Medusa's Kitchen

Your Poet's Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich

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

Let the day turn under, and let the year turn, too.
Life has an order, but we don’t know it,
And it doesn’t matter anyway.
Let the day turn as it will,
Everything that goes right is a blessing
And everything that goes wrong is a larger blessing.
Just go with it.
Tomorrow and all of life
Can handle themselves.

_________________

We are driving through our town,
Davis, California, and my wife asks,
“Why are you taking this street?” And I reply,
“Oh, I just don’t want to go the same old way.”
But friend, it isn’t true. I so love my city
That I just don’t want to miss a single street.
Who knows what we’ll see; a perfect redwood tree,
Or a sweet child on a bike, followed by an old dog.
Looking up, the sun blesses us with golden light.

Your poet cooks. Feta chicken pasta with tomato

and green beans, tossed with a slightly spicy sesame oil.

Peeling your birthday
Like the skin of an orange.
Tearing away the sections
Of these years since your cancer
Ate you up,
A little at a time.
Eating the orange slowly
Section by section.
Tangy, yet sweet.
Piece after piece,
Section after section.
Time is one fruit, your death is another,
And this is your birthday. Brother,
I
Remember
You.

(for Bill, my stepbrother)

Your Poet Cooks. Veggie Stir Fry.

Here in the valley,
We have a dry season and a wet season.
By mid-summer I miss the rain very much;
The way the earth absorbs the water to fuel
Its labor to push the trees up for another year.
Not just trees.
Crops. Grass. Weeds.
Everything that grows.
I like to slip across the street to the park
And stand under the massive pines there,
Watching a slow rain fade into the field.
The gravity of a spinning planet
Holds the atmosphere, the weather below that.
The planet circling a star for warmth.
It’s complex, yet simple at the same time.
The pattern of life, nature itself.
Rain. Feeding the very tree above me.

Your Poet

The valley and the creek hold their charms
Like a child holds laughter, brimming over.
From above, looking down,
The trees are like green lakes
Scattered among the well tended fields.
Crops grow.
Often at sunrise, when I am most alone,
I am touched by all of the life around me.
The dew-damp earth.
The purple sky to the east.
I bow with no one watching.
It is a simple bow, but genuine.

__________________

The mockingbird was up past midnight
Singing:

”This nest is mine, brother.
This nest is mine, sister.
See the moon, see the stars—
They bless this life,
They bless this night.
This nest is mine, and I
Will sleep here through
The rest of the night.”

Sleep when you’re weary, little friend.
I will listen along until then.

Your Poet's Granddaughter Goes Down the Slide

Today’s LittleNip:

A gray day, rainy and cold—
Granddaughter, please, bring me your smile.

—James Lee Jobe

___________________

Thank you, James Lee Jobe, for cooking up such a fine poetic feast for us this morning! James Lee will host the Davis Arts Center Poetry Series this Sunday, 2pm, featuring Ladies of the Knight (Poetry Overturned) with Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas, Jeanette Sem, and Angela James, plus open mic. 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!)

Jizo in the Rain

—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

AN OMEN, A SIGN ?
—Ian Copestick, Stoke on Trent, England

Yesterday I was, as usual,
Wandering the streets. It was
A depressing Sunday, worse
Than that, a Sunday with no
Money. I was feeling as low as
It's possible to go, considering
My options. The only one left
Was suicide, but I'm just not
Made that way, thank God.
A sudden ray of sunlight came
Bouncing off the chrome of a
Parked car and it felt like, no, I
Don't really know, but it felt like
Some kind of spiritual high. It
Said "Hang on, son, don't just
Throw it all away. Things may
Be grim right now, but there's
Good times coming ‘round the
Bend. Keep on keeping on and
Keep your head held high."
I don't know where this, I can't
Say voice, it was more like an
Idea, telepathy or something, I
Don't know, came from. But
When you're feeling that low,
You have to take your omens
Wherever you find them.
Well, it gave me the kick up the
Arse that I needed. Yes it gave
Me something to help me
Carry on.

___________________

Our thanks and hands across the sea to Ian Copestick for his fine poem this morning! Don’t forget that James Lee Jobe will host the Davis Arts Center Poetry Series today, 2pm, featuring Ladies of the Knight (Poetry Overturned) with Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas, Jeanette Sem, and Angela James, plus open mic. 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!)

Lizard Door Knocker

—Photos by Chris Moon

SILENCE SUITS HER VERY WELL
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

An exiler,
A banisher,
She likes the thought
Of outer darkness
And gnashing of teeth;

She likes the thought
That wicked ones
Are punished
In eternal darkness
And cold,
So she doesn’t return
Emails or
Text massages.

She likes to keep
An old break
Complete;
Silence with the past
Suits her
Very well.
She’s very fond of Hell!

__________________

WISHES OVER DISHES
—Joseph Nolan

Not every day,
Week, month or year
Do I break
A drinking glass,
By momentary
Clumsiness,
Like an ass.
Sometimes, an
Entire year might pass
Without the breaking
Of a glass.

It is one of
My wishes
When I
Wash the dishes.

Fish Knocker

DROUGHT
—Joseph Nolan

We understand
How gardens fail
In summer
Without water.

Daytime heat
Without relief,
How summer
Breezes swelter.

We pray for rain,
But no rain comes,
Corn rows
Growing drier.

Come Sunday,
Worship time
Has come;
Hear wailing
From
Town crier.

________________

IS THE WORLD STILL THERE?
—Joseph Nolan

Every so often
I look out my window
To see if
The world’s still there.

The cars parked on my street,
The people I might meet
If I walked out my door.

I wonder why I wonder?
They’re all there
As they were, before,
But since I have retired,
I never cease to wonder,
Anymore.

Seahorse Knocker

DISHES VS. COLIC
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Multi-tasking includes a reasonable
expectation of success, so attempts in
this area may involve no more work
than punching a few buttons to start a
machine (like a dishwasher) which does
the real work and usually yields an
outcome of success.

I am a great multi-tasker.

With juggling, conversely, there is often
a lingering expectation that success is
improbable, so when that same individual
who excels at multi-tasking dares to make
attempts in this area, the results may not
be to anyone’s satisfaction. Examples here
include tending a baby with colic, or trying
to administer multiple medicines orally to a
feisty Chihuahua.

I am a terrible juggler.

Lady Knocker

ECLIPSE
—Caschwa

Was okay not caravanning all the way
out to South America to view a lunar
eclipse, confident that scientists and
journalists would have it covered

More greatly concerned about the
impending eclipse of our nation’s hopes
and values, along with the very flame
of Lady Liberty, due to you know who

_______________

THEY JUST KEEP TALKING
—Caschwa

“We will bury you.”
“Death to infidels.”
“Breaking news …”

“I have a dream.”
“I am the greatest.”
“I am not a crook.”
“I am 100% not guilty."
“I did not have sexual relations with that woman.”
“I’ll paint any car any color for $19.95.”

“At the tone, the time will be …”
“The happiest place on Earth.”
“Sock it to me, baby.”
“Look for the helpers.”
“Slam dunk!”

Not Gettin' In!

THE SESSION
—Caschwa

The good doctor had to provide
two recliner chairs, each as long as wide
to accommodate the couplet
seeking answers as yet unmet

alpha gerbils usually don’t have such
complicated social issues that much
when you take away the sexual
component, the rest is intellectual

however, a chorus of two alpha gerbils
tends to sound like competing doorbells;
which to answer, which to ignore,
is there ever an end, what else is in store?

Lion Head Knocker

CAPTAIN EDDY
—Caschwa

The fearless Captain Eddy
a sturdy rowboat has he
set out upon the windy sea

a problem somehow left unspoken:
one of two paddles was badly broken
which left him just circlin’ and soakin’

he’s still out there to this day
one good paddle, his mainstay
far from home back at the bay

__________________

Today’s LittleNip(s):

ROAD RAGE?
—Joseph Nolan

Think twice.
Be nice.
Don’t roll
The dice.

* * *

A DREAM OUT LOUD
—Joseph Nolan

A dream
Is just a dream
Until it’s
Said out loud,
Then it is
A story
For the crowd.

_____________________

Our thanks to Carl and Joseph for today’s poetry, and to Chris Moon for photos from his Door Knocker collection!

This is a busy week in our area, poetry-wise, starting tonight with Steven Sanchez and Michelle Brittan Rosado at Sac. Poetry Center, 7:30pm. On Weds., SPC will host the MarieWriters Generative Writing Workshop from 6-8pm, led this week by Christin O’Cuddahy.

Thursday at noon, Third Thursday at the Central Library will feature a poetry read-around hosted by Mary Zeppa and Lawrence Dinkins, 828 I St., Sac. (Bring a poem by someone other than yourself.) Thursday night will present a difficult choice: Open Poetry Night at the Gallery at Crocker Art Museum, 7pm, featuring open mic, poet Donté Clark, and the art of Jacob Lawrence (be sure to reg., and open mic sign-ups begin at 6pm); or Lee Herrick at Poetry in Davis at the John Natsoulas Gallery, 8pm.

On Friday, Sac. Poetry Center features a book release by NSAA (Lawrence Dinkins), 6pm; then Speak Up: The Art of Storytelling and Poetry meets at the Avid Reader in Sac., 7pm. Then on Saturday morning, also at SPC, Writers on the Air meets from 9:30am-1pm, this month featuring Jennifer O’Neill Pickering and two poets from Sable & Quill (Bethanie Humphreys and Heather Judy), plus open mic. Also on Saturday, Poetic License meets in Placerville at the Sr. Center from 2-4pm. This month’s suggested topic is “mystify”, but other subjects are also welcome. 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.

Where, Here

—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

DECORUM

Two girls, identical as twins—but years apart by
one or two—sit posed alike and dressed the same:

long skirts and sleeves and pleated bodices—
hair pulled back tight and center-parted. They

sit up straight, demure, to show how well-behaved,
obedient and promising conformity to what society’s

norm expects of them. They almost smile to keep
the look their mother wants. You’ll note they

do not twitch, or blink, or breathe—but hold that
look to yours—a century later. You hope they fled

the pose at last, to squeal and giggle out the door
to play and rumple their dresses and muss their hair.

__________________

THE SEPARATED TWINS
After Antoon van Welie, Princesses of the Legend, 1899

Two sisters
merge into only child

each protective of the other
though they are jealous.

Each is given
the same identity.

A truthful mirror
stands between them

one to each side
of its imaging.

When they look in,
they are each other.

This comforts them.
Their eyes make claim.

They become one.

Refuge

ALONE NOW
“There is a community of the spirit. / Join it, and feel the
delight / of walking in the noisy street, / and being the noise.”
—Rumi

How infinite the consequence—how true—
how far the drift—alone in white surroundings
with your thoughts and view—so limitless
and without sound, and without shore;
where are the birds . . .
where is the sky . . .
and where
all that you thought you wanted—
all that you thought you knew . . . ?
                       ~
It is like coming out of a spiral
     changed and
         erased of
            all damage—
                 making
                    one step forward
                    into a vast whiteness.
                 No memories
               impede,
            you are the one
          made
       of particles,
     as if you have yet to
    become real.
   You are looking for
    the other—
      the one you have
        dreamed,
          the one you love
             without knowing love,
               the one you need for a mirror.

