kenai, AK

They swell and rise and roll across the deep,
and I can hear them calling in my sleep.
They crest and crash and splash against
the shore,
my heart resounds and echoes to their roar.
Like wild stallions running in the wind,
again, again, again, and yet again.
Their flying manes, their arching necks
they bend,
then plunge and shatter only to ascent—
explode in celebration, all delight.
They never tire of joy, all day, all night.
They foam and lace and linger at my feet,
then silently and flirting they retreat.
They toss their hidden treasures on the sand.
I stoop to cup abundance in my hand.

________________________

Today’s LittleNip:

There is pleasure in the pathless woods,
there is rapture in the lonely shore,
there is society where none intrudes,
by the deep sea, and music in its roar;
I love not Man the less, but Nature more.

—Lord Byron

_______________________

Thanks to Carol Louise Moon for organizing today’s contribution to the Kitchen! She writes, “Here is a project completed by the Pantoja Sonnet Circle, a sampling of five poems by Janet Pantoja, Carol Eve Ford, Jennifer Fenn and Carol Louise Moon, with photos by John Westling. In this project, these poets shared and critiqued each other's poetry in two forms: Triple Quintillas and Couplet Sonnets. With the exception of John, all are previous Medusa's Kitchen contributors.”

Quintilla: Syllabic verse, octasyllabic (8 syllable lines). Stanzaic, written in any number of quintains (5 line stanzas). Rhymed. In each quintain only 2 rhymes can be used and it cannot end in a rhyming couplet.

Couplet Sonnet: aa/bb/cc/etc., 14 lines

A reminder that MarieWriters Workshop meets at Sac. Poetry Center, two doors down in Women’s Wisdom Room, 6pm tonight. This week’s workshop is facilitated by Patricia Wentzel. 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!)

—Anonymous Photo

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

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

TRAVELING BAG

The artist [Kim Abeles] enlisted female inmate firefighters….
—LA Magazine

Make a valise to pack up her life, to move on.
Make it a segment of pine log—count the rings
like years. Split it open, to show two opposing
rectangles holding dioramas of forest: one green
and thriving; the opposite, blackened snags
under mahogany sky after the inferno.

Her life as tree. Graceful pine sapling
full of expectations, of hope—then, a mistake
thoughtless as a cigarette in dry tinder;
a wrong choice; dead end; burn scars. Now,
in this camp with other women who made
bad choices—does this determine their lives?

The valise holds living forest and burned land-
scape. Incorporated in this space, tools
crafted by hand, and experience of hard labor:
axe, shovel for fighting wildland fire. She
and her friends—women she lives with—
inmates learning to save a forest. Themselves.

DEAD ENDS

after reading “Someone else’s war” by Mackenzie Myers, Mountain Democrat

Her kids run ahead as she walks them to school, another day of classes. Her husband—the kids’ father—is stuck across the border, can’t come home. Kids safe in school, she’s off to work. She does what she must in this land of the free where she was born; he wasn’t. It’s very complicated, a realm of shifting parameters; a legal maze of walls and more walls leading to dead ends. Today she’ll work two jobs, care for her kids before and after; tomorrow the same.

this winter morning
her breakfast table is sun
smile, peaches, love

ON WENCH CREEK

A darkling cloud passed over. The deputy shuffled papers on the hood of his 4WD as if to neaten the situation, find the significant detail to create a scenario to explain why he’d called us here, to a turnout by the Wench Creek bridge. A fisherman had found some clothes. We followed deputy and our dogs up-creek over fallen logs, through thickets. A mile, two miles? in a clearing, a pile of pink—complete outfit, skivvies to scarf and high heel shoes. So far from any road. Our dogs sniffed around, wandered at random. No scent trail, no direction. Dead end. Back at the bridge the deputy shuffled his papers. Did that pile of clothes mean a missing person, foul play?

cloud passes over
forest in dogwood blossom
creek flows wordless down

A FREE DAY

We didn’t plan in advance, just headed up the scenic highway—traffic unnerving over the Spur—then pulled off at a sandy dead-end, beyond sight of pavement; parked the truck. Sun-chilly no-glove day. No trail. We started climbing, young dog Cody in the lead; and old Taco, veteran of so many searches, toddling along behind, pausing to sniff how things had changed since last time. Timberline. Easy wind adagio through scattered lodgepole and a few lightning-rod junipers that looked almost as ancient as the landscape. This old juniper, fractured—split down the middle—still alive. I climbed inside, implanted myself in juniper; looked out over the world, listened for the oracle.

loud thin air breathing—
old dog circles, tests the breeze,
finds me lost in tree.

HERE BE CAT

Our new kitten stretches long and black
by a sunny windowpane dreaming,
maybe, of mice in the dark of pantry. Then
in a blink he’s paw-dancing
the kitchen counter, Master of Latches,
prowler of the mysteries
of cupboards and boxes. On occasion
he graces your lap, purring
against your wrist, then rising,
holding his tail aloft like a lantern unlit,
turning so you can admire
his behind. He has no decency.
From the arm of your chair he’s teasing
the dog to frantic chase—around the living
room, over your lap.
We adopted him to catch rodents.
Since he came, our house is desolate
of mice. The mouse-cartographer must
have marked on the mouse-map
Here Be Cat.

RUNNING THE MAZE BLIND

He lays trails for our dogs through deserted
schoolyards, running into dead-ends—an alcove
that looked like a corridor, a locked gate
that used to be open passageway.
Then he has to double-back, wondering
if the dogs will figure it out, if they’ll trace
each hairpin back-track, his impromptu
labyrinth; or if they’ll cut directly to the fresher
scent. Oh, the intricate calculations
programmed into a dog’s brain. I follow Loki,
watching as she factors each turn. “How
did you find me so fast?” he wants to know.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

OUTSIDE THE ADVERTISER
—Taylor Graham

January chill,
this morning light’s aslant
so many people
in black coats huddled in sun—
those crows on a leafless tree

_____________________

Thanks to Taylor Graham for jumping onboard our recent Seeds of the Week, Dead Ends, the Haibun, and of course her new kitten, Latches, who has been quite the inspiration to her. For more about the Haibun form, go to www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/haibun.htm/.

I have been remiss in announcing the MoSt Poetry Festival this year, and thanks to Stockton's Joseph Nolan for alerting me. It will take place this Saturday, Feb. 2, from 9:30am-4pm at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church on Oakdale Rd. in Modesto. For more info and reg., see www.mostpoetry.org/event/7th-annual-modesto-poetry-festival/. Indigo Moor will be the special guest.

And of course Thursday night meanss the long-running Poetry Unplugged at Luna's Cafe, with featured readers and open mic, 1414 16th St., Sacramento. 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!)

Latches

Beware, O ye Rodents! Here Be Cat!
—Photo by Taylor Graham

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.

Needle Craft by Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA

—Poems and Photos by Carol Louise Moon

1. MOON AND STARS QUILT
“The moon hangs in the vacant,
wide constellations.” —Tu Fu (712-770)

With satin silver star motifs appliqued on a field
of blue fabric... I quilt and think, yes, astronomy.

One golden Moon occupies a special place at
the edge of this quilt—my name, not astronomy.

Why the preoccupation of mounting star motifs
on a bed cover? Will it be seen by astronomers?

Viewing this quilt of many moons will have some
people counting Uranus’ moons, like astronomers.

My sister loves this quilt. When I’m finished quilting
she’ll praise it with her favorite phrase, Astronomical!

(first pub. in Common Threads, 2017)

2. ELEGANT

Ecru of bedspread eyelet—laced
indigo trim sewn on large bird pillow—
emerald, gold and tan, oval-encased
idyllic scenes. Appliqued scallops I’ll sew
on light green bed skirts that billow.

(Note: This poem is an E-I-E-I-O, a poetry form created
by Carol Louise, fashioned after the English Quintet.)

