Medusa's Kitchen

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

ACROSS THE BYPASS

We take a turnoff out of sight and that dreadful shock of commuter traffic; highway bridge just a frame now for seemingly endless gray water. We keep driving—rough dirt track, a takeout point; a heap of broken concrete like fallen headstones—till we reach a quiet place, muddy matrix of spring just budding. Fluorescent flash of wings in willow. On shore, wild geese gaggling. A portly gander. Swaggering old Falstaff, you say. You’ve been reading too much Shakespeare. Look and listen. It’s the first of spring, this brand new day.

small bird-prints in mud
pointing this way and that, gone
to water or sky

SPRING MEADOW

Traces of old mining, the grab-and-get,
the rush for gold. Tailings tell of disturbance;
rock dug up, left on the surface. Hummocks and
holes, a pocked meadow with topsoil
washed away. That stunted oak—compare
to a sturdy specimen perched on its tiny island
of original earth. Careful where you step.
No quicksand, but water springs here and there
underground, a fluid treasure.
Muddy walking if you leave the path.
No wildflowers yet, mid-March. A strange
spring this year. Where are the nesting birds?
Overhead, a crow bears one dry thread
of grass away. Enjoy spring while it lasts.

FRAGMENTS ON A BREEZE

Early Saturday. Some bird calls like a dial
tone. A breezy morning on the meadow,
anything can happen.
       I clip my dog in harness, open
a ziplock bag with scrap of written paper.
Cowboy doesn’t care for words, just scent
that lingers from the girl who wrote
them: Brie.
      He snuffles grasses damp with rain—
fragments, fragrances of passing.
Across meadow he pulls me out of breath.
Muddy dirt-track squiggled by beetle, worm,
boot-tread; vernal pool with secrets
of yet-undiscovered life.
                Which way? Cowboy harks—
sniffs—takes off toward the pond, full-tilt.
Beyond bulrush and willow, two wild swans—
black swans floating offshore. Swans?
the mystic silhouette. The word surfacing like
a glance at letters in a ziplock bag.
      So close is mystery. As if something
called across waves of sky, and a phone
answered. Slip-shot synapse of wind. Swans
lift off on huge dark wings. Gone.
      Cowboy turns off the path and there,
sitting behind a live-oak, is Brie, giggling
without a sound.
      Swans? I ask. Yes, swans.

ORIENTATION AT THE PRESERVE

Two dozen cars in the parking lot, we’re waiting for instruction. One raven arrives by air, perches on a leafless oak; observes us from his center of the compass rose. 2-minute history at each station of our hike. Original natives, land stewards for thousands of years, driven away by Gold Rush. Loud chirping from overhead—what bird, what chiding message? Our guide points out mounds of mine tailings, creeks diverted into ditches. The whole landscape revised a century and a half ago. Overhead, high out of sight, red-shoulder screams anger or hunger. Our tour returns us to our cars.

two wild geese circle
low over my head. This way!
they call, then they’re gone.

ANGRY?

A pair of wild turkeys
on our back deck—good safe place
for nesting? Probably not.
By now I’ve circled the house, hoping
to surprise them with my iPad.
Already they’re at the edge of woods,
finding private ways down
through rocks and oaks, speaking
to each other in Turkey, maybe berating
this butt-in human with suspicious-
looking scoping device.
Might they choose our wooded hill
for nesting? Probably not.
Already they’re out of sight. The tom
didn’t even bother with a tail display.

LATCHES ASLEEP

The kitten has wrapped himself
in snuggie on the chair. (How did he do
that?—Latches can manage any conundrum
of the physical world, it seems.) He seems
to be asleep, except one eye. He’s one-
eye dreaming of spring, of birds in nest
or on the fly. That sleepless eye
imagining April love-birds, birds wishing
to be left in peace; happy birds, angry
birds, it’s all the same to Latches.
Soon he’ll shed his snuggie and solve
the latches of those doors that keep
him from a world of birds.

Today’s LittleNip:

MAILBOX LUNES
—Taylor Graham

Two robins mid-air
in their spring mating dance
fencepost to mailbox.

What do birds
care for letters locked tight
in a box?

Our spring robins
without written words, see how
they dance mid-air.

__________________

Spring-time thanks to Taylor Graham this morning for her beautiful poems celebrating the new season. Her LittleNip is a series of three “lunes”, called “the American haiku” by some. Surely you can write one or four or six of these? More info about lunes and the variants thereof: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/lune/.