A Complexity

COMMISERATIONS

I’ve got to be able to not die from this. All the mercies
follow, bearing brimming vials of tears. Their hands

tremble. The mercies falter in their wailing gowns,
knowing how desolate I am. They have hidden all

my mirrors. We have never solved the sorrow, its dull
reflection. The trail is dark with blood. It is old blood.

Other tracks smear over it. The old grief brings us here,
reflected in this grove of mirror-trees, shimmering and

shattering around us with their weeping. What county
of horror is this? Grief was never this far. My feet bleed.

The mercies sacrifice into shadows where they blend
and become each other. Their commiserate patience

consoles me. It is such a long way through the promises.
I enter the shadows.

Disenfranchised

POVERTY
After Street Art by ana9112, Brussels, Belgium

Cowering now, wings folded, she waits for the
next need to move her toward night or toward
morning in the crevice of the hallway
of the white stone building
of one more desperation;
she shivers from the
feelings she
has found
as if one more
unworthy love
has found her in
a moment of doubt
and transpired her from
the myths of herself to
the new reality. Now she
is left on a cold staircase
with a dream that will not waken.
The old shadow has pulled away
and left her timeless. She hugs herself
and waits, but something has forsaken her.
Maybe it will come to her before the need
is beyond redemption.

__________________

SOMETIMES THE CALL IS FAINT

and from a distance unrecalled,
the first warning,
a pleasing thought that tried to hide.

But the call was there,
sifting between the silence like dust.
I strained to hear it.

It had words, muffled and tender.
It had urgency,
and made a promise too thin to hear.

Had I time enough I would have followed
the first echo. I counted on the loyalty
of love that was as fragile.

Who was it? What in this terrible moment
of loss took precedence? What did I lose
that mourns so heavily in me now?

I search the golden end of every sunset,
feeling, knowing, and remembering.
But all the sunsets glow like this . . .

The Anonymous

GRIEF POEM

Mother, what are your rules?
You ache to my heart like an old toy.

Where have you taken your death?
Is it mine?
Did you lead the way
with one example only?

Will I know you in the void
or will we disappear together?
Have you no message for me?

Mother, I am delirious:
I felt you stroke my hair and weep.
I felt your tears upon my face
and I was both of us.

How small we are together
in the large life,
both afraid
of the overpowering dark.

(first pub. in Piedmont Literary Review, 1990)

Appeal

WOMAN IN ORCHARD
After 1997 Calendar: Women by Women, The Royal
Photographic Society,“Pomegranates” by Minna Keene
(Canadian, 1861-1943)

An unsmiling woman, bearing apples on a
dark tray, half-hidden under yellow

flecks of light through a dense tree,
on a September calendar—who does she

remind you of? Not Eve. Not your long-
dead mother. Not anyone you know,

though she is familiar. She is a trans-
figurement of green. Her green dress

blends with the darker green of the
orchard. Her tray is held steady,

in a serene pose of patience. She is
green shadow. Her apples gleam.

She lets her eyes linger upon you.
You cannot make out her features;

she has moved back one shadow
deeper. She beckons you in.

She would never harm you.
You can trust her.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE ONLY GRIEVING CHAIR
—Joyce Odam

Death is where the sorrow is.
Death sighs in its innocent role.
Death takes up the only grieving chair.
Death is surprised that you cry.
Death hands you a dark rose
and says it had to open.

(first pub. in Piedmont Literary Review, 1990)

_____________________

Many thanks to Joyce Odam for her fine poetry and photos today! Our Seed of the Week was Brotherhood; she chose to shine the light on Commisseration, providing a warm blanket for our brothers and sisters in turmoil.

Our new Seed of the Week is Loss. Loss can be devastating, uplifting, a relief, a great sorrow, new freedom, or—loss of car keys, loss of money, weight loss, loss of hair… As always, think broadly! Send your poems, photos & artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from.

For more about Antoon Van Welie, go to www.askart.com/artist_bio/Antoon_Van_Welie/11146803/Antoon_Van_Welie.aspx/.

—Medusa (Celebrate Poetry!)

Street Art by ana9112 in Brussels, Belgium

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.

5 AM Moon

—Photo by Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA

—Poems by Carol Louise Moon

PERFECTION

The stillness of a full moon,
chill poise of dreamscape,
and the sound of a fan stirring
air muffles terse conversation...

We lie in our rooms of pink
for me and blue for you.
We need light for comfort, but
we shiver in darkness.

What can be heard from our
rooms that the stillness of
the moon does not witness in
its quiet begging of perfection?

Heart Candle

—Photo by Carol Louise Moon

BY CANDLE LIGHT

I knew that I would love you
when I saw you lying there
beneath the color blue:
two black eyes—raven hair.

When I saw you lying there
I gazed into your eyes,
two black eyes—raven hair
so soft. I heard your cries.

I gazed into your eyes
again by candle light
so soft. Hearing your cries,
I held you through the night.

Again by candle light,
beneath the color blue
I held you through the night.
I knew that I would love you.

________________

MIN-PIN IN MOONLIGHT

There he stands, small—
a shiny black dog silhouette
on striped brown planks
of house deck;
his pearl black eyes
gleaming in moonlight.

He has eaten his fill—
his long-stick legs still
supporting his belly,
hammock-style.

His cropped sausage tail
points to a constellation—
a gathering of stars
he cannot see due to mist
surrounding the moon.

“Look at me,” the moon invites.
“Yes,” the min-pin whines—
then, “No,” he whimpers.
It’s the shiny buck in the field
he seeks as his companion.

Min-Pin

—Photo by Carol Louise Moon

PLIGHT OF THE NIGHT JANITOR

He pushes his broom
all the way to doomsday,
not wanting to discuss
the filing of paperwork
along the way.

He knows the plastic trash,
cardboard, and coupons
carelessly discarded—
all that is disgusting about
this supermarket—
will follow him.

He rests his mop against
the break room table,
waiting for the meltdown
of an iceberg.

Push Broom

—Photo by Carol Louise Moon

EVENING ON RATTAN

Her suitor, a tired old man
in no mood for dancing,
sits as he is on rattan.
His woman waves a hanky
as she sallies up to his gray face.
He chooses to ignore her.

Standing as he is near rattan
chair, a man impatiently taps
his patent-leather shoes.
She sallies up to his gray face;
she’s in the mood for dancing.
He chooses to ignore her hanky.

In patent-leather shoes
and gray suit another old man
sits in a chair of rattan,
impatiently tapping his shoes.
He’s in the mood for dancing.
He chooses to ignore her suitor.

________________

FORKLIGHT OPERATOR

See him through the window,
the forklift’s little window
with the large forklift, lifting.

Sitting up high, he rolls along
rolling through the green
grocery aisle past fish
and meats.

When he meets others, he
lifts them up with his words;
a preacher preaching—
a fork on the aisle

like a fork in the road,
one-way leading to heaven,
one-way leading to hell.

What! A heavenly smell of fish?
What a heavenly smell of fish!

Now he’s preaching like a
preacher and reaching like
a reacher.

Now he’s dying.
He’s dying to get off early
to see the preacher’s daughter.

Super Moon

—Photo by Chris Moon

MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM
AT THE MADONNA INN, 1967

The night is short. Her royal-blue
gown hangs as pillar cover over
her Greek athletic. Patent-leather
shoes of black crocodile peek out
from under. Gem and pearl earrings
dangle from a face so lit by moonlight
that her valiant squints his blue-gray
eyes of delight. A creamy wrist orchid
megaphones their proper names.
Penguin-suited musicians play in an
alcove of this cool, stone wine cellar.
A dream is unfolding, its memory
is sealed.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

moonless night…
a powerful wind embraces
the ancient cedars

—Matsuo Bashō

___________________

Our thanks to Carol Louise Moon and to her brother, Chris Moon, for splashing delightful poems and photos across our Kitchen table today, two of which are shots of the moon. One is tempted to make some sort of joke about Moons sending moons, but that would be supermoonfluous.

Sac. Poetry Center presents the MarieWriters Generative Writing Workshop tonight, 6-8pm, 25th & R Sts., Sac., facilitated this week by Christin O’Cuddahy. 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

Madonna Inn, San Luis Obispo, 1962

The Madonna Inn was quite The Thing back in
the '50’s and '60’s.

That’s where I first met up with a vibrating bed.

For more about the Inn’s history, go to

www.madonnainn.com/our-history/.

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.

First Lady of Spring

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

BROTHER BIRD

White-breasted Nuthatch
this morning at the feeder
so frantic-busy—
must be famished between storms.
I’m glad I filled the feeder.

__________________

WILL IT SNOW?

Rainbow behind me,
sun blinding on the shotgun-
window side, big dark
cloud’s downpour pelting car roof—
dusk and I’m aiming for home.

SNOW ON SPRING STREET
(a Catena Rondo)

We’re at the black ice edge unraveling
on four-lane highway and back roads of town,
a fairytale of snowflakes drifting down.
We’re at the black ice edge unraveling

on four-lane highway and back roads of town,
the secret alleys’ mysteries under snow.
Streets reflect blind dazzle, an eerie glow
on four-lane highway and back roads of town,

the secret alleys, mysteries under snow.
A car fishtails and winds up in the ditch,
its traction zeroed by the gaze of witch.
The secret alleys? mysteries under snow.

A car fishtails and winds up in the ditch.
We’re at the black ice edge unraveling
our plans set yesterday for traveling.
A car fishtails and winds up in the ditch.

We’re at the black ice edge unraveling
on four-lane highway and back roads of town,
a fairytale of snowflakes drifting down.
We’re at the black ice edge unraveling.

ACROSS CONTINENT AND TIME
for Coppa Hembo and Elihu Burritt

In this midnight between days and ages
two long-dead men of peace in storm-weather—
the Yankee blacksmith who wrote long pages
on brotherhood bringing men together;
a Nisenan chief of the same feather.
In their timeless day beyond Earth Mother,
what might they speak of, one to another?
Too many wars white against white; white
against red, black, brown, and yellow brother,
against green Earth herself. Night against light.

OLIVE LEAF SEWING CIRCLES
1846, 1866 and so on

The women sit at their needlework
stitching a pattern. Brotherhood.
Shall their boys become soldiers?
Each stitch says never. Still
war happens, as it always has before.
Men’s ideas turn to argument;
they speak with guns and swords.
Isn’t this how the last war started?

It takes one hundred million needles
every week to mend what battles
tore. Families in tatters. Every stitch
for the love of some woman’s man,
that he come home safe from war;
that man-kind change its heart to Peace.

PRISONERS OF WAR
         after Elihu Burritt's “After-Battle Amenities”

These Russian soldiers taken in battle
by the French, detained
inside Liédot—island fort on the Île d'Aix—
look how they come tonight
in full uniform, but convivially
on invitation of their captors.
       What of the war?

French and Russian, they speak of far-off
homes, of wives and sweethearts
left behind; a little girl called Tatyana,
a boy christened Jean-Christophe.
In time the conversation turns to politics.
A Russian says, we are only machines
of slaughter. Off the field of battle,
we have no enemies.
Does he raise a glass to his hosts?

And a man—English or French, or
Russian—wanders the battlefield at night,
binding up wounds of the dying,
no matter what uniform they bleed,
in what language they cry.
What of the war?
        We are only brothers.