___________________

3. NEEDLE WORK
(an E-I-E-I-O)

Embroidery, or any needle craft on linen
in which one applies thread-color, was an
essential domestic art among women
in the generations of my Welsh kin.
Oh, what a lovely doily, apron or napkin!

4. SISTER VERSUS SISTER

A lot of work went into
creating this cross-stitch bag.
On black background she
stitched three-tone green leaves,
large camellias in shades of pink,
red rosebuds with olive-green
rosehips, stems cut short.

Me, I’ll go outdoors and
tend the camellia bush,
pull a few weeds, clip a single
red rosebud for a tiny vase
placed in my kitchen window
and leave the needle work
to my sister Gwladys.

5. ORGANDY

One seamstress gathers purple,
orange and pink on mauve wool.
Others gather baby blue on organdy
or royal blue and fuchsia
on black velvet—impeccable.
Of neon on gabardine, it is said,
Our eyes! Our eyes! Our sensibilities!

(first pub. in Brevities, Vol. 93)

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Pity moment, blah! Let’s turn it around! We do not even need to go into the story of it. We acknowledge this moment and release it. We love and accept and forgive ourselves. And we acknowledge that this is a tiny stitch, a brief pinprick in the needlepoints we are creating of our lives. And we also acknowledge that this lifetime of ours is but a tiny little stitch in the ever-expanding, infinite needlepoint of the Universe. Self-pity is not a reason good enough for us to be out of alignment with peace.

―Alaric Hutchinson, Living Peace: Essential Teachings for Enriching Life

_____________________

Our thanks to Carol Louise Moon for today’s five needle craft poems; she has made a “suite” of them by putting all five poems in one document called "Moon and Stars Quilt." Sweet! Carol Louise writes, “I have been sewing since age 10. I inherited the skills and interest from both sides of my family. My father's grandfather was a Swedish tailor from Stockholm, and my mom's grandmother and many aunts from Wales did all the needle craft, too.” I, too, and many Gorgons of my generative, learned needlework from our relatives at an early age. Alas, many of these art forms, including tatting (handmade lace), are disappearing…

Trina Drotar writes that Amber Moon Press is seeking submission of poetry and visual art for a National Poetry Month (April) series of chapbooks to be produced and distributed through the Sac. region and beyond. Some poems and artwork may also be displayed in library venues in conjunction with Nat’l Poetry Month and with Crossroads Reading Series events. Email no more than 3 poems or 3 jpeg images of artwork to AmberMnPress@gmail.com/. Deadline is 11:59pm, March 1.

Head up to Placerville tonight to hear Ladies of the Knight (Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas, Jeanette Sem, Angela James) read at the Good Earth Movement, 250 Main St. in Placerville. 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.

The Poet, 1978

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

Friend, these are challenging times.
I wonder how those people who don't write poetry
Manage to get through it?
If you want the whole truth,
I don't understand those people at all.
Why do they bother?
Your body isn't the only thing that needs nourishment.
Your body is a house, and the person living in that house
Needs the kind of nourishment you get
From poetry, art, and music.

The Poet and Wife, 1996

Between the rich and the poor,
Between the white and the people of color,
What really ever changes?
Only the names of the humiliated,
The names of the dead.
The size of the population suffering.
The Samsara of profit and hate.
How do we break free?
With sharing the world, with love.
With kindness. Open arms
Instead of a fist and a gun and a jail.

The Poet and Wife, 1997

What day is today? The summer heat
Binds me down like heavy rope.
Above this, the sky is a cooler blue,
And below, the earth is baked hard.
Through this, our love moves,
Traveling back and forth as always.
My lips on your neck taste the sweat.

The Poet & Cousin Joan Jobe Smith, 1996

It could have been worse.
I might have spent my life
At some factory job, making hammers.
It would have been a steady paycheck,
But I prefer the wind on my face,
Watching the tree limbs blow,
And telling funny stories to my wife.
So I win.

The Poet and Gary Snyder, Early 2000's

Friend, leave the unnameable be.
Not everything there is needs a name.
Friend, leave the unnameable be.
We needn’t define all of life and death
And the entire universe.
It’s alright to sometimes just smile
And watch.

The Poet, 2005, at The Book Collector

Join me. Cast off your bowline
And sail your boat with mine,
Away from living in the Past.
I never was much for nostalgia
Anyway.

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

There must have been times when you opened up your heart and there, waiting, was your life.

—James Lee Jobe

_________________

Many thanks to James Lee Jobe for his fine poems today and his tell-all photos about his visual chronology! (Remember the many readings at The Book Collector?)

Back to the present: The Modesto Poetry Festival takes place today at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Modesto, 9:30am-4pm. And tonight, 9-11:30pm, Word Candy happens in Elk Grove. 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

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

—Anonymous Photo, Chestnut Tree

In the shade of a huge chestnut at the edge of a town, a monk made his hermitage at a refuge from the world. Saigyō’s poem about gathering chestnuts deep in the mountains refers to such a place. I wrote on a slip of paper: The Chinese character for chestnut means “west tree,” alluding to the Western Paradise of Amida Buddha; the priest Gyōki, all his life, used chestnut for his walking stick and for the posts of his home

.
Near the eaves 

the chestnut blooms: 

almost no one sees

—Matsuo Bashō (1644-1694)

______________________

LETTER TO MOLLY
—Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

I still search for you in the back-lives of dream, that unconscious dark as a black mare glinting sun off shoulder and haunch, generous muscles of a wordless animal willing to bear my teenage mind bareback—reasonings whose reason grabbed at the bit, a runaway hard-mouth horse headed off to college. In dream I never sold you for the figment of books. I dream I call you Molly, whistling that you’ll come.

March wind in the mane,
a single trail of hoofprints
through wild arroyo

(first pub. on Poets Online Archive, July 2015)

_____________________

A surprise today as I was looking for examples of haibun and stumbled on this gem from Taylor Graham. And, of course, the one from the mighty Bashō! (Clearly the anonymous translator held to the school that you don't need to count syllables when you're switching languages.)

Here are some more links to articles about haibun:

•••www.poets.org/poetsorg/text/more-birds-bees-and-trees-closer-look-writing-haibun

•••www.globalvoicesradio.org/Andrew_S_Sam_H_Haibun_Tips.html#_ftn1

—Medusa

—Alpaca Photos by Katy Brown, Davis, CA

IT COULD HAVE BEEN VERSE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

(following the trend of James Lee Jobe,
Medusa’s Kitchen, February 2, 2019)

If the greatest percentage of attorneys were poets, we would more easily see the meaning of things, the point, the relevance. As is, we have huge libraries of countless laws, often worded so that only a select few persons immersed in a certain specialized field, and proven successful in an excruciatingly painful process that is actually designed to exclude most people, will have any idea how to decode these unruly rules that are supposed to guide us through the maze of life.

Wherein, hereafter
a license to practice law
must have poetry

__________________

LITTER RIOT
—Caschwa

Taking a nice, freshening hike at the river trail. Beautiful
trees, animals, flowing river, abundant life and motion.
About anywhere one points the camera awaits a captivating
scene of color and life.

There are exceptions, of course. Manmade implements
like power lines and phone lines quickly transform Mother
Nature to something much less photogenic. Add to that
little bits of debris littering the trail. Cigarette butts, candy
wrappers, paper scraps, used bandages, broken plastic
pieces from who knows what.

Maybe a good, natural chaparral fire would get things back
to normal, but it is certainly not within the purview of casual
hikers to play God with such forces.

My chewing gum has now lost its flavor, so I spit it into the
little wrapper I kept in my pocket for that very purpose. Hate
to say it, but I did briefly experience a tiny bit of temptation
to just drop it on the trail.

Despite the evil,
joining trends makes one act seem
inconsequential.