The 2019 issue of Sac. Poetry Center's journal, Tule Review, is here. See www.tulereview.net/.

Don’t forget that Poetry Unplugged happens tonight at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar, 1414 16th St., Sac., 8pm. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa

Robins! Spring is Here...?
—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.

—Bowls by Richard Billiet, Placerville, CA
—Poems and Photos by Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA

VELKOMMEN TARTOUM

Five Russian men chatter in Russian
at a restaurant table, gingham cloth,
silverware and napkins neatly placed.

At a restaurant table, gingham cloth
aprons of waitresses welcome us
as we sit down to dinner.

Aprons of waitresses say VELKOMMEN
but I hear a French greeting and I smile,
responding with, Muy bien, gracias.

I hear another French greeting and smile.
My husband holds one of my hands, then
suddenly a sugar packet appears.

My husband holds one of my hands, then
suddenly the sugar packet disappears
reappearing from his left ear.

The sugar packet disappears again,
reappearing from behind his right ear.
I love this place. I love his way.

Responding with Muy bien, gracias,
we remain seated and finish our dinner,
silverware and napkins neatly replaced.
With sugar suddenly appearing
and reappearing from behind his ears
I love this pace, his way with sugar.

WHITE GOATTARTOUM

With ears perked and eyes wide
a white goat stands in stillness,
two hooves on the pavement.

The goat stands in stillness
near an old gray country house
whose windows are wide open.

Near the old gray country house
a curious hoot owl hoots,
shutters flap in the wind.

The old hoot owl hoots, and
shouts heard from a window,
and the shattering of dinner plates.

Shouts from the kitchen window,
the ancient story retold,
frighten the goat who has

eyes, as windows, wide open.
With the shattering of dinner plates
and shutters flapping in the wind,
the frightened goat now has
all hooves on the pavement.

SAND SNAKE (Rhymed Pantoum)

This golden snake is rarely seen,
except in early September
when I survey this sand citrine,
its rippling waves of amber.

What if early next September
he rests, becomes trapped and caught
while slithering through the amber?
Does he wonder, perhaps not,

what he’d become if he was caught?
A snake-hide purse with winking eye!
And so he wanders and dares not
rest, only to be caught and die.

He watches me with blinking eye
surveying all his sand citrine.
Slithering by to hide, not die,
this golden snake is rarely seen.

(prev. pub. in Rattlesnake Review, Vol. 10)

WHITE CAT IN THE ALLEY (Pantoum)

I was relieved to find a white cat
whose eyes have shown yellow and lit
the way I should walk home at night
to my cold, cold cottage in town.

Whose eyes have shown yellow and lit
as much as the white cat in the alley?
To my cold, cold cottage in town
I depend on every sign and token of luck

as much as the white cat in the alley:
the coin in my boot, my cloak and swagger.
I depend on every sign and token of luck.
All these, plus a green moon, fool-proof as

the coin in my boot, my cloak and swagger.
One never knows what lurks in the shadows—
all these—plus a green moon, fool-proof as
a fool with DT’s, now a limp not a swagger.

One never knows what lurks in the shadows,
the way I should walk home at night.
A fool with DT’s now, a limp not a swagger,
I was relieved to find a white cat.

Today’s LittleNip:

Snakes in the ancient world, because of their skin-shedding ability, often symbolized immortality or eternal youth.

―Alice K. Turner, The History of Hell

____________________

Our thanks to Carol Louise Moon for her pantoums and tartoums this morning, and her beautiful photos of Richard Billiet’s wooden bowls! For more info about pantoums, see www.poets.org/poetsorg/text/pantoum-poetic-form/. The tartoum is a variation of the pantoum; see if you can make out the difference.

Poetry events in Sacramento tonight include Sandy McIntosh and Mary Mackey with the Marsh Hawk Press Chapter One Project, poets writing about how they decided to become poets. Sac Poetry Center, 6pm. Also: Speak Up: The Art of Storytelling and Poetry at The Avid Reader on Broadway, 7pm. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa (Celebrate Poetry!)