BORDER BROTHERS
Mexico City earthquake, 1985

In the brotherhood of nations, who are we?
After disaster across the border
our government sent aid—
from fiber-optic and seismic mining teams
to a tool primitive but perceptive
as my search dog’s nose

to help rescue a brother-nation’s people—
such resilient people working day and night,
some with hacksaw blades in bare hands,
cutting rebar and smashing cement,
digging through tons of rubble
to find family, friends, strangers—

people like Fernando, come now
to our country to work among us. When storm
blocks our driveway with snow-fallen oak,
or rain clogs the culverts, making
our creek a river to overflow the road,
he’s here at the ring of a phone,

clearing a path for us,
doing what we couldn’t do for ourselves.
I call him Brother.
Most of us from immigrant stock—
aren’t we Americans a generous people?
How have we lost our way?

Today’s LittleNip:

RAIN ON THE POND
—Taylor Graham

Raindrops on water,
each drop rippling rings outward
joining as network—
what message in this lovely
already dissolving web?

___________________

Many thanks to Taylor Graham for today’s fine poems and photos! She writes, “Brotherhood makes me think of Elihu, the American advocate of world peace.” Elihu Burritt (1810-1879), called the "Learned Blacksmith," conceived measures that helped internationalize the 19th-century pacifist movement. Taylor Graham’s book, Walking With Elihu, may be seen at www.amazon.com/Walking-Elihu-Burritt-Learned-Blacksmith/dp/1452896216/, and you can read more about Burritt at www.encyclopedia.com/people/history/us-history-biographies/elihu-burritt/.

Check out the Catena Rondo form at www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/catena-rondo-poetic-forms OR www.thepoetsgarret.com/2013Challenge/form17.html/.

Poetry in our area begins at noon today with Third Thursday at the Central Library, Sacramento Room, 828 I St., Sac. (Bring poems by someone other than yourself.) Then tonight, 7pm, head down to the Crocker Art Museum for Open Poetry Night at the Gallery, 216 O St., Sac. (Open mic sign-ups begin at 6pm.) The evening will be dedicated to celebrating the current exhibit of artist Jacob Lawrence with a poetry open mic, poet Donté Clark, and a brief overview called "History, Labor, Life: The Prints of Jacob Lawrence". Go to www.crockerart.org/event/1901/2019-02-21 for info and to register; space is limited. Free for members or with the price of admission to the Museum.

Or keep going across the Causeway to Poetry in Davis at 8pm, featuring Lee Herrick plus open mic at the John Natsoulas Gallery, 521 1st St. 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!)

Our Brother, the White-Breasted Nuthatch
—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.

—Anonymous Photos

—Poems by William S. Gainer, Grass Valley, CA

THE WATSONVILLE JOB, ’69 – ‘80

Worked for an outfit
over in Watsonville
years ago.
Three kids
and a house payment.
They gave us a turkey
and a ham,
Thanksgiving and Christmas—
eleven years on the job.

I'd give the tickets
to Kae St. Marie,
she'd go over
to the little grocery
in Pajaro,
CA
pick out
what was right
for us,
write the boss
a thank-you note
invite him over
he never showed.

We ate good—
all the way down to
the carcass boiling
for late-night soup ...

TO THE STARS

Yes, the yard is small
but it is yours.
A sanctuary
of sorts
a place for the stars
to rest their wings
hide in shadows
and dance—
as the song goes—
in the moonlight.

DATE NIGHT

We had red meat
tonight.
Prime Rib
and the other
stuff—
all the other
stuff.
14 ounces
we ate about ten
each
and the other
stuff —
all the other
stuff.
Took the rest
home
dogs
and sandwiches.
Our bloodlust
complete.

THE COLOR OF PAINT

Painted the shed
a deep forestry brown
so in the dark
it disappears.

Tonight, it’s gone.

If this works
as planned
in the morning
it will be returned.

If not
we lost
another one.

WE TALKED ABOUT THINGS—
IT DIDN’T HELP

My barber’s wife
is dying.
It was the saddest
haircut
ever.

_______________

MOLLY’S FUNERAL

I’ll sit in the car
wait for you.
Sip a little bourbon
take a little
nap.
We’ll drive home
slow
talk about
something else.

HOW A KILLER EATS SPAGHETTI

I like my marinara
with bow tie pasta.
You don’t have to
fuck around
getting it on the fork
just stab it once
and it’s done.

_________________

WHERE THINGS BATTLE
FOR THEIR LIVES

My world lives purely
in my imagination.
Love, fear, hates
as in plural—more than one—
battle for their lives
there.

My days are their milk
my nights their cradles.
I don’t know
if my therapist believes
my stories ...

She wants to know
if I loved my mother.
As if
there is more
to tell.
I finally said yes.
She seemed happy.

YOU NEVER KNOW

The kid in line
looked shifty.
I didn’t trust him.

Asked me to sign
his book.
I figured he was—up to
something.

These days
things happen.
You never know.

No sense
taking a chance.
I forged
my name.

HOW I PARK MY CAR

No room
for big cars
cigarette-smoking woman
or bourbon-sipping
old men—
the page has turned on us.

Some days
I talk to old men
who don’t breathe
gray-skinned women
who only
exhale ...
and anxiety-ridden children
who never learned
how to spit properly.
They’re all hated
by somebody.
Me too
I guess.

I park my car
anywhere I want
two spaces sometimes.
Go inside, order up a double
straight, on the rocks
sit at the window, sip
think about a different time
a different kind of noise
wonder how the world
got so goddamn quiet.

THE TASTE OF NEON

To walk away
pocket change
rattling
a simple
hangover
and the taste
of neon
forever
on your lips
is a good thing.
I guess.
Luck, if you will.
Then again
if it’s her
calling
it’s best to let luck
surrender early
and the taste
of the neon
pull you both
back
into the night.

THE LIFE AND TIMES OF
AN IGUANA

When they kill the sun
I’ll know it’s over.
Until then
I adapt ...

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

“TRUTH, JUSTICE, AND THE AMERICAN WAY“
the day Kavanaugh got the job, 9.7.2018

I've been in this fight
too many years—
all losing does
is tell me
I'm on the right side ...
Tonight,
I'll sit in the back,
alone,
tell myself to rise up.
The fight ain't over—
you're still in it ...
and I am ...

____________________

Welcome back to SnakePal Bill Gainer, who is a storyteller, humorist, award-winning poet, and maker of mysterious things. He earned his BA from St. Mary’s College and his MPA from USF. He is the publisher of the PEN Award-winning R. L. Crow Publications. Gainer is internationally published and known across the country for giving legendary, fun-filled performances. His new book is The Mysterious Book of Old Man Poems from Lummox Press; check it out at www.amazon.com/Mysterious-Book-Old-Man-Poems/dp/0998458058/. Then visit Bill at billgainer.com/.

Tonight at 6pm, Sac. Poetry Center will feature a book release by Lawrence Dinkins (NSAA): Warrior Poet. Then at 7pm, Speak Up: The Art of Storytelling and Poetry will present works on the theme of “He (She) Loves Me, He (She) Loves Me Not”. That’s at the Avid Reader on Broadway in 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!)

Inside of every poet lies a wolf, howling at the moon…
—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.

Yolo County Flyway, Autumn, 2016

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

Yellow fields under white clouds.
It is September and the corn is ready to harvest.
Driving through the Yolo County farm lands
I can see that it was a good summer.
Tomato trucks moving slow on the farm roads.
Tractors moving farm equipment.
In a pasture north of town I can see
That the colt that was new in the spring
Now runs and plays, sometimes even hopping.
The road is empty for a few minutes
And I pull the car over and get out.
Sixty-one years old with a birthday approaching.
I am no farmer, but I love good tilled earth.
White clouds float over yellow fields.
I scoop up some dirt in my hands.

Coffee Time

Chilly dawn, jacket zipped up, on the patio
Typing edited poems and sipping
Black coffee from an old Stanley thermos.
The express commuter bus
Going from here in Davis to Sacramento
Zips by—the buses are quieter nowadays
With cleaner engines and better fuel.
In a way I have it all: poetry, strong coffee,
The workings of industry and science
Driving the economy, and a crisp sunrise.
All at the same time. Good morning, folks!

Bodhidharma

Walking in the park
Just after the rain ends,
I see an earthworm,
Moving slowly across my path,
Seemingly at one with the earth.
So I ask him,
"Why did Bodhidharma come from the west?"
He ignores me.
Absolutely perfect answer.

Sacramento Valley Farmland

Putah Creek, west of the city of Davis.
I park my old Volvo in the lot at Pedrick Road
And walk down to the creek path.
Strolling east, toward town,
Less than a mile in I see a sweet spot
Under a valley oak and spread my mat
To linger for a nap among the roots,
In the cool shade. There are bright flowers
And the breeze smells sweet.
Hours later, I am still lingering.

Knight's Landing, Old Door

Do you wish to learn how to live well?
Watch the oak trees through the seasons.
Glorious all summer, every autumn
They let go of all they do not need
To survive the winter cold.
And in the spring, rebirth.
Beauty, strength, persistence.
A long life followed by a graceful death.
Who could ask for more?

Lake Grapevine, Texas

Lake Grapevine, Texas.
I held you naked in my arms
Under the dark, warm water,
Where no one else could see.
All the trouble that was coming,
I could see future pain in your eyes,
I could taste a delicious sorrow on your tongue.
—And I chose the trouble anyway.
Many, many years ago.

Wabi-Sabi

Yes, friend, the oceans rise
And wash away the land.
Yes, friend, the sun falls from sky
And pitiful man dies.
Yes, friend, the armies are ready
To attack and kill us all.
Yes, friend, things are happening now
That are ‘way beyond anyone’s control.
Yes, friend, the hungry.
Yes, friend, the homeless.
The poor, the weak, the victims.
Yes, friend, those who hate
Seem to outnumber those who love.
And yes, friend, I am still sitting here
And meditating. Try to remember—
Yes, friend, the sun will rise again
And warm the earth.
Yes, friend, the moon and stars
Will bless the night with light.
Yes, friend, a child was born,
And then another. And another.
Hope lives, my friend,
Because we still live.
Death will come, my friend,
But life is already here.
Be here with it.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Even your mistakes are grace.
Seek the middle way
With easy steps.

—James Lee Jobe

__________________

Good morning yourself, James Lee Jobe, and thank you for your usual fine poems and photos!

This morning, beginning at 9:30am, Writers on the Air presents Jennifer O’Neill Pickering, along with Sable and Quill writers Bethanie Humphreys and Heather Judy, plus open mic. That’s down at Sac. Poetry Center, hosted by Todd Boyd.

Then this afternoon, 2-4pm, Poetic License poetry read-around takes place at Placerville Sr. Center lobby, 937 Spring St. in Placerville. 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

Hope lives, my friend...

—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 Susan Sigge, Martinez, CA

The naked branches
Of the scrub oak tree reach out
Toward the ground toward me

I hear the low moan
Of lonely ships in the fog
Greeting each other

Winter evening sun
Reflected in cool waters
Black birds call good night

I see the still dark waters
that reflect the trees
perfectly blurring the lines
between reflection and reality

The gold light of dawn
shimmers through the fog droplets
cool breezes kiss me

Sunlight shimmers
on fresh green grass
as it waves
giddily to me

Speedy clouds above
Race across the bright green hills
Grass below waves back

Strong February winds
Push clouds to race across the hills
Who will be first?