ECHO CHAMBER
—Caschwa

A tiny flashlight battery
dead at both ends but
sufficiently active to
contaminate a landfill

Two matched people meet
one gives the other a ring
now they are fighters in the
ring where only one can prevail

The old elementary school
where I was taught that Pluto
was a planet was demolished,
replaced by new misinformation

All in favor of having an
argument, say Dictator
All opposed, forfeit your vote
Dictator wins the argument

Higher education is the key
more so than a degree
you will understand why
when I charge you a fee

____________________

OLD MEMORIES OF FRESH
—Caschwa

Tuxedo buttoned and ready, I took my
seat among the orchestra long before
the concert hall filled with downbeats,
harmonies, or grateful applause.

There was cold cream, valve oil, rosin,
and other concoctions for the instruments,
plus unlimited, undying cologne and
perfume aromas for the players.

We dutifully tuned up to concert A, which
enabled most of the brass players to
publically give it their middle finger.

Being inside, there was no apparent
need for clothespins to hold the sheets
of music in place, but then there was
always that one, even-numbered page
unwilling to be flipped.

The proscenium, now artfully bare of
instrument cases, gleamed a smile that
welcomed bright notes to join its sheen,
while the outer edge of the balcony was
trimmed with luxury cruise ship railings
waiting in place to deflect all those loose-
flung ledger lines that occupy the hall when
woodwind players engage the octave key.

Enough jabber, the director has taken the
stand to testify that all those rehearsals
were really worth it. Deep breath…

HOT TEA
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

In the damp night air
A pot of tea
Will be my only
Company.

My windy friend,
Whistling wild,
Will let me know
She’s ready
And will serve me
The only thing she offers:
Scalding-hot water
With which to brew my tea.

________________

BURGERS ON WHITE BUNS
—Joseph Nolan

Usually, there will be
At least half-a-dozen
Amply dotting the roadsides.
Often, in a single strip-mall,
You will find two,
Along with a
Fried chicken-wing shop.

The chicken wing shops
Are the new-boys on the block,
Trying to elbow into
The food chain
That stretches along
Each American highway
In any major town.

Which kind of hamburgers do you like?
There are many kinds,
All so well-known to us,
We could name them in our sleep,
McD’s, BK’s, Wendy’s,
Carl’s, J-in-B’s,
And, at any of those
Mechanistic purveyors of burgers,
You are able to stuff,
Within five minutes of ordering,
A burger on a fluffy, white bun
Into your salivating mouth
With an entirely replicable
Dining experience,

Combined with fries
That grow cold
As you drive away,
And cold fries aren’t worth
The damage they do,
In combination with
Burgers on white buns.

IN THE NAME OF EFFERVESCENCE
—Joseph Nolan

In the name of anaesthesia
In the name of effervescence
We’re encouraged to participate
In national elections.

We all know the game is fixed!
All the votes are bought,
Or else switched,
By black-box vote machines
That leave no paper trail
And the number
Of registered
Voters
Exceeds all deliveries
By the U.S. Mail.
Nominees don’t like to fail!

_________________

RAW TROUT
—Joseph Nolan

It tastes more like food
When you cook it.
It reads more like poetry
When you book it.
But feeling inches in
Through everything you do
And demands
Just a little
Of your time,
Whether
Free-verse or rhyme.

Why borrow sorrow
And wear a face
That’s long
When you can visit
Majestic brooks
Under forest trees
Get down on your knees,
Bless the sky
And catch a trout
With your bare hands
Eat it raw,
Then go on, about?

Today’s LittleNip(s):

PAR FORE
—Caschwa

No skill required
just shout as loudly as you can
then if others yield to your voice
strut around like a winner

* * *

WINTER DRIZZLE
—Michael H. Brownstein, Chicago, IL

The snow pack
thins
to rotting
grass
and weak beer

__________________

Thank-you to today’s contributors, including Katy Brown for the wonderful alpaca photos she took a few years ago, when we visited a local alpaca ranch! Caschwa has summed up our recent Seeds of the Week as “Sometimes writing poetry can make one feel like an Alley Cat at Twilight Marooned on a Dead End,” and he even tackled the current one, the haibun. And Michael Brownstein, huddled back there in Chicago, knows whereof he speaks when it comes to snow pack.

Speaking of haibun, I came across Contemporary Haibun Online (contemporaryhaibunonline.com), a busy journal that might be interesting to haibun fans. They encourage submissions, including ones for an upcoming anthology, The Red River Book of Haibun 2019. Deadline is Feb. 28; see contemporaryhaibunonline.com/pages144/A_Announcement_Anthologuy.html/.

Also now open for submissions throughout February: chapbook submissions to The Poetry Box. Info: thepoetrybox.com/the-poetry-box-chapbook-prize-2019/.

Tonight, Sac. Poetry Center will feature Sean King, Ooh Bay Kool, plus open mic, 7:30pm. On Tuesday, Poetry Off-the-Shelves will meet at the El Dorado Hills Library on Silva Valley Pkwy. in El Dorado Hills, 5-7pm.

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 at SPC by Mary McGrath, 6pm.

Another workshop this week, Licensing in the Digital Age, on copyrights for artists, will meet on Thursday night, 6-8:30pm at Crocker Art Museum, sponsored by Crocker and by Cal. Lawyers for the Arts. Be sure to register. Also on Thursday night: Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe in Sac. with featured readers and open mic, 8pm; and Poetry in Davis will present Tim Hunt, Leonore Wilson plus open mic at John Natsoulas Gallery. And Second Saturday at Sac. Poetry Center will feature work from Women’s Wisdom Art. (More about that later!)

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)

Talk To The Animals

Medusa with Friend
—Photo by Katy Brown

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

—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

FEBRUARY RAIN

The world, wet this morning, the trees bare and birdless at
this hour, most of the sky that thick wet gray of winter, part
of the sky admitting a few streaks of blue, puddles shining
with gray light, the houses wet through, eaves sloppily
dripping in a brief lull—a block away—strangely-textured

through the beaded window screen, the slow cars moving
like whale-shadows—and on our street, an impatient red
car slowing for undulations where a street-hogging gang
of boys animate and shout—their voices carrying—cutting
the air to distraction . . . boys out playing in the rain . . .

        the day turns hollow
        as when children were children
        and I was not old

___________________

FROM THE TRAVELS

Faded signs would never name the towns. It always
rained, and there was no one to give directions. The
sole café was sad—like in the movies—or in the
Hopper paintings.

A child always stood in the road behind us, bouncing
a red ball in the shadows between the few thin trees
that stretched toward each other across the lane.
A woman always appeared in an open doorway,
watching us leave.

        A voice speaks to me,
        no one there, but I answer—
        who is it this time ?

(first pub. in Parting Gifts, 1998-99;Peripherals—Prose Poems, Rattlesnake Press, 2009)

The Agenda

THE UNFINISHED CHILD

Oh, babe in blue dress in straw cradle, serene-faced
against a white pillow, floated there like a dated
drawing, the musics that you hear are shown on your
listened face—the flutes in the air—the trembled
after-space—the weeping that comes from another
room—soft tears of mother that drift and lullaby you.
You turn your face to the reaching but her grief has
forgotten you. She picks up a thread, runs it through
a needle. The room slips a shadow, cuts you free; you
float to her with your little shining life. She holds you.

        her arms so empty
        she tries to remember you
        you are holding her

__________________

THE IMPORTANCE OF SOLITUDE

Two strangers meet on a bridge, increase their distance
from each other, try to remain alone. But they have been
invaded by each other’s presence, each with his own
reason for being there, lingering at the edge of private
thought. The view can belong to one only : the roiling
sky, the shimmering detail of disturbed weather, the
changing motion of the waters beneath the bridge.
They stand far enough apart to have no need to speak.
They stare into the building moodiness of the morning
that is too early for direction, or decision. If only
the other were not there . . . what might be different . . . ?

        instead of a dream
        I am throwing away my cross—
        I am on the bridge

__________________

THE MOON ON THE WATER

“Look at the moon on the water,” you said. When did you
say that? I wrote this line when I was in some memory-throe,
and why did I think it was important enough to save for a
poem? Did I look at the moon on the water? Where was it,
and when, and was it a real moon on real water, or is it just
a metaphor? It’s driving me crazy because I want to know
why I thought it was so important. And who are you—did
I make you up—did I make me up? Are we both an assign-
ment—a meaning to decipher? Oh, how hard I try to return
to that quiet place with you and look at the moon on the
water.

        the day is ending
        with no reflection—the lake
        turns into a moon

Deepening

THE BLACK MOOD

How were we to know that dark was so long and so low to
the ground, how it took our shadows to itself and hid us
from all sound, how far it went to muffle what we almost
said in time, it was so simply everywhere, it caught us in
a mood, precisely right—precisely toned—with last light
trembling near, so like a last chance that we took. I do
remember fear—the way we somehow pulled ourselves
away and out, and how the dark snapped shut and swal-
lowed back.    Mygod, we could have disappeared . . .