—Anonymous Photo of Goat’s Eye

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

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

Orange sun, pale, in a gray sky.
Davis, California, in the big valley.
The biting odor of burning wood.
There is a forest fire about 100 miles away,
North by east.
Paradise, California, in the Sierra foothills.
A wind out of the north
Has brought the smoke here.
My wife is coughing, many people
On the streets are wearing breathing masks.
Several people dead in the fire, so far,
Some more people are missing.
And nearly 7 thousand buildings lost.
Homes, schools, businesses.
“Did you see the sunset?”
A friend wants to know.
“An orange sun, pale, in a gray sky.
If the fire keeps up I’ll get some pictures tomorrow.”
I quickly decide against chastising him;
What’s the point? He means no harm.
I see the homeless and the dead,
He sees a unique sunset.
Both are there, from a fire 100 miles away.
Settling down in a quiet room, alone,
I begin the Loving Kindness prayer.

Wintun Village Tule Mat Grass Houses

From whose house does the sound of the blues escape
Through an open Spring window?
From my house.
Duane Allman’s slide guitar catches the breeze
And slips through the trees,
Through the multicolored leaves.
The voice of Howlin’ Wolf rasps
As the squirrels check on their caches and hordes.
Muddy Waters and John Lee Hooker growl
As the winds change and grow cooler.
And if I get cold and have to close the window,
I turn up the volume all the more.
Spring isn’t the only one
With unusual gifts to share.

Maidu Cedar Bark Shelter

Starlight to guide my steps,
An owl to call me home—
Foolish owl, every step is my home.
Walking late at night.

_________________

The lamp is bright, cutting through
The darkness, and I have lit the incense.
I have prepared a simple meal;
All awaits your return. The early evening
Passes by like an old man on the highway.
Oh no—I am the old man on the highway.

Maidu Basket

Geese overhead, you can them talking
As they pass. A season is passing, too.
And here on Earth we go on: loving,
Living, being. Opposable thumbs
And laughter. But sorrow, too.
Yes, of course, sorrow, too.

23 months since my son left this Earth.

Wintun Basket

If I just say yes
I will have it all.
All the joy, all the sorrow,
Every pain, every truth.
And if I say yes
Then I am in for good.
No one gets just the happy
And no one bears all the weight.
Life is not a menu,
You're in or you're out.
And I say yes.

Miwok Basket

Decade after decade, human lives
Are growing longer. People live longer.
But are they living better?
It’s the old quandary; quantity or quality.
Slow down. Learn the plants and animals.
Break the soil, insert a seed.
And take your time with it.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

May I be thankful for the kindness that comes to me,
And then return that kindness to the world tenfold,
And then tenfold again.

—James Lee Jobe

_____________________

Saturday again, and gratitude to Davis Poet Laureate James Lee Jobe for some fine poetry today and photos to go with it. Tonight, Laura Martin and The Soft Offs will bring their Moetry (Music + Poetry) to Sac. Poetry Center in Sacramento to raise money for SPC and to raise the roof with their blend of music and words. 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!)

Buddha sits, even in the rain…

—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.

Mary Oiver and pal

MARY OLIVER (1935-2019)

—who wrote my favorite volume of poetry, The Leaf and the Cloud

She will always be the onomatopoeia of flowers,
the metaphor of fourteen-year old locusts and the old oak branch,
an alliteration of dogs, unleashed, exploring
swamp, puddle, briar patch, bramble of leaf, sieve of earth:

Can you not see her in black snake
dipping herself into black pond too early for dawn?
In the imprint of bent clover wet with dew?
Near the stone of the slug where garden snail glistens?
In the soft petals of the apple tree painting both tree and earth?

Ants and thorns, love and stars, moon and a litter of light across water,
fox and her teeth, wolf and her courage, spider and her thick strands of silk.

—Michael H. Brownstein, Chicago, IL

_______________________

Many thanks to Michael Brownstein for today's loving poem about Mary Oliver, who passed away in late January at the age of 93. Her poetry was much admired, and the Internet is full of sites about her. Here are three examples:

•••www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/mary-oliver

•••www.npr.org/2019/01/17/577380646/beloved-poet-mary-oliver-who-believed-poetry-mustn-t-be-fancy-dies-at-83

•••www.newyorker.com/magazine/2017/11/27/what-mary-olivers-critics-dont-understand

—Medusa (Celebrate those who have gone before us!)