On my swing on a sunny cold February day
I am at peace.
The seemingly dead scrub oak upon closer inspection
teeming with life.

Sun tickles the tips of the pine needles
Sending sparks to my eye

This is the dawning of our lives
We sit and drink wine
Listen to Green Day.
The sun is dying.
Laughter continues.

Stepping stones out back
Forming a path between our gardens.
We don't walk alone.

____________________

Welcome to the Kitchen to Susan Sigge, a professional flutist for 30 years, performing in orchestras, chamber groups and as a soloist, teacher, adjudicator, Master class teacher, and clinician. She is also an Inclusion Specialist and Autism Spectrum teacher at the high school level, and loves to garden, bake, travel, hike, ask questions, and eat good food and drink. Welcome, Susan, and don’t be a stranger!

—Medusa (Celebrate Poetry!)

—Photo by Susan Sigge

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

—Photo by Sue Crisp, Shingle Springs, CA

COLORS
—Sue Crisp

A winter’s sunset sets the stage
for nightfall.

Clouded skies boasting a myriad
of vibrant hues,
resembling vintage wines.

Rose, Blush, Chablis,
shot through with a hint of Cabernet.

The perfect combination
for a cozy fire, and a glass
of your favorite wine.

—Photo by Sue Crisp

BARING IT
—Sue Crisp

Bare branches in the winter are a form of writing.
—Line from Billy Collins poem, “Winter Syntax”

Each season trees, of leaves, are bare,
as nature nudes their branches.
Their rustle no longer heard in
brisk breezes or sighing winds of the
changes brought by approaching winter.
Limbs, a former shadow of themselves are
only a changed part of a
centuries old form
that reminds us of
barren limbs reaching up in the wind, sky writing.

—Photo by Sue Crisp

SIGNS
—Sue Crisp

Stop!
Looking for the season past.

Look!
Snow has started to fall.

Listen!
Hail is pinging against the window.

Winter!
Has finally come to call.

—Photo by Susan Sigge, Martinez, CA

WINTER’S RETREAT
—Ian Copestick, Stoke on Trent, England

Winter's retreating back to from where it came
The country is getting ready for springtime again
Every evening is a little bit lighter
The sun seems to be shining brighter
I feel almost giddy with relief that winter has passed
And with anticipation that spring is nearly here at last
You'd think by my age, I'd be used to seasons turning
But every spring sees the excitement returning
I never get bored of seeing buds growing from seeds
Or watching the leaves appear on the trees
And I hope that I stay this way until I die
As the earth renews itself, so do I

____________________

LIFE AND THE PASSING OF TIME
—Ian Copestick

Life and the passing of time
Are strange, things that were
Once so important that you
Couldn't live without them, now
Mean nothing, or even less
Than that. The woman you
Thought was the love of your
Life, who broke your heart into
A million pieces, now you see
It as a lucky escape. All the
Years and money you spent
As a heroin addict, now you
Wouldn't go near it, even if it
Was free.
I suppose things like this give
Me hope for the future; I made
It through those mistakes, I
Can make it through more, and
As I get older and presumably
Wiser, I think there may be a
Chance for me to make it
Through to salvation.

—Photo by Susan Sigge

A POEM IS AN ONION
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Sun and soil fed
plucked from its nurturing bed
green, yellow, white, red

Like cigar smoke, its aroma will be shared
with all around you, bringing enjoyment to
some, and upset to others; just don’t dress
your onions in gym clothes or people will
get the wrong idea

Farmer in the dell
tough meat under flimsy shell
sharpen that knife well

_________________

THE IZE HAVE IT
—Caschwa

Not so fast!
say counsel for the amalgamated union of dots

You’re going to need to meet with our delegates
and work out a contract before you can claim any
rights to expressions containing IZE, JAYZ,
PERIODS, COLONS, UMLAUTS, or ELLIPSES

Let us know when you are ready for a deal
and you can sign on the dotted line

—Photo by Susan Sigge

NO MOTTO WHAT
—Caschwa

Recently the POTUS stood under the official
motto of the USA: “In God We Trust” to
deliver the SOTU Address. One small glitch:
this individual has willfully and repeatedly
broken what he regards as the relatively weak
bond of holy matrimony in favor of the much
stronger lure of personal

GRATIFICATION!!! (deserves special recognition)

In my book, he has forfeited and lost any
credibility, authority, or standing when it comes
to preaching on any subject to anybody else.

Do as I say, not
as I do, and I will keep
God in my speeches

________________

GRAB THAT PATENT
—Caschwa

When we go to take a bath we rightfully
expect there to be faucets that let us access
both hot and cold water. And when we take
a drive into town we expect traffic signal lights
to indicate both stop and go. So how come
those geniuses who designed houses only
provided down spouts from the roof?

Duh! We also need
some up spouts mounted to flush
extra leaves away.

—Photo by Susan Sigge

BACK TO THE BOONDOCKS
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

I want to disappear
Into the boondocks
When I retire.
A place
Without locks,
With keys
Left in cars
All the time,
Atop the visor,
Where everyone
Was ever the wiser
And knew they
Had nothing to lose.
Dogs let to roam
Around the streets
At their leisure.
Kids played outside
At their pleasure.
We never were worried.
Our jobs were secure.
I want to go back
Where I came from—
Back to the boondocks!
But though I’d like
To disappear
Into nostalgic air,
The boondocks
Are no longer there!

_________________

AT THE END OF THE DAY
—Joseph Nolan

“At the end of the day.....”
Here’s the message
To take away—
Whatever follows next
Is what you’re
Supposed to remember!
How many times have you heard it said?
It’s like, “Listen up, people!
Here comes your social programming!”

At the end of the day,
The sun goes down,
The moon comes up
The stars come out
And we’re expected
For dining, dancing
Singing, shout,
As though we were all happy,
As though we ever were happy,
As though we’re still happy, now,
And knew what it was all about.

At the end of the day
I feel I’d like to crawl away
Someplace dark and warm to sleep
To lay me down, my soul to keep.

—Photo by Susan Sigge

EMPTINESS OF LOSS
—Joseph Nolan

Something drew away,
Quickly, suddenly, silently,
As though by vacuum,
Which I could not bear to lose.

The world feels so empty
When you no longer feel
Anything more than the
Emptiness of loss.

_________________

MOLTING SEASON
—Joseph Nolan

In reverent undulation,
A snake will shed its skin,
But not before the new one
Is ready to begin.

Such is the way of change:
Too soon,
And it’s too painful!
Too late,
And it’s too strange.

When it’s time,
Get ready,
Feel the signal:
Itchiness
Might be your early sign
That nature is moving
In its order
Briefly toward disorder
To re-arrange.

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

SUMMER’S EASE
—Joseph Nolan

Flowers, grass, trees,
Buzzing bumblebees,
Gentle summer breeze,
Days spent at ease,
By these
Will you be pleased
Before
Brightly—
Colored leaves
Signal winter’s coming.

_________________

Thanks to today’s Monday crew of cooks in the Kitchen for their fine poetry and photos! I do notice that we seem to be on the cusp of spring; some are saying winter is here, some say she’s done. Well, that’s the truth!

Anyway, Sue Crisp is back with us with her lovely pix and poems; Ian Copestick has sent us two intriguing poems by virtual steamship from Stoke on Trent (including a sonnet); Caschwa has made our recent Seed of the Week, the Haibun, part of his poetry skin, skillfully writing lots of them as we approach the Ize of March; Joseph Nolan sends us smooth elegies on various types of Loss, our current Seed of the Week; and some of Susan Sigge’s additional (wonderful!) photos grace these poems. (See yesterday’s post for more about Susan.)

I don’t usually wax so poetic about our SnakePal Stars, but I do feel gratitude for each and every one of them: poets, photogs, those who send announcements for the calendar; those who send weekly posts and those who are more sporadic; those who live down the street and those from across the county and across the sea. One of my British pals called us “eclectic”, which was my goal scads of years ago when I started this blog. I appreciate poets who write in all sorts of styles about love, politics, spirituality, nature, history; silly poems; serious and painful ones; things and places and people I know or don’t know. Our community has grown over the years, and every day my email brings me surprises—like Christmas! And you’d be surprised how little I censor or reject.

So keep ‘em coming, and know that you’re appreciated. Once a SnakePal, always a SnakePal! All you have to do is send your work to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. I promise to treat it with care…….

Poetry events in our area this week begin tonight, 6pm, with Poetry in Motion poetry read-around at the Placerville Sr. Center lobby, 937 Spring St., Placerville. Then at 7:30pm, Sac. Poetry Center presents Arturo Mantecon and Ivan Argüelles plus open mic, 25th & R Sts., Sac.

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 at SPC for writing poems, facilitated this week by Patricia Wentzel, 6-8pm.

“Relax with Tax for Artists & The Self-Employed” with Jon Martin on Wed. night, 6pm, at Cal. Lawyers for the Arts, 2015 J St., #204, Sac. Be sure to register at calawyersforthearts.org/event-3271859/. And Thurs. is Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe, 1414 16th St., Sac. with featured artists and 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.

Squaw Valley is tuning up again for their Summer Workshops, and if you wish to attend, March 28 is the deadline for submissions to the June 22-29 Community of Writers at Squaw Valley Summer Poetry Workshop. Info: communityofwriters.org/workshops/poetry-workshop/.

Hey! Send Medusa stuff, too!

—Medusa (Celebrate Poetry!) 🙏🏻

Elizabeth Bishop

Speaking of loss, check out “Elizabeth Bishop’s Art of Losing”

at
www.newyorker.com/magazine/2017/03/06/elizabeth-bishops-art-of-losing

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.

Flux

—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

THE KNOWING
“Listen to the sounds of waves within you.”
—Rumi

A bell.
A feather.
A string of white nerve.
Your mind in a frame of thought—
deeper than deep, where you are now,

in curve of blue, in shine of light.
Don’t go too far—
stay in the real,
know where each is,
eyes closed for inner balance—

letting life go into un-life,
mystery of who and where,
the push and pull
of real and unreal—
you between.

How ancient you are.
How new.
One is the same,
except for the difference,
except for the fleeting loss of self,

except for the knowing
which will forget.
The bell
makes a sound.
The white string twists.

The white feather loses connection,
floats down as you float,
inward,
your mind
continuing its curious journey.

Breathing Light

LOSS

Wearing the light now
you are illuminated and
your edges shine.

All around you
is a path
that winds softly under your feet.

You are turned
both toward me
and away from me.

I can see you are transparent.
The mist of your presence
is very fragile.

I want to touch you,
but you shudder.
I am afraid I might break you.

You become filled
with energy
and compress.

You enter shadows
that escort your darkness
into their hiding place.

Where
are
you?

Faux

THE MYSTERIOUS LOSS

It was, and then it was nothing.
You were out of proportion.
Your eyes looked away.
Where was my face?

Two mirrors claimed you.
You were a broken illusion.
Was it love—the broken dream—
the sigh that died before it reached?

Only your eyes could say,
but mine looked inward
before you could answer.
Where were the words we needed?

They were the stillness now.
You were torn by window light—
gashed and bled of all color,
except for the pale flush of silence.