       —even this red sunset
        flaking into blackness,
        —like a disposition

(first pub. in Parting Gifts, 1998-99)

Where the Dark Thickens

PROVING WHAT IT PROVES

Here is where the dark thickens. I reach in and pluck one
silver thread of light from the center to let my hand and
eye be amazed at my skill. I take it to the heart of the
mirror where the other waits . . .

                                         the other is in need of proof,
something to verify its need of existence. The light
shatters when it touches glass. The dark closes its wound.
I don’t know what has just happened.

        imagining this :
        dark thickens—light cannot see
        there are no mirrors

____________________

NIGHT KEEPER

She is holding the night together—cold and deliberate of
being. Who knows her, who regards her, beyond blame or
temporary use? This is not to enter her thoughts with
question, but to eavesdrop from the distance of strangers.
Who is she beyond the night—so thick with meaning? The
hours pass with no condition. She is whoever she is to
anyone who loves her, holding the cold night together to
keep them from being lonely.

        the night so cold,
        nude before night’s store window
        promising so much

Farewell

THE SILK ROSE

Pale yellow in early morning light—a silk whisper in the
room. How subtly it shines against the red book and the
old jewelry box with all the tossed things cluttered around
it. How it seems to reach toward the transposing window,
the cracked vase catching the meager light. And it seems
to move. Oh, the yellow rose seems to move when my
eyes seek it out—my room-seeking eyes that fasten—
fasten to this touch of softness in the hard, cold, early
light of this November day.

        Day begins—strange light
        transfers with color-texture
        yellow-silk, rose-scent

Watching

LIVING THING

It was a creature made of light, tame and beautiful. It
came to her hand but backed away when she tried to
touch it. She could almost name it, though it made no
sound and had no definite shape. Still she recognized
it as something that she loved and used to own, though
only in a book that she cherished and had to return. It
appeared to her now on the edge of its existence. She
wanted to save it as she always had. It followed her
for this.

something is watching

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

moonless night…
a powerful wind embraces
the ancient cedars

—Matsuo Bashō

______________________

So many thanks to Joyce Odam for this bushelful of haibun, our Seed of the Week! Our new Seed of the Week is Love, the obvious, given that Valentine’s Day is next week. 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 from 5-7pm, the El Dorado Hills branch of Poetry off-the-Shelves will meet at the El Dorado Hills library on Silva Valley Pkwy. 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!)

—Anonymous

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 Slothful Photos

SLOTH’S SWAY

In the considerate movement
of the sloth, I see my own
sanguine approach to this day.

Problems without solutions
gather in my mind like a mob
at bedtime, and so I carry these

voices with me all day, more
worn by the night than I should be,
slowly turning my head, munching

a leaf, preparing to hop down from
my perch, but thinking better of it
in halting concentration.

(first pub. in Pyrokinection)

Three-Fingered Sloth

REAL LOOKER

She's a real looker,
and you can tell because
all the old men have turned
around.
She's a real looker,
I hear one of them say,
and I do not bother to turn,
instead imagining Emerson's
roving eye, a bouncing
ball of observation.
Now that would be a Real
Looker, certainly so.

(first pub. in Pyrokinection)

TOADING

Let's go toading, someone
suggests, which I believe
is a game that involves
spotting the people in British
films that will turn out to be
lecherous heart-breakers.
Of course, I'm talking about
the polite productions
that draw on tattered novels.
I have grown in appreciation
for the British classics, with
their ever-present awareness
of the importance of manners
and wedding dresses.

(first pub. in Pyrokinection)

BALD EAGLE

Must be some kind
of heroic creature beneath
the hairless form in front
of me. Which reminds me
of my brother losing his hair
and what may soon be
my fate. So I should focus
on the salad bar, the static
television across the room,
rather than noting the aquiline
nature of the man sitting
opposite me, who one day
may be me looking back.

(irst pub. in Pyrokinection)

CARETAKER

Like the image of the old
bound in balms by the young,
the girl in a meadow, just
a painting I glimpse.

She cares for the weeds
the same as the tender floral dots.

Her voice is an uncommon
invitation to the young, and her
eyes float the roof of the world,
considering her next phrase,
or the next petal to drop.

One finger pointing, indicating
someone, something, just
beyond the limits of canvas,
an invitation to jump in, invent
the other face in the portrait.

(first pub. in Pyrokinection)

Sloth-in-a-Bowl

HIGH-BACK CHAIRS

Indecorous, the table
belongs in another room.
The wallpaper crisis,
aesthetics peeling in piles.

The high-back chairs join
the wing-backs for a seasonal
migration up the stairs.

I recall pictures of hollowed-
out buildings, shavings, rust,
an artist who captured
ruin photographically.

One day my most carefully
preserved art will be nothing
but curls, hardly an insect
preserved in amber.

(first pub. in Pyrokinection)

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

LOUD MUSIC
—JD DeHart

thumps of vandal music
fade as we rise
around the hill,
a lake finding us,
a waterfall discovering us
and our escape
right before our eyes.

(first pub. in Jellyfish Whispers)

___________________

Big thanks to JD DeHart today for his fine poetry, occasioning our sloth pictures. One can never have too many sloths. For more about the sloth (2-fingered, 3-fingered) and The Sloth Conservation Foundation, go to slothconservation.com/about-the-sloth/overview/.

MarieWriters Generative Writing Workshop meets tonight, 6pm, at Sac. Poetry Center, facilitated this week by Mary McGrath. 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!)

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

MIND’S LIGHT ON LANDSCAPE

The same landscape we used to hike, summers ago. Nothing’s changed, no geological upheaval. Jit of junco from krummholz to pine. Aspen quivering its fluent leaves, wordless in memory. Now the mind goes climbing, breathing heavier than breeze. My old field notes: calochortus mandala-flower. Wyethia waving dull underside of leaf, its yellow mule-eyes. Light shimmers the land’s familiar face ever-changing. Remember white-crown sparrow rising from her nest. Summers older, you can’t hike anymore; my trick knee. A dozen years have passed, the landscape’s as it was.

remember bluebirds,
a nestling fledged from your hand—
neon flash of blue

(first pub. in Sacramento Voices)

MORNING CAMP

The moon, no longer spherical, abandoned us with the last mysterious hoot of owl. One by one we gathered around last night’s fire, a cold circle. On a blackened stump, ancient enamel cup chipped and rusty, color of once-upon eggnog dregs. Obsession is hanging on to things no longer useful. Before the sun, morning.

a first bird—three chirps
in quick rising sentence
untranslatable

CALLIGRAPHY OF WINTER SUN-UP

Buffleheads streak white/black wakes across the lake’s cold surface, disappear in shadow of the opposite hill. Abrupt swish of flight too fast for field marks, what kind of duck takes off over water? Indecipherable script of an old bare willow reflected upside down in ripples, limned in morning slant of sun. Where is the egret, sentinel of the wetland cove?