—Anonymous Photos

DISCLOSED
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

A cluster of hats
is like a nest of eggs
waiting to be hatched
‘neath protective legs

angry, angry
bird, bird
sets free, sets free
forbidden word

the rise and fall
of the 3rd trombone
whose beck and call
was a muted moan

ace in your vest
ingot in your coffer
is that the very best
that you have to offer?

maybe it was I
hiding half-behind a tree
clicking pics of a goat’s eye
in anonymity

__________________

YES, THEY WENT THERE
—Caschwa

Sitting in a crowded hospital
waiting, waiting, waiting room
staring at a big screen displaying
calmly moving water gurgling
through brightly lit rock formations

expecting at any moment to see
Raquel Welch and her fantastic
crew pop out of the water and
proceed to the scientist’s head
to repair the damage to his brain

suddenly the scene changed to
show softly windblown leaves, not
grass from a well manicured lawn,
but frightening Honey I Shrunk the
Gardner rainforest giants

then my wife called out my name,
so I turned around to see her in a
pink transport chair, wheeled in by
a smiling medical support person
whose name I can’t pronounce

LUCIFER IN THE SKY WITH CUBIC ZIRCONIA

…said the girl with copyrighted eyes…

…like a tonsil scheduled for removal…

…this does nothing and ends where it should…

…the final stamp of disapproval…

…but at least the ice cream was good.

—Caschwa

___________________

THAT EXPLAINS IT
—Caschwa

(Ekphrasic poem on the Seed of the Week,

Medusa’s Kitchen, March 26, 2019)

I had always wondered why I had so
much trouble managing the strings on
venetian blinds, and now I know why I
was doomed from the beginning.

The slats do not, will not, and cannot
work together with unity of purpose
because each separate slat comes from
a different hat, whether a visor cap, or a
topper with a brim, or a beret with little
trim, or just a visor and its strap.

So now I let a drape cover the window
area, finally ending the continuous
stream of failed attempts to adjust the
different stripes on our federal flag,
following the example of the non-tactical
Navy blues, which replaced 13 separate
buttons in favor of one easy zipper.

CAUGHT
—Caschwa

I was sitting at a signaled intersection
patiently waiting for the light to change,
not too sure if I was going straight to Hell
or maybe make a hard right to Salvation

when everyone all around me blared their
horns, shouted curses, offered offensive
gestures, and finally the police came and
issued me a citation for obstructing traffic

this was my badge of honor for living
through it, my fencing scar, my bronco
busting hitch in my gittalong
I wear it proudly

__________________

ACCOMPLI
—Caschwa

A hillbilly knows the land
although never well enough
anxious heir can’t find his hand
ablaze with gold at the cuff
ageless birds abound and fly
armed with bones from dinosaurs
archangels pry open doors.

VALENTINE’S
—J.D. DeHart, Chattanooga, TN

Two trucks pass, honking
playfully on Valentine’s
Day. Is this what love is
for giants, like two behemoths
passing in midnight water?

________________

STUTTER
—J.D. DeHart

I gave my name
into the metal box. Sadly,
it could not be heard.
One day I will find more
than the first letter hiding
inside a microphone.

________________

GAVE A WORD
—J.D. DeHart

The writer broke a word
like bread to share. One loaf
of lines fed thousands like
the age-old story. Then he
rang the word like a bell
in the street for a century.

BLAME IT ON THE BEES
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

There are many things I should do,
But don’t,
Like practice my Spanish.

I don’t know why
I don’t,
But I don’t.

I guess I
Must like it this way,
Or maybe I’d say
I must be busy
And blame it on the bees.

_______________

SHAVING
—Joseph Nolan

Somehow, when I am done
My face has been re-won,
Smooth as a baby’s behind!
Without the slightest bristle
That might remind
I’m a full-grown man,
And not a child,
But only for awhile
Since whiskers always grow
Before you know.
And now, it’s to a park!
But I must be home
Before dark.

SORE THUMBS
—Joseph Nolan

Why do sore thumbs stick out?
Because if they involved themselves,
As they did before,
In all their normal chores
As they did before,
Before they became sore,
They’d be more and more sore,
More than ever before!

__________________

TREES DON’T BEND THEIR KNEES
—Joseph Nolan

My tree has gone haywire!
It’s growing in every direction.
I suppose I need to trim it,
But I don’t have the heart
To cut a single branch.

Maybe I think it’s lovely
The way trees
Don’t bend their knees.