_________________

COMING TO TERMS WITH LONELINESS

Picture this : rain falling on the sea, a small boat
rowing an impossible distance, three vague occupants,
self-absorbed and straining against their own endurance.

Or maybe they are only figments of the distant eye of time
scanning this desolate reach, the sun low enough to reach
if one could touch the horizon or calculate the distance to

some unseen shore, just as far, the sun not having moved
from its position. Which choice will prove worthy of
the dream—surely this is a dream : the soundless air,

the everlasting breathing motion, the sea is barely real,
a wish, the boat placed there for struggle, for conflict,
for isolation, for being the center of some mystery.

Never mind the intention of some other mind, like yours,
at a loss for meaning other than what is surface-caught—
a quick glance into death—that eternal patience.

Asking to be Remembered

THE LOST LOVE

is she not the one
in the long wet dress
shivering through life

covering her shoulders with her hands
pressing her forehead
against cold glass

where bright lights, windowed,
do not warm her
nor night’s shadows cover her enough

do not think her only a ghost
wearing the blue glow
of your imagination

threading through the curtains of night
till there is no more left to be torn
her children will never be born

each year she fades a little more
into the sad memory you keep
wisping and wavering

in the least movement
of your thought
she is only your loss

the one you know will love you forever
if you can only hold her
closer than she is real

she is the old shadow now
touching you where you are shivering
covering you like a cloth

________________

FAÇADE
After Origin of the Greek Vase, painting by Auguste Rodin,
and “You Who Never Arrived”, poem by Rainer Maria Rilke

She enters through your mind,
caught unaware
unready for the pain

that thinking lets return—
yearn
after yearn—

more perfect now
by all that absence,
all that loss.

She enters through your mind
in flawless reproduction,
sensing your recall

and happy to return
to love that is ever restless for
perfection such as this.

Another Time

BURNING QUESTIONS
(Upon reading May Sarton)

How can we take love
into memory again,
spend it twice, like a rare coin

How make room for it
in a dead heart
(echo... echo...)

How can we lose the words for it,
worn like a ring
too tight for a finger

When does the pain numb
beyond sensation,
which, itself, is memory

How does the mind know
when to let go—
where to put the loss

give it back—
to the one who does not want it
in the same regard?

__________________

THE SLOW PATIENCE
OF THESE GATHERING HOURS

The curtains hang damp at my windows—heavy as silence.
I lie upon my own heaviness. Ghosts of the room melt toward
me. I float toward the ceiling which is wavering away. I do
not know if I am sleeping or if I am awake under my sleep.
Tides of desolation wash over my dreams. Sounds of the
world drone away. I grow into the curving shape of air—
the ghosts dissolving around me in the slow persistence of
these gathering hours.

With All My Heart

THE IMMENSITY OF LOSS

In the immensity of loss, to be a small figure at the edge of
a flat sea—forever at calm for a flattened eye; to stand in a
brief forever with a far-reaching stare into the loss of possi-
bility through air that is gold with sunset and as far as the
soul’s horizon—to stay here with no need to make one more
fierce or melancholy cry where there is no ear and there is
no answer—this timeless moment that stays in the suspension
that is mind in memory—sorting the self out from the enor-
mity of despair. This is a moment to pluck out of God’s own
eye that will not see the soul’s dark power—that even out of
this dissolving of hope into hope’s failure, there is still the
question.

____________________

THE WALL MURAL

muraled here for contemplation—or discovery,
whichever is moot—aside from the paleness,
rendered theatrical and sad—with curling

white ribbons—floating—catching on snags
and corners—the faux surface peeling through
the under-painting (the past?) a staircase

and a fence and one high window showing
through. Alongside the largest tear, a clown
and maiden who seem to have gotten free of

the curling picture, standing awed and tentative,
still in costume, not knowing what to make of
change and loss and stunned by circumstance:

How long has it been? Where are they? And
who? And how do they just step from there
into real existence with the night door closing,

its familiar shadow easing over them once again.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Morning and evening
Someone waits at Matsushima!
One-sided love.

—Matsuo Bashō

___________________

Joyce Odam has painted some vivid pictures of loss, our Seed of the Week, in her poetry today, and we thank her for that and for her as-always evocative photos! Our new Seed of the Week is Mix-Ups, suggested by Carl Schwartz (Caschwa). 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.

To read Rilke’s “You Who Never Arrived”, go to www.best-poems.net/rainer_maria_rilke/poem-14306.html/.

—Medusa

Origin of the Greek Vase

(Watercolor, Gouache, and Pencil)

by Auguste Rodin

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

THE STATUE, EYES BLINKING

Nuns power-hose a tall
Madonna and Child
blasting off street dust
and bird droppings

Smiling, they work
nonchalantly in front
of their chapel
in this small town

give "habits" a workout
just as I pass by
open
for anything Holy.

BIRDS IN PASSAGE

At entrance to church
a mother dove claims
an outside rafter
of bonded twigs & straw.

We gaze in awe at the
lofty feathered ring—
a mother dove cooing
who cannot sing.
Some, now entering

the sanctuary, pause
to wish the birdlings well
who know nothing of faith,
sacred space, the sky

yet one day they will fly.

PLANET EARTH AGAIN

Born not immaculately
but messily & miraculously
the earth transcended
that fiery start, finally
cooled, coalesced
into a slightly tipsy
orbit around the sun.

Planet earth
a curious sphere
in an airy atmosphere
a universal hurrah
a heavenly ha-cha-cha!

ON THE SISTINE CHAPEL CEILING

Adam's    and
God's index
fingers extended
nearly touch

The finite
and    infinite
space left
between those

two    fingers.

Common Ground Dove

NOURISHING THE SOUND OF A DRUM
(for my American Indian ancestors)

Place the drum on a pedestal
turn it toward the sun
watch as leafy patterns
slide across the leather

Move flat hands slowly
over drum's looseness, feel
the skin tighten with warmth
toward fuller tones

Rub palm and finger oils
into the grain
Stroke with thanks whatever
anchors the leather

Bless the pedestal, tree stump
or sky backdropping the drum
And bless the animal
which gave the drum its heartbeat.

(from author's collection, Trails of Naming)

Rock Dove

ELEGY FOR WORN-OUT SLIPPERS

Through all the ease-ons after work,
on raw-nerve weekends when teens
had harshly teased and tears welled;
on nights of mother's dying,
and on trips to strange places
where I didn't fit in,
these mellow-grooved slippers
befriended like loving pets.

Now my helpmates are a wreck—
stains, run-over sides. If laundered
the blotches would remain
but the seams would split.
Last week, I kicked them aside
and swallowed hard.

Today I drop
the embattled pair
in a trash can. Surely
there's a slipper heaven.

(from Poets of the Vineyard
Contest Anthology, 1995)

Mourning Dove

ROBBY, 2016

Lost son,
we keep glancing
into the garden as if you
returned from war
as a gritty robin...

Or you might stroll
the cornfield rows, stand
among tassels, fair
like Julie Anne's
flaxen hair...?

The orchards of apple
and peach miss you.
Robby, are you the breeze
when blossoms flutter-fall
like pink and white snow?
True, the seasons get mixed.

We envision you waking
in the smaller haystack when
"collie boy" nudges you to
take him off leash
for a long long walk.

SURELY...
(for Tomye)

Friend, can you come out and play—
surely we are not too old
and it is not too late.
I've complicated things to say,
so please come out again and play,
bring your pictures, photos, stay
to share a hot spaghetti plate.
Surely we are not too old
and it is not too late.

AMAZING

love remains all
after all we go through
together
or within our own story

as heaven's curtain rises
just high enough
to offer
a glimpse of glory.

(from Street Spirit,
Dec. 2018)

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

FREUD, THE EGO IS....

a falcon
we train
for years
to fly back
to our hands
& flex wings
gloriously.

—Claire J. Baker

___________________

Thanks to Claire Baker for her comforting poems today!—and for giving me a chance to post photos of the dove of peace, who comes in many forms and shapes and sizes. . .

Tonight, 6pm, you can either head over to Sac. Poetry Center for the MarieWriters Generative Writing Workshop, facilitated this week by Patricia Wentzel; or you can attend Cal. Lawyers for the Arts'“Relax w/Tax for Artists & the Self-Employed”, 2015 J St., Sac. (Be sure to register at calawyersforthearts.org/event-3271859/.) 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

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

THE FAILED POEM

for the Belltower Girls

I meant it to be a love poem for the girl
they were looking for thirty years ago,
disappeared off Main Street.

It was front-page for weeks. They searched
all over the forest till a camper found her
behind a fallen log. Dead.

But my poem wasn’t just for her, but also
for the other girls found miles apart,
behind logs in the forest. Mostly it was

for that girl discovered on a ridge just above
where I’d walked my dogs, thirty years ago,
a forest road in June, dogwood blooming,

columbine and foxglove on the creek.
I felt a shiver. I hadn’t heard of the missing
girls. Did my dogs sense it on the wind—

her scent, her spirit? I called them back,
drove quick as I could away, to town. Some-
thing in me didn’t want to know

what it knew; what poems can’t save.
No love poem; a poem of loss.
There’s foxglove and columbine in it.

STORM DAMAGE

We set out to count our losses.
It wouldn’t take a long walk to see how much
a profligate storm can break: big oak fallen
on the driveway; barnyard a gooey mess. Creek
running, leaping in swirls and coils gouging
a new path through rock—rimrock, river rock,
boulders. Any of it volcanic? unknown histories
of this place we call solid earth. Stop
and listen. From down-swale, wander-gobbling.
Without a roof against storm, wild turkeys
have lived to talk about it, and peck
fallen acorns, and talk about it some more.

QUARTZ HILL WHISPERS LOSS

No memorial at the foot of hillside,
this far from the land those people came from,
to end up here under grass where nothing
is level as a homely platter but all canyon and
ridges, hollowed-out mines. Here was pest-house
in the epidemic—gone now. An eerie place
but not frightful in the way of superstition
or horror tale; a hospital where those indigents
died. Breeze whispers a brotherhood
under soil. Annual grasses cover their bones;
the iron-spoke markers have rusted away.
Today the homeless have pitched a tent
as if they mean to stay.

PROFITS AND LOSSES

The waiting room reminds me of my vet’s,
not a tax service. Ladies at the counter
are discussing rodents. Beagles are great
at ferreting out ground squirrels, but would they
accept a garage cat to deal with mice?
Ground squirrels—one lady’s son’s a whiz
with airgun-darts; is he for hire? I add
my 2 cents on mice shredding important papers
for their nests. I guess I’m more at home
with vermin than with the tax code.
In the exam room—sorry, this isn’t the vet’s—
in the cubicle with tax expert,
somehow our conversation gets around
to dogs and horses. The lady loves
Morgans and German Shepherds. I walk out
in a glow—nothing to do with taxes.

ELEGY FOR A SEARCH DOG

Wind is a blade that scythes the sky
and my dog was first to run out
catching fragments of news up a swale,
up canyon, from the far valley
then leading me on trail—off any trail but
wise to the wind—
the track a man might wander, lost.
How wild sky sieves through underbrush
and swirls in a pool with light
glazed ice-brilliant, so many colors
of scent.
That dog would range
below the campanile hill, up
scree slopes above timberline
where westerlies wing over the crest.
Who follows the wind
disappears in a gust or a long exhaling
always finding the way to go.