no shadow but blue
a sudden white-brush of wings—
silver hush riffles the lake

SCOTCH BROOM

Above the meadow, below the dark of pines, under a blue Sierra sky—brash yellow autograph written across a quiet panorama. Scotch broom, beautiful in flower. Who requested this invader? It thrives on persecution, it takes over the world. In the old place, it crept through fences—seed caught in a neighbor’s Kubota track? We hacked and dug at it, and browsed our goats among it; I thought goats consumed everything.

from this hike we’ll keep
memory of brilliant yellow
blooming in our dreams

NEW WORLD DISCOVERIES

After Arrival of Wakamatsu Colonists at Gold Hill, 1869, a watercolor by George Mathis

What strange arrival of bamboo-bark hats, kimonos. Wagon horses wait to be lightened by a bit of shade—no trees around the house, but woods full of birdsong in no human language. Who translates Japanese to English? She’ll plant a sapling of shelter, of home—wide-branching keyaki under California summer sun. The tree outlives her, and the pond they dig by hand,

creek-fed spot of blue
reeds sprouting along the shore,
fish in its deeps

ELIZABETHAN-COLLAR

Loki comes home in an e-collar to prevent her licking the wound. Neck and head prisoned in stiff plastic cone, she lies disconsolate on living-room carpet. Big black kitten Latches sees; halts; eyes full-moon bright pricked with black. Has the dog been to outer space and come back alien? He approaches stealth-slow—to the verge—extends his neck full-length, cautious. Moves an inch closer, fore-paws on the fearful threshold. Touches nose to nose.

two furred creatures
species from different planets
breathing together

Today’s LittleNip:

BLACK TEA
—Taylor Graham

from dark of cupboard
among tea canisters, two
neon eyes in black

__________________

Gung hay fat choy on this second day of the Year of the Pig! More hiabun from Taylor Graham this week, and gratefully so! We’ve had a great variety of poems in that form the last couple of weeks; Medusa Snakepals are proficient in forms, indeed!

Poetry events in our area today include the licensing workshop at Crocker, 6pm; Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe, 8pm; and Poetry in Davis, also at 8pm, featuring Tim Hunt and Leonore Wilson, plus 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.

For 21 things you didn’t know about Chinese New Year, go to chinesenewyear.net/21-things-you-didnt-know-about-chinese-new-year/.

—Medusa (Celebrate Poetry!)

Snow in Placerville (see the snowflakes coming down?)
(Yes, we had snow up here Monday, and

it hasn't completely melted off yet!)

—Photo by Kathy Kieth, Diamond Springs, CA

—Photo by Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA

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

—Poems and Photos by Ann Privateer, Davis, CA

Glaze clings to the sand bar
Like frosting to a cake
The sea twists and rolls
Onto shore whipping up
Froth, bear claw style.

I am hot and frapped
Sprinkled with custardy
French cruller goodness
An ample Snapple canning
My heat, wanting to be So Be.

________________

IMPOSSIBLE

the world wakes up
to a new consciousness
new blood, new youth
unearths something big

no more masquerading
no more dictators wearing
oil company jackets

squabbling to command
our trust, we, the zero
percent people that forage

all day, disguised from
ourselves to do and not give up
because our world will

not run out of disasters
and dealers will sell out
regardless of their allegiance.

EXIT

A coin rolls free
People push, search
For money
Some wonder how long
Plastic will survive
A hungry stomach
Shrivels without food
Loose garments
Play havoc with hips
Not unlike a hurricane lane
That leaves everything unclean
Even the washing machine.

_________________

WORMS

as slow as a minute
watch you bathe

roiling in boiling
hot water, gratifying

that you're not fat
nor as thin as them

melting while you squirm
to shut the soap from

your eyes and draw in
until...you must

remove every last restraint
and become full

and round
as a worm.

ODE

The young bake cranberry muffins
The creek overflows with flowing
The wisteria flowers its perfume
The songs sing an operatic lament
The stick splinters into bits and pieces
The drapery flounces its self anew.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

NEVER THOUGHTS
—Ann Privateer

Never eat too much
Lick the platter clean
Let the children dance
Always gorge on sweets
Drop all regrets
In the excoriation bin
Contemplate thinking
By drawing cat's ears
All this, alas, while waiting'
For the tea water to boil.

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Davisite (Davisonian?) Ann Privateer for her fine poems and photos today, waking us up on a chilly Friday morning!

—Anonymous

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.

Yolo Bypass Wildlife Area

—Poems by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA

—Photos Courtesy of James Lee Jobe

A long storm, the two of us
In that little cabin, just two rooms
And one lantern. Lightning
And thunder. Rain on a tin roof.
The storm drowns out the sound
Of our clothes dropping on the floor.

Yolo County, Cache Creek Conservancy

My friend takes the mountain roads;
She loves climbing, white boulders,
And seeing the sky up close.

I take the valley roads;
It is the flatness that I love,
And the look of a slow creek.

Which roads are best? Who can say?
What do you love?

Ask those questions first. It’s getting late.
Even now the sun is westering into shadow.

_________________ 

A ladybug crawls on a blade of grass.
What about it? Everything.

The universe itself is a part of the moment.

Yolo County, Putah Creek

Six hundred and sixty three sunrises have risen on this
emptiness.
Six hundred and sixty three sunsets since your last breath.
I wait for nothing, for no one.
I don’t need to live and I don’t need to die.
Each moment is what it is, lacking you.

I will never see you again.

Son, I put your ashes in the creek, in the river, in the ocean.
I put your ashes in the air, across the face of this earth,
And some sit still in this house where you will never return.

I count the days since you left,
And I write the number somewhere on my body,
On my flesh.
I was away one number and I add the next one,
One digit higher than the number before.

I will never hold you again. My son. 
Days and nights pass in this emptiness.
I wear my grief like a crown; I am the king
In this empty place, and my reign will be a long one.

Six hundred and sixty three sunrises have risen on this
emptiness.
Six hundred and sixty three sunsets since your last breath. 
I will never see you again.

Yolo County, Capay Valley

The measure of a gun, an empty holster.
Wasted flesh, a body outlined in chalk.
How do we clear the way to justice after this?
How many graves to be dug?
How many families left behind in grief?
When do we begin that long walk back home?

Yolo County Line

The world is wrong, not you.
Once again,
The sky and the earth are upside down.
It happens all the time.
The lone, dirty window to the world is a door,
And the door is shut and locked tight.
So make that swing go up as high as it can.
Go ahead and just jump off if you want to;
It feels great,
Doesn’t it?
The world is wrong about everything,
All of it.
Not you.
Trust your own heart.
You were born with the answers inside of yourself.
As soon as the very first light entered your eyes,
You were absolutely perfect.
Kick open the door.
You’re ready.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

A righteous soul, indeed—
To not seek Satori, only service.

—James Lee Jobe

__________________

Thanks, James, for starting our Saturday morning off right! Davis Poet Laureate James Lee Jobe hosts two upcoming readings next weekend: On Friday, Feb. 15th, at 7:30 pm, The Other Voice features Charles Halsted and Robert Ramming at the Unitarian Universalist Church of Davis, 27074 Patwin Rd., Davis. Then on Sunday, Feb. 17th, at 2 pm, "Ladies of the Knight" Angela James, Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas and Jeanette Sem read at the Davis Arts Center Poetry Series, 1919 F Street, Davis. Both events feature an open mic and both are free. Contact James with any questions: jamesleejobe@gmail.com/.

Today, Women's Wisdom Art features an opening and sale for their work at Sacramento Poetry Center, 25th & R Sts., Sac., from 2-5:30pm, with a silent auction, refreshments, and archived art for sale. From 2-3:30pm, Women's Wisdom artists will read their poetry and prose. 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

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.

e.e. cummings (1894-1962)
—Poems by e.e. cummings

[love is more thicker than forget]

love is more thicker than forget
more thinner than recall
more seldom than a wave is wet
more frequent than to fail

it is most mad and moonly
and less it shall unbe
than all the sea which only
is deeper than the sea

love is less always than to win
less never than alive
less bigger than the least begin
less littler than forgive

it is most sane and sunly
and more it cannot die
than all the sky which only
is higher than the sky

__________________

[All in green went my love riding]

All in green went my love riding
on a great horse of gold
into the silver dawn.

four lean hounds crouched low and smiling
the merry deer ran before.