GRIEF
—Joseph Nolan

Grief is over-worn and frayed,
Like a threadbare towel,
Washed again and saved.

Meanwhile, dread dishonor,
Plagues not peaceful grave,
Which holds the old, internal,
Into life, eternal.

So, let dismal
Have its way:
Misery to living;
To dead,
It holds no sway!

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

WRITE FOR YOURSELF
—J.D. DeHart

A wise teacher says, I write
like I want to read. Don’t spend
your time crafting for others.
Language is your own warm bath.
Soak, wallow, wrinkle in its wave.

_________________

Good morning and thank you to our lively poets today! Hats are everywhere, our current Seed of the Week.

Any April Fool knows that April is National Poetry Month! Find out ways to celebrate, include Poem-a-Day, at www.poets.org/national-poetry-month/about-celebration/. Or get a cool poster (see below) at poets.myshopify.com/products/copy-of-national-poetry-month-poster-2018/. Copies are free if you don't need 'em tubed.

Poetry in our area begins at Sac. Poetry Center tonight with Word Wizards plus open mic, 7:30pm. Then on Tuesday, Poetry Off-the-Shelves meets in El Dorado Hills at the library on Silva Valley Parkway, 5pm. On Wednesday, Brad Buchanan will read at CSUS in the Library, 3pm.

SPC workshops this week include Tuesday Night Workshop for critiquing of poems at the Hart Center in Sacramento (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, 6pm, for the writing of poems.

Thursday, The Poets’ Quartet will read in Davis at John Natsoulas Gallery, 8pm (plus open mic). Also at 8pm, Poetry Unplugged will feature guest readers and open mic at Luna’s Cafe on 16th St. in Sacramento.

Then Saturday is the annual Sac. Poetry Center Conference at the Poetry Center from 9am-5pm. Be sure to register! 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.

Hats off to long-time Ginosko Editor Robert Cesarati in the Bay Area, who’s accepting short fiction, poetry, creative nonfiction, social justice, and literary insights for his semiannual, online litzine (with a print anthology published every two years). Check downloadable issues on the website for tone & style at GinoskoLiteraryJournal.com/. He's also looking for books, art, music, spoken word videos—the literary landscape to post on the website. Send submissions to ginosko.submittable.com/submit/. Why not take one of these many opportunities in our area to work on your poetry during this National Poetry Month, even do a little submitting? And remember—the Snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

—Medusa (Celebrate National Poetry Month!)

2019 National Poetry Month Poster

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

—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

HAT IN THE WIND
(after “The Death of the Hat”
by Billy Collins, Picnic, Lightning)

Hat in the wind lifts like a laugh,
dances itself away, while you chase it.

Hats have a whim of their own;
they will rest for years where you put them—

not inclined to anything;
then ‘poof’ some wind reminds them

of what they are—head-toys, playthings,
curious about the sky.

Sometimes you win,
retrieve them with a scold or embarrassment

from a puddle, or a tree—
or maybe lose them to that sky

that lifts them from
the old decorum you pretend.

WOMAN DAY-DREAMING

A woman
in a white apron

and a hat to shade her from the sun
sits in the day’s warm light,

hands in her lap, palms down,
mind-drifting to a place

that takes her from herself.
And the day shuts down.

Her work is waiting—
it waits behind her in a long field;

her work is waiting
in a house full of windows

that glaze their eyes
in the day’s warm silence

and also seem to forget
her work is waiting.

IN LINE

Enter the swaggering man with his dark suit
and hat,
and his cane,

one hand on the railing
at the edge of a crowd of pressing people
in line . . . in line for what . . . ? . . .

He stands with his weight on one hip against
the gray wall—off to the side—
way off to the side

of everyone.
He seems so fragile, standing there,
this delicate man with such a swaggering manner.

__________________

RANDOM

Here is a lady in a gold hat
with one lock of hair down her face

standing in a ray of darkness
watching those who disappear

from her, as she disappears to herself.
Still, her gold hat shines

in the gold-struck eyes of one
who admires her—follows her home.

THE APPOINTMENT

She is unfinished. Not even her hat suits her.
She cannot find the right expression for her face.
She’s lost her keys and her purse, misplaced her list.
Her eyes assume a glaze; her stare protects her.
She waits in the waiting room as she is told.
The white background of the room overpowers her.
She lets herself become enveloped without protest.
She cannot make out the vagueness of her mind.
It feels like a curtain has slipped around her.
Soft. Diffusive. Safe.