DREAM-LOSS HAS NO END

A dog’s lost in dream,
running the ditch between speed-
way and winter green,
running undetected and
unseen—faster than
car on ice, the glitch of care-
lessness, a sleight or
twitch of physics—fallen in
ravine? A dog lost
in dream won’t be found by dream-
ing. The witch of night-
mare holds that dog pristine but
gone. Wake up! The dog
is keen for daylight, in bed
beside you. Your mind
is the hitch, still caught in its
story, dog lost in your dream.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

ONE SNOWFLAKE
—Taylor Graham

In such winter storm
watch the loss of just one flake
joining the snowpack
forming a ridgeline cornice
waiting to rush down the slope.

____________________

Thanks to Taylor Graham this morning for her haunting poems of loss and snow and buildings long-since fallen. We’ve had two good-sized snowfalls in the foothills this year, and the Grahams’ dog, Loki, seems to find it all very interesting.

Just a reminder that tonight at 11:59pm is the deadline for submissions of artwork and poetry to Crossroads Reading Series and Amber Moon Press’s for their annual chapbook series celebrating National Poetry Month in April. Email 3 poems and/or 3 jpeg images of artwork to AmberMnPress@gmail.com/. Drawings and paintings in any media are preferred. Photographs will also be considered. Info: www.arts.ca.gov/opportunities/acdetail.php?id=361901&amfbclid=IwAR0gIyprkOS_KyHGNlDbGY9lKcFEO7-6Me682Yi6LAVdwdYGEVqDJAS8kTM/.

—Medusa

“Wind is a blade that scythes the sky…”
—Photo (and Quote) 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.

—Poems by JD DeHart, Chattanooga, TN
—Anonymous Photos of Fictitious Birds

BEAK BOY

For his seventh birthday, the parents
gave him a jungle-themed birthday party.
Zebras, lions, and rhinos romped around
with elephants and monkeys.
But he chose the toucan mask.

An hour later, they found him squatting
in the tallest tree in the backyard.
"How did he get up there?" mother asked.
"It's just a phase," father suggested.

It's been months.
He only comes down for earthworms
and slices of cake. He doesn't do his
chores anymore but has built a rather
splendid little nest.

The neighbors complain of late-night
video-game flashes and sounds
coming from the tree. The parents
don't know what will happen when
winter begins to approach, but father
is still insisting it's a phase.

(first pub. at Strange Poetry)

Food of the Gods by Ray Harryhausen

SYMBOLISM TAKES A SEAT

In walked dear symbolism,
whom I invited so often to
class with me and down
she sat.
Along the ride, she pointed
out the plumage of bright
birds flapping past, perhaps
resembling courage;
a pool standing stagnant
representing my lack;
an old man signalling
the inevitability of my fall.
Dear, you read too deeply,
she told me as she left,
just enjoy the rest of the trip,
which I took to mean life.
But maybe not.

(first pub. at Eunoia Review)

Tchar of the Skorr

ABRUPTLY

In rushes the season, in rushes
the dog, small frantic creature.
I drain my life before the classroom,
seeping out my humanity
before an unforgiving audience.
The lesson could involve a dancing
tiger and there would be no ovation.
I could light myself afire and someone,
probably that shaggy shiftless one,
would declare, Boring, then return
to a private world of video game avatars.
My switch of gears is abrupt, threatens
to tear out the transmission of life,
spitting out gravel. Somewhere there’s
a new town with the same old “folks”
who populate this town, only wearing
slightly different shades with a variation
of the now-familiar vernacular.

(first pub. at Eunoia Review)

Dodo

JOHN RUM

When first domesticated, John was given
A power tie and a mug with antlers
He was informed about corporate life

Now he paces in the offices
Snorting and bucking, attempting to climb

The heights are sheer
This is what his hooves are made for

They talk about him at the water cooler.

(first pub. at Eunoia Review)

The Roc

AUTOMOBILES

Kid stuff, the revving engine
in the driveway. I love to take
out the car. The car never
gets taken out.

I was the kind of kid
who made mad car noises,
rocking in his seat.
No I wasn’t.

It’s always raining or about
to rain. It’s always damp
or cloudy. Or I’m just not up
to it. I’m not sure how the
gearshift works anymore.

The car has won awards, but
I never have. Maybe it’s envy.
The car’s red, not green, so
the envy must be in me.

Maybe one day I will grow up.
Or maybe I will finally
take the car out again.

(first pub. at Revolution John)

Phoenix

SACRED

Some people put marks
around a spot of earth
and others hang glass on the wall,
or revel at ceramic figures
or write to famous persons

We collect small items
in boxes, wrap them in newspaper,
and store them away
then get out the old objects

Put them back up to change
seasons, and the cycle continues,
our application of sacred
given to tiny kiln-blown fragments
that cannot even say our names.

(first pub. at Eunoia Review)

RUINS

When they have unearthed us, will they
look back at our architects and mutter,
How they rivaled the pyramids, or will
they first get hold of our wasted celebrity
adoration, our overpopulation, or propensity
for barbaric neighborhood yawp, will they
first peruse the words of Faulkner or Melville,
or lay their hands on the garish pop novels
we carry with us, with oversized umbrellas,
considering our culture with furrowed brows,
will their verdict be, Let us imitate them, or
No wonder they have all gone missing.

(first pub. at Eunoia Review)

SIMPLE VARIATIONS

I was a nose
and two eyes and a mouth
I was a gender
and a race and a class

I was a language
and a code and a system
a culture and a mass
and a movement

Once, but only once,
I thought I was a cult, then
thought I was magic, had
something like destiny,
a bubblegum world at best

Now I am just a voice
trailing off, not liking the
sound of itself recorded.

(first pub. at Revolution John)

LATEX

The slap of rubber, even in its clownish
lavender shade, conveys the deepest sense
of other, the hand arranging the needles,
shaking up the small bottles and I bidding
my love to go be prodded with those same
sharp implements, the smile on a nurse’s
face as thin and medicinal as those gloves,
a voice like the tapping out of air bubbles.

(first pub. at Eunoia Review)

Firebird

MURK

You cannot see the bottom,
neither can I. Should we dive
is the question. I’ve got all
kinds of questions.

I never know the answers or
feel like I have an answer
until I hear someone else speak
more questions. Should we
dive is still the question.

There’s a leaf floating, a sense
of a bottom, or maybe there isn’t.
Maybe this tiny pool takes us
through the center of a quicksand
universe. There’s no pushing
through to the other side.
It’s not possible.

I have no choice but to dive.

(first pub. at Revolution John)

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

ORANGE EPIDEMIC
—JD DeHart

I dreamed about a world where, suddenly
at the edges of their being, some people
started turning orange, burning shades
of autumn, and so the landlords and officers,
wearing their capitalistic top hats, threw
these shades of persons into chains, stuffing
them into Orwellian overalls, and put them
to diligent work building a new country,
throwing up the guard of a new regime.
I have to stop reading dystopian fiction
before turning the lamp out.

(first pub. at Eunoia Review)

_______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to JD DeHart for his lively poems, evoking the fictitious birds in these photos I found…

—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.

Rain, Yolo County

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

Morning light begins, pale
Through the window.
Just a whisper in the darkness
At first, then, later, a blue sky
Cloaked in golden sun.
Slowly, slowly, the valley rises,
And I rise, too. Today is here.
This is now, I tell myself,
Time to take roll call.
James? Present.
Let the morning begin.

—for the Davis City Council—

Rain, Davis

The light on the porch stays on all night,
Paling when the sun slices through
The dark meat of dawn.
We are creatures who move through the light,
Pulled toward warmth by the needs of our flesh.
We are creatures of soul, living in this flesh.
From my doorway, I watch.
Dawn has returned yet again,
Kissed by a breeze.
And beyond that?
The trees. The birds.

Rain, Sacramento River

Almost time for autumn to blow in
On a breeze with a sneeze.
Antihistamine and the call of geese in flight.
Warmer shirts and black coffee.
Homemade chicken soup.
Welcome home, Sister,
All summer long I have been waiting.

Rain, Sacramento

Lovers outside at midnight. A quarter-moon.
Summer is almost ended, the air at night
Is cool and fresh. Without thinking of it
They take each other’s hand, fingers entwined.
There are years yet to be. From the pines
A Western Screech Owl takes flight,
Silhouetted by that small bit of moon.

Yuba River, Rain

Some things I need—
Leaves that return in spring
Sunlight, moonlight
An evening breeze
A friend, a wife

The valley sees me here
And reaches up to me
Through thick soil
Hand in hand we walk

Time moves easy
Life is good

Rainy Day, Putah Creek

The true darkness is a gift,
It offers us a place to enter the world,
It offers solace and quiet.
Now close your eyes,
Empty your mind and come in,
Everyone's waiting for you.

________________

Today’s LittleNip:

I don’t keep a god, but everyday
I give thanks anyway.

—James Lee Jobe

________________

—Medusa, with thanks to James Lee Jobe for today’s fine poems, and for capturing our rainy region right now!

—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.

Living Room Table Top

—Poems and Photos by DR Wagner, Locke, CA

I WAS BORN INTO THIS

I was born into this.
May this be true.
The sky sings.

My love is like
A red red rose.
It can be heard
As a song.

I was born into this.
May the river carry me
Through all the rains.

I hold the parting
Glass. May it be
Enough to be heard
Through all of time.

I was born into this.
I have Caledonia
In my very blood.

Through all of these waters
May this voice be heard.
I am the mists that wrap you
At eventide into all parting.

Locke from DR's Bedroom

IF DREAMS HAVE WINTER

If dreams have Winters
And stars have memories

If the seas are a great song
And mountains fabulous stories

The music is our bones
And words the movement of the dance.

Even now the planets swirl about us.
The moon is a precious gem.

All animals rejoice with their hearts
With wild bands of color depending.

DR's Studio

(Work by Kiny McCarrick)

THE RAINS

And now the rain.
And what did I see?
Nothing to fear.

I kept myself from falling.
I never knew I could call
Out to Athene. I barely
Knew her name.

In this rain nothing
Has words, save man.
What walks in beauty?

I have a song here.
The forest seems to have
Rooms for dreams if we
Remember even a single Alleluia.

This then is soft as a fen.
Never more than a melody
And still as the breath of dawn.

At last the voice of rain.
I use my mouth to make words
Of streets full of puddles
Gutters full of a million whispers.

BUTCHER OF LOVE

Blankets of waves.
I stood on the shoreline,
Rainbows springing from my forehead.
What don’t I know?

The night has such soft hands.
What comes from the body
Where sleep has its own stars?

I steal away from the butchers
Love sends like a Pentecostal
Hymn. I shall never be the lullaby
They push through their miraculous
Horns. I am inhabited by ten
Thousand hands.

Do I make this sound
Voices bring to my heart?
Ave, Ave, I remain a creature
Wonder uses to come and go
Through that rainbow.

Choruses of them gathered at the
Corners of my mouth expecting
An event. When I look up

You are as clear as a carol.
I will steal away to say these
Things. Magnum Mysterium.

SHE WAS REMEMBERED FOR DANCING

She was remembered for dancing.
No one knew her name.
She lived long before we began to speak.

Perhaps the stars knew her
But the stars do not speak either.
Perhaps they saw her dance.
But the stars are too far away
To care about dancing.