Fleeter be they than dappled dreams
the swift sweet deer
the red rare deer.

Four red roebuck at a white water
the cruel bugle sang before.

Horn at hip went my love riding
riding the echo down
into the silver dawn.

four lean hounds crouched low and smiling
the level meadows ran before.

Softer be they than slippered sleep
the lean lithe deer
the fleet flown deer.

Four fleet does at a gold valley
the famished arrow sang before.

Bow at belt went my love riding
riding the mountain down
into the silver dawn.

four lean hounds crouched low and smiling
the sheer peaks ran before.

Paler be they than daunting death
the sleek slim deer
the tall tense deer.

Four tall stags at a green mountain
the lucky hunter sang before.

All in green went my love riding
on a great horse of gold
into the silver dawn.

four lean hounds crouched low and smiling
my heart fell dead before.

_________________

[i carry your heart with me)i carry it in]

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

_________________________

—Medusa

For lots more about e.e. cummings, see www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/e-e-cummings/.

—Anonymous Photos

IDIOMATIC
—JD DeHart, Chattanooga, TN

I could carry a torch for you,
but that would be arson. I am
afraid such a blaze would only
create distance between us.

Love is made difficult by
incarceration.

Sick as a dog, I searched for your
muzzle, offered to let you outside,
thought of a treat and reward system,
but these efforts were in vain.

When you told me you were on
the fence, I looked for you next to
the blackbirds that visit every morning,
but you were missing in their song.

Instead, I found you clipping toenails
in the sink. Next time you could at least
offer a bath there so that the metaphor
means more.

Finally, you said after while, crocodile,
and I checked myself for rows of teeth,
looked about, and understood when I
saw the swamp I was creating,

a neurotic miasma that surely
must have seemed as rough as a reptile’s
unwelcoming hide.

EVANESCENT LOVE
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

Remember, imagine, embrace!
All the lovers you’ve loved
Without trace,
Unless there are children
Left behind,
The way lovers'
Love
Is blind!

Look and you will see
Thousands of lovers
Hand in hand,
Walking,
Together,
Across the sand
Of beaches,
By the sea,

Each swearing
Undying
Affection
For each other,
Smitten by
Their beauty.

But day will fade,
As pledges made,
To love and to love
Well, always,
As everything
Slips away!

FRIENDS ARE JUST FRIENDS
—Joseph Nolan

Friends are just friends.
No need to struggle
Or to argue!
Most of the time,
They have your back,
Support your feet,
Urge you to be stronger,
Laugh a little longer,
And to smile!
To walk, at least
Another mile,
On legs grown bolder,
To hold onto your lover
As you both grow older
And let a sunset
Set in pink, red, and gold!

CLEANED CLOCK
—Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Lake Eliot, Ontario, Canada

She has taken a ratty green rag from under the sink
and a bottle of Pine Sol
and wiped down the clock.

For the glass part where the numbers go,
she uses Windex and paper towel.

The fumes wreak havoc on my allergies.
My nose runs down my face into
a ball of waiting tissue.

This must be how leaky waterbeds feel,
I think.

She is humming to herself.
She seems happy, which is nice.

My eyes begin to burn and I rub them.

She wears overalls better than any farmer.
One strap over each shoulder like enjoying
a denim rollercoaster.

YOU’LL HAVE TO FIGHT,
SO WHICH SIDE?
—Ian Copestick, Stoke on Trent, England

My pockets as empty as my guts
As I walk the streets
The boredom of poverty can drive you nuts
As much as not having enough to eat
Nothing to do, nowhere to go
And no money to do it
I don't think I could get any more low
And so you just think "Screw it!"
Before I'd starve, I'd rather steal
I won't go down without a fight
If you're in jail you get a meal
As well as a bed for the night
I'm not saying that it's right, and I won't condone it
But you have to do what you have to do to eat
They won't give it to you, the ones that own it
They don't care if you die in the street
I really believe we're in a war
Against the massed forces of the right
Now is the time to decide who you're for
Pick a side and fight
Do you fight to keep people free?
And fight for the rights of the human race?
Or do you put a wall around your country
To keep out any foreign face?
There's only one race, the human race
We have to accept each other's rights
Do you love your brother, or do you hate?
Yes, now's the time to decide.

All in green went my love shopping

—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

(adapted from “All in green went my love riding”
by e.e. cummings, posted on Medusa Sun. 2/10)

  all in green went my love shopping

 on a great charge card of gold

 into the housewares section.  

four lean salesmen crouched low and smiling

 the merry advertising everywhere.

  fleeter be they than empire dreams 

the swift sweet ads 

the red ink temptations.  

four-story, red brick sears, roebuck, and company
the cruller bagel sang the morning song

  snacks at hip went my love shopping 

taking the stairway down 

into the housewares section.

four lean salesmen crouched low and smiling

 the level tables ran before.  

softer be they than slippered sleep 

the lean lithe ads

 the fleet flown ads.

  four express lanes at a gold valley 

the famished barterers sang before.  

bow at belt went my love shopping

 taking the stairway down 

into the housewares section.  

four lean salesmen crouched low and smiling 

the sheer profit peaks ran before.  

paler be they than daunting death 

the sleek slim ads 

the tall tense ads.  

four tall cashiers at a green mountain

 the lucky hunter sang before.  

all in green went my love shopping

 on a great charge card of gold 

into the housewares section.  

four lean salesmen crouched low and smiling

 my credit fell dead before.

TRUE LOVE
—Caschwa

Some fringe benefits of the necessity of eating
even a modest portion of food are the savory taste
on the tongue, and the royal pleasure of a contented
tummy. We also entertain an appetite for the biblical
duty of procreation, usually fed by just what our bodies
give us, unembellished by fabled glass slippers or
photo-shopped renderings of the “perfect image”. But
at the end of the day,

saying “I love you”
sounds nicer than to utter
“You satisfy me.”

TO MY VALENTINE
—Michael H. Brownstein, Chicago, IL

Let us wake with happiness and treasure,
affection, grand thoughts of pleasure.
I look around, see you here—I am awed.
Within your wonder, nothing is flawed.
Today an arrow, a cupid's bow, a simple song,
beautiful as a palisade and just as strong.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

A LOVE POEM
—Wm. S. Gainer, Grass Valley, CA

I hate
how I miss you.

______________________

Welcome to Love Week in the Kitchen! Today we have some Valentine poems from poets close and far—all fellas—who are celebrating love of people, friends, nature, food, country, credit cards... It’s not too late to send poems celebrating love in its many forms to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. The Snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

And welcome back to the Kitchen to Bill Gainer, who has been traveling around the country, reading his poetry, and otherwise kicking up the dust. This poem is from his book from Lummox Press, The Mysterious Book of Old Man Poems. Check it out at www.lummoxpress.com/lc/the-mysterious-book/.

Poetry events in our area begin tonight at Sac. Poetry Center with Charles Halsted and Wm. O’Daly, plus open mic, 7:30pm. On Wednesday, Poetry Off-the-Shelves meets in El Dorado Hills at the library on Silva Valley Pkwy., 5-7pm; MarieWriters meets at SPC from 6-8pm, facilitated this week by Laura Rosenthal; and Love Jones “Peak Level” presents poets and singers at Laughs Unlimited in Old Sacramento, 8-10pm.