___________________

HER BEDROOM

closet full of dusty clothes
silver-veined dresses
squashed party wear
stained lace and fur
unwashables
a leopard coat and hat
coat-pin
some jewels missing
high-heels lined up
behind the slippers

on the dresser a jewel box
and perfume bottles
all shoved back
and in the grimy mirror
in diligent reflection,
in rows and rows,
white plastic vials
of prescriptions

(first pub. in Philadelphia Poets, 1988)

THE BROTHERS AND THE OTHERS

Rough, from the hills,
saw-chiseled,
hiding out as knots of wood,
their hats and beards
all pulling from the world,
their eyes grown dark and closing
as they hang in slanted shadows
in a pose of ancient longing,
how they clanly, dimly,
whisper to the walls . . .
how they clan
and dimly whisper
to the walls.

SOLSTICE

It was the annual day again when Aunt Winter came
to stay for her afternoon with us, and sat like an old
gray frown—precarious and prim—on the edge of a
chair in her hat and gloves, and sipped our welcome-
tea, and asked the polite and distant questions in her
old-aunt voice, and said, “No, thank you,” to the
cookies.

We inward-smiled at her stiff, old-fashioned ways.
Quaint was the word we gave her, and never cared
to ask about the occasion of her visit—always on
time with the calendar—and why she glanced
around at all of us with such an almost-smile, and
did not remove her hat and gloves to “… stay awhile
for news…” though she stayed all afternoon.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

ILLUSTRATION OF A HAT BY MARTHA COLLOT
(Le Parfum de la Rose, 1924 by A. E. Marty)

Red rose reaching toward red lips,
shy eyes closing as she bends
to sniff the rose;

is this
to illustrate her yellow hat,
or to scandalize the kiss . . .

____________________

Thanks to Joyce Odam for her surprising takes on hats, our ekphrastic Seed of the Week! Our new Seed of the Week is Quicksand, either literally or figuratively: bad jobs, bad marriage, bad cruise ship… 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.

Poetry Off-the-Shelves meets tonight in El Dorado Hills at the library on Silva Valley Pkwy., 5pm. 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

Bill Gainer, Grass Valley Poet/SnakePal
—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis, CA, from

the "Poets in Hats" series

Katy says, “Gotta Love Poets in Hats!!”

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.

Evergreen

—Photo by Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA

DON’T STOP WRITING PARADIGMS
—Carol Louise Moon

Where could I wander?
Stopsigns made of redwood.

Where are pine tree leaves?
Pine trees don’t have rounded leaves.
Leaves are not the issue here.

Do you wander, yet
you do not know the pine trees?
Stopsigns endear you,
knowing this does not help much.
Then I realize—
I wander because of you.

The image of tree
wandering through a desert.
Poet runs after,
but never catches tree,
imagines trees uprooting.

The mind meanders
and, like a meander, flows.
A turn of phrase, a
tanka “turn” at twenty-four,
then seven more syllables.

      Write me a poem
      about your writing career—
      write by the numbers.

Tree Roots

—Photo by Carol Louise Moon

PARADIGM OF THE FLYING HORSES
—Carol Louise Moon

What goes up and down?
Today I’ll ride two horses.

Ride a... rocking horse?
No, I said ride a dapple
grey Tennessee... Walking Horse.

Here is a puzzle.
Want to see a miracle?
Trees turn to horses.
Philippine Mahogany
wood-worked and painted
now fly around—no pasture.

Friedrich Heyn horses,
carousel, painted anew;
White dappled with grey?
A restoration process—
Flying Horses fly again!

Children love riding
horses, it is fair to say—
unless they fear them.
An apple a day keeps the
veterinarian away.

      Nineteen hundreds saw
      wooden horses circle ‘round—
      children saw them fly.

Wall-Snow-Tree

—Photo by Carol Louise Moon

WATER FIRE PARADIGM
—Carol Louise Moon

Fire rains from above?
Fiery-pink fish run upstream.

Turquoise flows below?
We speak in mists of feathers
like birds clustered high in nests.

Wet boulders dare us
to tiptoe among the moss-
laden steep as two
kingfishers plunge into a
turquoise pool below.
Our day is dangerously dark.

Coal-gray clouds hang low.
Thunder claps her many peals.
Fawn races through the brush—
he, our guide on paths of fear.
Again, thunder claps resound.