She was as beautiful as a story
About Spring.
They named an arched bridge over
A canal in Japan after her.

She was thought to be very beautiful.
Perhaps the stars knew her.

Two Glass Doves

SOMEWHERE

Somewhere, oh I don’t know where,
My heart is flashing signals to your heart.
You may not ever hear of them.
You may not ever see them
But they are there.

I have chalices for you.
What are dreams but chalices?
What are you but dreams?

I pretend that I am a song.
I know you are a song.
I will play you on this old heart,

I look across the halls of space.
Perhaps we are there.
Perhaps there is only dreaming.

Can one call this love?
Is it even dreaming?
Am I only a motion in a thickness

Precipitated by desire.
Unable to understand even itself.
I’ll try to call this a song.

I could be entirely wrong.
You could be the song.
How will we learn to sing?

___________________

Today’s LittleNip

Scarecrow in the hillock
Paddy field—
How unaware! How useful!

—Matsuo Bashō

___________________

—Medusa, with songs of gratitude to DR Wagner for a return visit to Medusa’s Kitchen!

—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.

Hence the name, STRAWberries...

—Photos by Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

A MILLION MILES
—Michael H. Brownstein, Chicago, IL

You wake to a million miles of something,
but your fingers do not know what this something is,
nor does your nose or your eyes.
Your tongue full of morning paste and so it remains ignorant.
What of your ears? Did they hear something?
This is the problem: A million miles is a million miles.
For reasons unknown something goes nowhere and everywhere.
One thing is certain though—it did wake you up.

UNDECIDED
—Caschwa

What is the best word with which to begin a poem?

“What” is the best word with which to begin a poem.

The best word with “which” to begin a poem is “what”.

The best word to begin a poem with is “What which”.

Word with which what to the poem is best begin a.

THE PROMISE AND CHALLENGE
OF THE AGE OF A$$ ITCH (AI)
—Caschwa

(liberal modification of an excerpt from
“Executive Briefing”, McKinsey Global
Institute, October 2018)

Despite periods of significant scientific
advances in the six decades since, AI
has often failed to live up to the hype
that surrounded it. Decades were spent
trying to describe human itching precisely,
and the progress made did not deliver on
the earlier excitement. Since the late
1990s, however, technological progress
has gathered pace, especially in the past
decade. Machine-learning algorithms have
progressed, especially through the
development of deep itching and
reinforcement-learning techniques based
on neural networks.

***

I have had AI
for longer than I can say,
relief’s within reach

__________________

YOUR LOSS, OUR PROPERTY
—Caschwa

Indians had lived here for countless years
before our ancestors had even discovered
this continent. They honored the land most
highly as God’s gift, not as property to be
exploited and developed to attain the highest
and best real estate use.

Then came the invasion from Western
Europe of colonists, settlers, frontiersmen,
priests, all hell bent on appropriating this
new land for their own purposes, until today
when we too often hear:

“Speak English only!!!
When in America you
must speak our language!”

HOWDY, NEIGHBOR
—Caschwa

(Response to “Toy Drive” by Ryan Quinn Flanagan,
Medusa’s Kitchen, February 13, 2019)

Who would steal away money collections or toys
that were intended to benefit little children?

On this side of the border that would clearly be some
of our very own elected officials with good salaries and
per diems, who daily delve into accounts set up for
specific public purposes duly approved by the voters,
only to use the funds for a quite different, sometimes
totally personal purpose…

Our very own elected officials with good salaries and
per diems, who steal tiny babies from the loving arms
of desperate mothers escaping unspeakable abuse in
their homeland to seek safety and shelter in the Land
of the Free…

Our very own elected officials with good salaries and
per diems, who laughingly regard all the persons and
estates of the citizens of this great nation as if they
were mere disposable plastic pieces on a game board...

They don’t campaign that
they’re in it for the money,
but watch how they spend!

__________________

A RECIPE FOR BOILING OVER
—Caschwa

Start with a big cauldron of hot tempers

stir in hands and arms firmly clasped around firearms,

top with old confederate flags raised in pride, and

simmer with communities firmly gated and slammed
shut to keep out certain “low-lifes”

invite hostile foreign nations to help serve the meal,

and for dessert, give the top 1% a giant tax break.

AN ANGRY OLD MAN
—Ian Copestick, Stoke on Trent, England

I remember as an angry young man
The outrage that I felt
I'm angrier now at the hand
That I have been dealt
Thrown onto the scrapheap
By a government that doesn't care
A life lived constantly on the cheap
A life on benefits, going nowhere
They say unemployment's going down
And wages are rising
I can't find a job in this town
And don't see any on the horizon
The many keep slaving for the few
And believing the lies they're fed
I think I'll go to church, kneel before the pew
And pray things are better once I'm dead
Yes, what can I do as an angry old man
Perhaps it's better if I wait
And sneak onto the seating plan
Behind those pearly gates

SHIFTING EXPECTATIONS
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

Rules slip sideways
Under our feet,
Imperceptibly,
Absent rapt attention
To the finer details
Of shifting contours
Of what is expected,
And later, demanded.

How to know
If it is O.K.
Not to call,
To be
Out of reach,
Not to own
A cell phone?

___________________

MOVING INTO ANANDA
—Joseph Nolan

Jnana will surrender to bhakti;
Chit will move into ananda.
Sat will come first,
Then chit,
Then ananda,
And all play together
In your heart and your mind.

Truly felt emotion
Is stronger than thought
And will run through
Your canyon
Like water from a broken dam
Sweeping away maya.

It happens quickly.
Be ready!

ALMOST HER
—Joseph Nolan

Do I look like
The one you wanted?
Do I walk like her,
Talk like her
Moan in the same tone
As she did
And give you what you wanted
From the one you wanted
In a generically,
Replaceable sort of way
As though
I were
Almost her?

____________________

LET IT GO AND SMILE!
—Joseph Nolan

As we grow older
We realize
We are being chewed up
And spit out
Into the ash-heap of history.
Not that there is
Anything wrong with that.

At some point,
They called time
On Babe Ruth
Lou Gehrig
And Joe Dimaggio.
That’s just the way it goes.
At a certain point,
You just have to let it go
And smile!

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

WHAT WOULD WE DO?
—Joseph Nolan

The universe is so big!
Biggest and getting bigger,
It’s the biggerest, biggerest U.
It’s a long way to U!
Longerest, longerest-long
Longing, longing and longing-longer
It’s the longerest, longerest U
From me to you.
From U to you.
What would we do?
If you weren’t U?

____________________

Good morning and our thanks to today’s contributors, including Chicago’s Michael H. Brownstein, whose poetry volume, A Slipknot Into Somewhere Else: A Poet's Journey To The Borderlands Of Dementia, was recently published by Cholla Needles Press (2018). I notice that Cholla Needles is also publishing a book called Medusa Memories by poet Noreen Lawlor; see more about it, including a Medusa poem, at www.amazon.com/Medusa-Memories-Noreen-Lawlor/dp/1796217247/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=cholla+needles&linkCode=sl2&linkId=4e27e79263da02c56d6910e962ff7501&qid=1551635574&refinements=p_n_feature_browse-bin%3A2656022011&s=books&sr=1-1&tag=eartaste-20&unfiltered=1/.

Poetry in our area tonight begins at Sac. Poetry Center, 7:30pm, with Rob Esperanza and Ike Torres, plus open mic, 25th & R Sts., Sac. Tomorrow features Poetry Off-the-Shelves in El Dorado Hills at the library on Silva Valley Pkwy., 5-7pm; or ride down to Modesto for Queen Bean’s March Poetry Night open mic from 7-10pm (sign-ups at 6:30pm), 1126 14th St. in Modesto.

SPC workshops this week include Tuesday Night Workshop for critiquing of poems at the Hart Center (27th and J Sts.) on Tuesday, 7:30-9pm (call Danyen Powell at 530-681-0026 for info); and MarieWriters Generative Writing Workshop at SPC for writing poems, facilitated this week by Ann Michaels, 6-8pm.

Wednesday morning from 9:30-10:30am, cross the Causeway and head over to Philz Coffee (521 2nd St.) for Coffee w/Writers, Poets, & Literature & Language Instructors; bring your poetry, essays, books in manuscript form or published, for chatting and coffee with other writers.

Thursday in Sacramento brings Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar, with featured readers and open mic, 8pm, 1414 16th St. Also at 8pm, Poetry in Davis presents Joshua McKinney plus open mic at the John Natsoulas Gallery, 521 1st St. in Davis.

This weekend, SPC’s Random Friday presents Ladies of the Knight (plus open mic) on Friday at 6pm. And the Second Sat. Art Reception at SPC will host Sable & Quill’s 10th anniversary, with art and poetry from 5-8pm. 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 (Celebrate Poetry!)

Michael Brownstein’s new book is available at

www.amazon.com/Slipknot-Into-Somewhere-Else-

Borderlands/dp/1727462009/ref=sr_1_11?

keywords=cholla+needles&linkCode=sl2&linkId

=4e27e79263da02c56d6910e962ff7501&qid=

1551635508&refinements=p_n_feature_browse-bin

%3A2656022011&s=books&sr=1-11

&tag=eartaste-20&unfiltered=1/.

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.

Every-Which-Way
—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

THINGS TO DO
After“Thither” Mural from the Temple of Longing

by Paul Klee

All arrows point to time in this crammed city with
dark foretellings if I don’t follow each of them pointing
toward their own clock-shadows which are

so many. I follow them to the vanishing edge of their
directions in the lowering swift sunlight where they blunt
against the soft gold walls of

incompletion. Something blue remakes at the beginning,
the entrance widens as a gold cock crows and one gold
sun comes up against each end

of the brimming day which merely repeats itself. Each
time, I find a new confusion to follow. The arrows shadow-
shift and shudder to instruct me

and I find myself routed back into the same old tangle
where all arrows point to this-way-and-that of time with
its dark foretellings.

Blue Thematic

THROUGH FRAGILE DISTANCE

come to me through fragile distance
do not touch the shining there

the air trembles
the light dims for your coming

the very ache of waiting
is held in my patience

do not mix the colors
as you pass among them

leave them separate
they will blend back when they will

come with silence to my silence
there is only thought-refraction here

____________________

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.

Inarticulation

WHEN LOVE WAS AN EASY THING
TO SAY

We tried to make
love our last amen,
but we were words and words away
from the real prayer.
We were too much want
and not enough give.
We had made too many errors.

When love was an easy word to say
we said it smugly
and with a fond confusion.
It was a simple word.
It would be easy to remember.

We look for it now
in the desperate faces of each other.
Was it a foreign word?
How many syllables did it have?
Why did we break it apart
and store its letters
in forgotten hiding places?

(first pub. in Mustang Review, 1969)

Infringement

WHITE ELEPHANT

After Chinese Washing a White Elephant, c. 1800

(Chinese School, 19th Century)

Grown too large now for our care,
we struggle to retain
our scale of love

as when
it was a tiny,
new-born thing

that we
adored—a live toy—
exotic as a fable-creature,

fabulous and dear.
It loved us too, gazed at us
fondly, trusting itself to our keeping.

Now it is
house-broken, huge,
though still of delicate behavior.

Our laps
too small to hold it now,
it grows bewildered, mopes,

and leaves its sad looks
everywhere. What now, we ask
ourselves in our confusion and despair?