Busy weekend coming up! Thursday is, as always, Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento, 8pm, this week with Love Isn’t What You Think But It’s Also Exactly What You Think: The David Loret De Mola Valentine’s Day Extravaganza; in the daytime (11:30am-1:30pm), Women’s Wellspring Writing Group meets at the Women's Wellspring Center on 4th Av., facilitated by Sue Daly. On Friday, The Other Voice in Davis features Charles Halsted and Robert Ramming, plus open mic, at the Unitarian Universalist Church on Patwin Rd., 7:30pm. Then on Sunday, Davis Arts Center Poetry Series will feature Ladies of the Knight plus open mic, 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.

To read about “6 Strange Things Love Does to Your Brain and Body’, go to www.businessinsider.com/what-love-does-to-your-body-and-mind-2017-13/.

—Medusa (Celebrate Love!)

Puppy Love

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.

Affirmation

—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

IT WAS LOVE,

in the guise love always takes, so good to look upon
with eyes that can’t refuse. And the mouth—the mouth
with its lies, so beautiful to hear, like completions of
the self. And the hands—the hands with their tremble.
How you loved those hands. And remember how you
danced together, body to body, perfectly. The music
loved you. Oh, it was wonderful, this beginning, the
competition, the surrender—which to which. Where
draw the line that is an answer. True, love had its mo-
ments—love, the survivor of itself—and even when
it’s finished—all those memories…

Mine

I LOVE THE LIE

Darling, I love the lie upon your silken
mouth, your abstract kiss,
the practiced way you mold your syllables.

And I love the way you dwindle into pout
that I must coax with my own kiss
when you must pout me to your way.

And, Darling, I do believe the things you say,
though I watch your eyes, the way you
somehow twist in slight response

and fix your charm
upon me once again with one more lie
of love, love, love.

I Wuv You

YOU ARE MY LOVE POEM

You are my love poem
you funny ballet-dancer
belly-laugher
comedian
and sad-eyed star
of tragedies.

How late you are
to my role
of audience.
I confuse myself with art
and applaud your performance,
write you a fan letter,
this poem.

(first pub. in Red Cedar Review
of Colorado, 1993)

___________________

IN SILENT PHRASES

You were my Valentine—
you held me to your broken heart
and said, don’t leave me.

How we beat there—safe together
for a moment—right words hiding
all around us in silent phrases.

I Love Me, Too

LOVE’S VARIATIONS

How much of love is desperation? Answers are free
and mean nothing. Ask me another question, I will lie
to you since truth is moot. Or I will ignore you and go
on writing . . .

Once I was a slate of words. You scraped a fingernail
across me and sound was born. We cannot stand each
other . . .

What is the first difficulty—never mind, there is no
answer to that, either—all is perception, faulty or vain.
Whose mirror can we trust, yours or mine—they look
at each other . . .

I imagine two mirrors placed across from each other
in an empty room : a mirror filled with another mirror :
enough to reflect, reflect, reflect . . .

I promise no more questions—but what are promises
worth—to ask or give—see how quickly I lie to my
own truth . . .

Sample this love : It is a complication. You change
even as I speak, become less, become more . . . .

I Love My Cat

VALENTINE

The day smells like roses, but it is February,
and no time for love—winding its pain
around my shoulder like an arm
gone lax in carelessness.

Now I am heavy with the weight of mutual
resignation. A scarf I wear slips down
to the floor. I push it aside with my foot.
I do not want it any more.

All the days are the same—long as arrows
that dwindle when I quit watching them.
They never arrive—they will never trust
my aim or yours.

____________________

A BOOK OF LOVE AND REGRET

Year after year I anthologize you, loose pages
full of smears where conversations failed,

whole pages of complicated silences,
paragraphs of lyric tears—ah—

such a book as you have become . . .

compiled of your own complexities,
your dark symbolism, your comic surprises.

It is not fair that you still argue the old points—
refuse to surrender the grievances between us….

Nurture

SIGHINGS

Song becomes song, which becomes
whisper, which becomes lament.

All has been told, and told again in silences.
There is a rage that has been tamed.

Something in the eyes commands light.
Darkness cowers.

Only love knows love,
which becomes honest. This is true.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE WET PILLOW
—Joyce Odam

Whose tears are these
that leave my pillow cold and wet?
Whose tears are these;
what ghost would take such liberties;
what sad old love could plague me yet?
They are not mine. I have not wept.
Whose tears are these?

___________________

Thank you, Joyce Odam, for today’s poems and photos about love—love won, love lost, love denied…! This week we’re calling Love Week, partly because of Valentine’s Day, and partly because it just seems like our USA, our whole world, in fact, could use more love these days. Accordingly, our new Seed of the Week is Brotherhood. Think globally: brotherhood with your neighbors, with children, with the homeless, with your government, with other countries, with your fellow creatures (both human and otherwise, including endangered species), with all the rest of the planet. 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.

Last week, technological errors caused the last two lines of Joyce’s haibun to be cut off. (I thought it was kind of cool, actually, to end with "something is watching", but it wasn't a haibun.) Here is her fine poem in its entirety, with my apologies:

LIVING THING
—Joyce Odam 

It was a creature made of light, tame and beautiful. It
came to her hand but backed away when she tried to
touch it. She could almost name it, though it made no
sound and had no definite shape. Still she recognized
it as something that she loved and used to own, though
only in a book that she cherished and had to return. It
appeared to her now on the edge of its existence. She
wanted to save it as she always had. It followed her
for this.
 
something is watching
you weep uncontrollably— 

only with regret

_______________________

—Medusa (Celebrate Brotherhood!)

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 Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Lake Eliot, Ontario, Canada

—Anonymous Photos

WHAT A YEAR A YEAR MAKES

I dance around wicker cobras
rewire the brain for
monkey science

peek at colour-coordinated cue cards
of someone else’s remembering

what a year a year makes

games of darts with sponsorship
and cash prizes

mass extinction
on the comeback trail,
stopping to smell the lilac
with greedy wood chipper
nose

and the candle is burnt out
and I am almost there

adding those little touches to everything

free wifi
in the badlands

it’s sex for money
and money for everything
else

it’s new weather stripper
and mangy wolf pack
dominance

free haircuts
for the first one hundred
hedges

and clearing my throat
and Lindbergh in Paris
and skate blades
on ice

in this hanky panky
land.

STANDING IN THE KITCHEN THINKING OF
SOMEONE ELSE’S BATHROOM

There I am, on a lean like Pisa,
against a painted counter top that doesn’t
match the cupboards above,
my back thrown out like a folding hand of poker,
standing in the kitchen thinking
of someone else’s bathroom,
a single potted plant on the back of the toilet
to combat the smell
and that shower curtain with consecutive
conch shells on it
so that you can be at the beach
without any of the trouble of getting there
and a few extra rolls of toilet paper
under the sink that leaks a little
so that you can hear it from the bedroom
when you should be sleeping.

PEOPLE GET REAL HONEST FAST WHEN
THEY’RE MADE TO SUFFER

Let me clear that up for you.
I want you to know exactly where I stand.

People get real honest fast when they’re
made to suffer.

This is not running your toes through shag carpets.

Fifty pounds of bling
around your neck
like a rapper’s noose.

Scream queen tonsillitis
never a problem.

This is sleeping homeless outside
in the freezing Canadian winter.
Digging latrines in the permafrost
with your hands.

The Paris Review
will never understand
that.

Such things never leave you.
They colour everything you do.

Which is why I want to be clear.
The hurt is always there.

TOY DRIVE

Some asshole
with an obvious limp
robbed the toy
drive

just before Christmas

and there were still two days
to donate
so all the poor kiddies
woke up happy
enough

but I have to ask:
who does that?

No one knows
because he wore a mask.

The new toys were delivered
under police escort.

There was a picture
on the front page
of the paper.

FIRE BEAVER

etches himself
into the floor tile

the patterned slate
that sticks right on

fire beaver
facing out from the door
breathing a single
plume

of red hot flame

I think we are friends
though I could
be wrong

fire beaver
likes to do his own thing
which is breathing
fire

in a solitary way

so as not to burn
anyone

his fire beaver teeth
keep growing
so that he has to file
them down incessantly

chewing at the edges
of the tile
with his orange fire
teeth.

BOOTS OR HEARTS

She is getting ready for work
in the bathroom.

The Tragically Hip blaring from her phone
long after the singer is gone.

The wonders of technology.
To hear a dead man act so defiant again.
She worked with his mother back in Kingston.

At this charity house for wayward mothers
and their children.

And now he is gone.
Replaced by the hairdryer.
The present needs dry hair
more than the past.

Her work has a dress code
and standards.

She will be ready.

NOBODY’S ROPE

I look down at my feet.
Nobody’s rope in the gutter.
Frayed at one end from
an imprecise cut.

Water funnelling under
in a misguided channel back
to sewer.

To the underground.

Where many writers I know
claim to come from.

Which seems odd to me.
The sewer would be a tight fit
for anyone.

And nobody’s rope sits there alone.
Coiled in a twine semi-circle.
I nod as I pass in the street.

Before strolling on to
other things.

BOG BOY

Don’t just lay there,
face of dirt
having not moved your arms
in over three centuries

imagine the women you have missed,
the men like party streamers
with steady work

modern archeology
caking away at your orbital bones
and making many proclamations

bog boy
with his picture taken,
posed in all the papers
like a man on
the take

they still have your hair
so that is something

a little muddy,
but who isn’t these
days?

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

BIG ELECTRIC ANDY

—Ryan Quinn Flanagan

please be seated

he shouldn’t be long

Big Electric Andy
all the way from Pittsburgh

shall I sing for you
shall I sing sing wretched tears
back into gooey eyes

I told him you were coming

he is most excited

Big Electric Andy
loves to entertain.

______________________

Our thanks to Ryan Quinn Flanagan this morning for his fine poems and the rare opportunity to post shower curtains and the melodious conch (say “conk”) shells!

Sac. Poetry Center will present the MarieWriters Generative Writing Workshop tonight, 6pm, this week facilitated by Laura Rosenthal. 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

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

VALENTINE’S SNOW

One snowflake, a heart’s
delight. More snowflakes, lovely
on grass and oak bough.
Too many to count, these flakes
whiting out our road, the world.

SNOWFLAKES

Last summer, walking the hill behind the Senior Center, I found yarrow in bloom, each flower a perfect snowflake, individual as the homeless people who—driven from farther west—set up camp on the slope overhanging parking lot. They lived out of sight in dark of scrubby oak. When rains came in November, a sleeping bag like a flag hung to dry in front of the Center. Next day it was gone. So were the homeless. This February morning, the Center’s closed for snow and ice, not a soul in sight.

the high hill silent
scrubby oaks lacy under
a veil of snowflakes

COUNTRY LIVING

Great oak came down. Trunk
and limbs splayed across driveway,
imprisoning us
at home. We’ve cancelled all those
appointments. Peace and quiet.

THE MUSE’S CHAIR

After the big storm she walks—
she’s out there seeking
the woods’ dark news, a great oak
lying at repose

while her rainwater chair floats
twiglets and oak leaves
dead and green, bits of lichen
among moss fresh green.

YOU LOVED TO WATCH WILD GEESE

Nine seasons ago you wrote—
wild geese on the pond

your resting bench is empty—
sun shivers water

you wrote details of your day—
geese landing, feeding

you’ve lifted off with wild geese—
to resume the sky.

NIGHT VISITOR

She comes in dream without
my bidding. Dark-eyed with dainty paws,
masked as if she’d stuck her muzzle
into ebony paint.

I held her puppy-form in my hand,
placed stethoscope to her tiny chest, listened
to her heartbeat rocketing beyond
my counting. Nothing
could contain her. She walked earth
as if it were moonbeam.

Joy-wag pirouette, she came running
to my call. I couldn’t hold her
as she led off, away beyond my vision
except in dream.

LOVE OF THE WILD UNKNOWN

Can you feel the fox calling in the night
across the western dark and down the hill;
and the great horned owl, soundless in its flight?

It passed like twinges of a nerve pinched tight
and then released, reverberating still—
can you feel the fox calling in the night?

Now coyote howls in full moon-delight,
in stirring of a late September chill,
and the great horned owl, soundless in its flight.

Where is our cat, alive with second-sight
and seeking prey? Another cry, soft, shrill.
Can you feel the fox calling in the night

here at edge of wildwood? a line so slight
we cross it in our sleep as black bear will,
and the great horned owl, soundless in its flight,

who hovers then drops from an unseen height
like angels out of dreams—a shiver-thrill.
Can you feel the fox calling in the night,
and the great horned-owl soundless in its flight?

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

EBB AND FLOW
—Joseph Nolan

Women know
The way love grows
And ebbs
And flows
Away
By simple small
Exceptions
That go on
Day-to-day.

A sailor’s dreams
Are not of seas
Or ships
Or sailed away;
A sailor dreams
He left behind
His lover,
His home
His placid bay.

______________________

Many thanks to Taylor Graham for today’s tales of our recent snow in the foothills, and the dark unknown with its creatures (can you hear the fox calling in the night, and the great horned-owl, soundless in its flight?). And Joseph Nolan took my advice and sent another love poem for this Valentine’s Day, so thank you, Joseph, for serving up today’s LittleNip.

Wellspring Women’s Writing Group meets today at the Wellspring Women’s Center on 4th Av., Sacramento, 11:30am. And Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar will present Love Isn’t What You Think But It’s Also Exactly What You Think: The David Loret De Mola Valentine’s Day Extravaganza, 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

The Grahams' Loki in her Victorian Collar
—Photo by Taylor Graham

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.

Midnight Express

—Poems and Photo Artwork by Smith, Cleveland, OH

STATUS REPORT 285

Black cat in lap,
olive eyes watch me
through the purr.

Falling snow scatters light,
softens sounds, sweetens strife.

Clownburst

Leaf from tree
flies with birds
briefly

Wins of War

Wounded frog suffers—
full fat heron watches
unconcerned

Lion's Den

Spider, quiet, waits
for whine of web—
juice

Kronos

Winter cold kills plants
which rot in soil
flower spring warmth

Old Comb By Lady

LIFE WITH WIFE

I dumb cracker
she smart cookie
I walking disaster
she good looky

Lady K

Warming heater expands,
its metal cricket creak
music in the cold

Outtaorder

Sometimes sleep slides us
one trouble to another
with but dream between

Be It What It Will

Today’s LittleNip:

PHILOSOPHY
—Smith

I got my pluses
I got my minuses
I got my in-betweens

So do you

___________________

Good morning and thanks to Smith (Steven B. Smith) for today’s tasty brunch in the Kitchen! And don’t forget that Robert Ramming and Charles Halsted will read tonight at The Other Voice in Davis, at the Unitarian Universalist Church on Patwin Rd., Davis, 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.

Poems-For-All Press has released a new book by Paul Fericano: Things That Go Trump in the Night: Poems of Treason and Resistance, a lively collection of satiristic poems, comments, and prose about you-know-who, all put together by Robert Richard Hansen in his always classy style. And—Barack Obama has made a short comment on the back: “A searing and timely lampoon of the juvenile Trump dictum, and the courageous satirist who rescues truth from delusion.” Howzabout them apples!?! Check it out at outlawpoetry.com/2019/things-that-go-trump-in-the-night-poems-of-treason-and-resistance-by-paul-fericano/.

—Medusa

Smithstorm

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.

Transmigration

Heralds of Spring

Endings

Cupping Abundance

Listening for the Oracle

Astronomical!

It Could've Been Worse

West Tree

It Could Have Been Verse

Holding the Night Together

Toading & Bald Eagles

Breathing Together

French Cruller Goodness

A Long Storm

Three Love Poems

The Alligator We Call Love

Only Love Knows Love

Fire Beavers In This Hanky Panky Land

Valentine's Snow

Be It What It Will