__________________

THE ONENESS

How much I need to know of the formidable light.
I walk into it, become part, love the oneness
of myself with all other self,

the resistant light receives me.

We leave the dark speck of my confusion
that stays behind—
yielding, resisting,

we envelop together into more light,

swallow the darkness,
become the dream of the dark speck
that even now turns to core of light

that forms, and reforms—forever in this moment.

The Season of Leaves

ONE OF NIGHT’S DARK STORIES
After “Recovery” by A. R. Ammons

After dark, when
street lights come on, tree shadows dance
against
walls—
become
pictographs, shadow-murals on night’s
grim buildings
whose walls
are made beautiful
by this—and sidewalks try
to hold the trees
from pulling through their circles.

_________________

YOUR DOGGIE BAG

Today I sit down to my table and eat your food,
your small portion of fish, and your hard roll,
our mixed vegetables that need salt. I remember
to say a small grace in your honor. I remember
to chew slowly—to savor. I allow time for con-
versation. A whole day has passed under your
absence, and I find myself folding a red cloth
napkin when I am through, and remembering to
say thank you for your hospitality.
The table is but a metaphor, but
the fish and the roll and the vegetables are real.
My refrigerator was an accommodation to your
leftover thrift and meagerness of appetite. I am
sorry you forgot your take-home carton. I know
how you like to portion and savor, letting the too-
expensive banquet dinner parcel-out to three
more meals.

In Praise of Confusion

ONE FOOT BEFORE THE OTHER

He fails so fast
his life out of balance
forgetting his pattern mid-air
such a confusion upon his face
the untamed anger rising in him
in a rage of refusal.
But he is on a wire
that stretches from one thing
to another of his power
his life precarious,
his arms heavy,
his eyes like candle-flickerings.
If he falls, he falls forever
into the waiting gasp
of astonishment,
that disbelief of expectation,
the unreadiness.
Can he make it?
He takes another step and
feels the heaviness of effort,
the reluctance of trying,
the conflict of his ability,
the confusion of one foot
before the other. So simple.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

RECOVERY
—A.R. Ammons (1926-2001)

All afternoon
the tree shadows, accelerating,
lengthened
till
sunset
shot them black into infinity:
next morning
darkness
returned from the other
infinity and the
shadows caught ground
and through the morning, slowing,
hardened into noon.

___________________

Fine poems and artwork by Joyce Odam this morning, and many thanks to her for starting our Tuesday off right! A. R. Ammons has been a great favorite of mine over the years. Today's LittleNip is the poem that Joyce patterned her "One of Night's Dark Stories" after, using his syllabic structure: 4, 9, 2, 1, 2, 9, 3, 2, 5, 5, 4, 7.

Poetry Off-the-Shelves meets today from 5-7pm in El Dorado Hills at the library on Silva Valley Pkwy.; or you can ride down to Modesto for Queen Bean’s March Poetry Night open mic from 7-10pm (sign-ups at 6:30pm), 1126 14th St. in Modesto. And the Tuesday Night Workshop for critiquing of poems meets tonight at the Hart Center (27th and J Sts.), 7:30-9pm (call Danyen Powell at 530-681-0026 for info). 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.

Our new Seed of the Week is “So Mad I Could…” 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

“Thither” Mural from the Temple of Longing
—Painting by Paul Klee

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.

Flower Center

—Flower & Plant Poems by The Pantoja Pleiades Circle
—Photos by Chris Moon

DAHLIAS
—Janet Lar Rieu Pantoja, Woodinville, WA
(formerly of Sacramento, CA)

Discovered in Mexico,
Described by conquistadors:
Dinner plate or pinwheel types,
Diverse, bright colors, single,
Double—blooming endlessly—
Delightful plants for summer.
Decorate your yard with them!

__________________

SEPTINA
—Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA

Seven sunken moon-shaped bricks
some mossier than the rest—
slender twigs, these tiny trees
(six in all), surrounded by
spring pinks coloring the base.
Such a tiny garden, yet,
surely a child's paradise.

SUPERMOM
—Sharon McGarry, Vacaville, CA

Spider plant extends her arms
spreading out on all sides as
she hovers over her young.
Several generations are
simultaneously grown—
so many babies I must
seek adoptive homes for now.

GIFTED
—Miriam F. Berks-Roberts, Vacaville, CA

Grandma dug the front yard round,
Grandpa hoed the side yard square;
Gladiolas filled her spot,
Garden vegetables filled his.
Gorgeous cannas, roses, mums
Grew in special backyard slots:
Graced home with food and flowers.

FORGET-ME-NOT
—Allegra Jostad Silberstein, Davis, CA

Flower of fidelity
found close to earth in a shade...
fulfills a promise the way
friendship nourishes something
fundamental as chord roots
flowering in soul-music...
find me, oh, forget-me-not.

POINSETTIAS
—Jennifer Fenn, Fresno, CA

Petals like parts of His star
Pointing to where He was born,
Passionate red like His blood,
Price for our iniquities,
Promised by our God to all
Penitent people in prayer,
Panacea for our peace.

____________________

Today's LittleNip:

When you take a flower in your hand and really look at it, it’s your world for the moment. I want to give that world to someone else. Most people in the city rush around so, they have no time to look at a flower. I want them to see it whether they want to or not.

—Georgia O’Keeffe

____________________

Our thanks today to the The Pantoja Pleiades Circle for their spring poems; to Carol Louise Moon for organizing the submissions; and to Chris Moon for his beautiful photos, reminding us that spring is out there somewhere! Carol Louise writes, “Co-founded by Janet L. Pantoja and Carol Louise Moon almost a decade ago, the Circle is still going strong and enjoying the comradeship which comes from sharing and critiquing each other's poems, then publishing them in various volumes and websites. Each poet here has taken on the challenge of composing a Pleiades poem, a poetry form first created by Craig Tigerman and further honed by the Pleiades Circle poets. For us, a Pleiades consists of seven lines of seven syllables, each line starting with the same letter as the one-word title.” Thanks again to all of you for your lovely presentation!

This morning from 9:30-10:30am, cross the Causeway and head over to Philz Coffee (521 2nd St.) for Coffee w/Writers, Poets, & Literature & Language Instructors; bring your poetry, essays, books (in manuscript form or published), for chatting and coffee with other writers. Then tonight from 6-8pm, MarieWriters Generative Writing Workshop for writing poems will meet at Sac. Poetry Center, facilitated this week by Ann Michaels. 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!)

The 7 Sisters Pleiades star cluster (M45) is actually a group of

800 stars formed about 100 million years ago. The cluster is

located 410 light-years away from Earth in the constellation
Taurus. For more about the mythology of the Sisters, go to
www.naic.edu/~gibson/pleiades/pleiades_myth.html/.

—Photo by Josh Knutson, Aurora, CO

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

BY THE BARK-HOUSE MEADOW

Here, earth springs
water of its own accord—
a moosh of mud this not-quite-spring

mixed with new grass
and fur of a fox who died last year,
leaving the harp of its ribs.

Sky is low this morning, wind
instead of bird-song in catkin willow.
Cedar-bark tepees sag heavy with wet

and the silent echo of drums,
pulse-beat of hands on buck’s hide.
Walk soft in mud to hear the music.

OUT OF PLACE

She asked you for directions, she’d lost
the trail. Only a few words between
you, disjointed like she’d left bits of herself
along the way and picked up new stuff
she couldn’t fit into her load. Off-balance
backpack that seemed to push her
forward against herself.
You were traveling light, daypack
plus a bag of litter—discards of hikers
and overnighters who didn’t want to carry it
out. Freeze-dry packaging, granola
wrappers, cellophane glittering like glass
on granite.
You’ve gotten good at
spotting what’s out of place. She was out
of place. You watched her disappear
toward Little Round Top, each step like
she was collecting litter of her self to stuff
in bags, to carry until she could heave it
in a trash can, travel light herself.

MIXED-UP MESS

Volunteers in boots and waders
drag garbage bags along the riverbanks;
others in wet suits disappear into the flow
like a school of black fish.
They’re combing the shore and fishing
the depths and crevices between rocks,
collecting trash. A cleansing, a blessing.

Tires, shopping carts, baby diapers,
dentures and smartphones, mattresses,
car batteries, cigarette butts, bowling pins,
half a pizza, a cappuccino machine.
Patiently the river has borne
our waste. At end of day, for a brief
moment, the river will be almost clean.

ASK PHOEBE

Spring. Taxes. 2 ½ hours of cyber-maze
& piles of old yr’s receipts, the blinding screen’s
scrim of numbers blending 1 into another.

You’re shut down. Walk outdoors.
Blue Oak’s leafless, its winter comforters
of grass growing without asking or taxing.

Black Phoebe hawks insects from garden-post
to Live Oak. All underfoot, green salad—
miner’s lettuce, Indian lettuce—who cares

for labels? Pick and eat it without sauce;
a morning’s labor—profits and losses,

a pesky bug which Sister Phoebe
snatches midair so gracefully
she blesses sky without a word.

“A GREAT TRAGEDY”

That’s what Dad would say, meaning
anything from losing a wheel over the cliff
on the road to Chitina, to running out
of shredded wheat for breakfast.

Another of his sayings: “Kids and paint
don’t mix,” as he dipped his brush
into a can of exterior gray.

I can hear him now, 30 years dead,
standing on our hill-crest, hands on hips,
surveying the mess of leafless oak canopy
intertwined with overhead lines

after a great Valley Oak toppled in storm.
“Trees and power lines don’t mix,”
he’d say. Is a day without electricity

“a great tragedy”? I think he’d reserve that
for loss of such a venerable oak—
its great trunk robed in greenest moss,
spirit of the rocky hillside.

BAMBOOZLE IS KITTEN

We named ours Latches.
Nothing is safe from his paws.
He sneaks onto my laptop and types:
swwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww
wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwg.
He steals pencil or pen and torments it
like a mouse. He unplugs my bread-machine
in the midst of making a loaf. He knocks
my lamp off the bedstead by yanking its pull-
chain, turning it on when he’s left alone
in the house. Everything mixed-up
is our kitten. No matter how I yell NO! he just
opens his big yellow eyes a little wider,
unlatching every door.

Latches

Today’s LittleNip:

WINTER OAKS
—Taylor Graham

Winter-gray oaks stand leafless,
reaching with bare twig-fingers.
Earth twitches underfoot, roots
grasping for tree-colony comfort.
Already an oak dreams
of buds at twig-tips blossoming.

______________________

Thank you, Taylor Graham, for sparkling poems on a grey day, including Latches’ progress into the cat-version of Terrible Twos, as well as news of spring greens from the hawkish Sister Phoebe!

Tonight’s poetry events in our area include two at 8pm: Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar in Sacramento, and Josh McKinney and Randy White at Poetry in Davis (John Natsoulas Gallery). Both include open mics. 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!)

Sister Black Phoebe Gets to Work
—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.

Listening Along

Omens

Choruses of Gerbils

Commisseration

Dreams Unfolding

Call Him Brother

In The Moonlight

Living Well

Ships in the Fog

Molting Season

Where To Put The Loss?

Glimpses of Glory

Who Follows the Wind?

Just Enjoy The Trip

Let The Morning Begin

Caledonia In My Blood

Relief's Within Reach

In Praise of Confusion

Circle For Spring

Dreaming of Buds