A shower of stars?
Dry forest is ablaze now.
We wander blinded.
White embers rain on our path
blocking hope to find our way.

      A day without mist
      is more than one can endure.
      Our souls are thirsty.

Lake End

—Photo by Taylor Graham

WHERE THE SPRING DRIES
—Taylor Graham

What hidden traces?
Breath becomes the westerly.

Why is grass golden?
Gold-fever sucked the springs dry
making dust of the pond’s blue.

Summer drains the clouds,
distance veiled with ghosts of rain.
When will barn owl mark
the dim with lengthening night?
Pellets on dirt floor—
tiny bones measure hunger.

A Wakamatsu
walk inspires a new waka:
ridgetop facing home,
the garden’s keyaki tree.
She sleeps under oaks.

Have you heard them call?
the egret, the coyote,
and the silken worm.
Now learn to spin their voices
into a language of fall.

      And still the creeks flow
      following our sunset west
      toward the sea, away.

Winter Woods

—Photo by Taylor Graham

WILDWOOD PARADIGM
—Taylor Graham

What birdsong at dawn?
Wild-plum sweetens in half-light.

What do the rocks know?
A glimpse of fox where shadows
follow breezes up the swale.

If you step softly
you might see the fork-horn buck
leaving no hoofprint.
Shall I keep three owl feathers,
three shafts of flicker?
The song of uncounted birds.

An old cabin breathes
absence through its creaking door.
What spirit is left
when the people move away?
Hawk nests in the highest oak.

Remember spring storms,
waters churning, rock-carving
down the lichened steps.
A patient old willow waits
to wade in the first fall rain.

      Now before moon-rise
      Big Dipper pours its star-tales
      into cricket night.

Fairy Lanterns

—Photo by Taylor Graham

LIVING CHAPARRAL
—Taylor Graham

for Wendy

Where does a road end?
Green hides in driest places.

What does Vulture know?
You sit motionless
among ghost pine most alive.

If you see horses
by moonlight topping a hill,
calling softly—in
what language? You remember
from always-never:
invitation to their dance.

Barn Owl regards you
as wonder watching wonder.
Above and around,
everything goes silent, dark—
your four eyes locked together.

What secrets concealed
in thorny spike and thistle,
in the poorest soil?
The fairy lanterns are lit,
wrapping your verses in grace.

      On brink of winter,
      wild grape transfigures the trees
      in translucent gold.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Petal by petal
yellow mountain roses fall—
sound of rapids

—Bashō

___________________

Many thanks for this “joint” post today: Carol Louise Moon and Taylor Graham, both from Placerville, have sent us poems today in the form of the paradigm, with photos to go along with them. For more about the paradigm poetry form, see lewisturco.typepad.com/poetics/2007/06/paradigm.html/.

Sacramento Poet Brad Buchanan will be reading at the Cal. State University, Sacramento Library this afternoon at 3pm. Then tonight, MarieWriters Generative Writing Workshop will meet at Sac. Poetry Center, 6pm, facilitated this week by Laura Rosenthal. 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!)

A wee (malachite) kingfisher 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 Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

THE OLD PLACE

This evening, deer-brush lilac’s all in bloom
so briefly fragrant, it could knock you down.
A ridgetop breeze is sweeping its soft broom.
You signed the papers miles from there, in town.

So briefly fragrant it could knock you down—
the past you loved, the oaks, that land you leave.
You signed the papers miles from there, in town,
you’ll learn to smile at this departure’s eve.

The past you loved—the oaks, a land you leave
to find the place where you’ll begin again—
and learn to smile at this departure’s eve.
Is there a word that signifies amen,

we’ll find a place where we begin again?
A ridgetop breeze is sweeping its soft broom.
Is there a word that signifies amen
this evening, deer-brush lilac all in bloom?

APRIL’S ACRE

Which hat this morning?
Stiff or floppy? Maybe the dead-straw
garden hat with brim as wide as front pasture,
where poppies will burst from winter
under a broad green band.
Not too much protection from Sun!
Light teases water out of storm-drenched
earth, transforms it to grass and clover
and twining vetch—she wonders
how that particular shade of shadow-blue
would become her? Or maybe the plain brown
of just-turned soil that goes so well
with any kind of green. Choices, choices.
She feels the druid stirring. Grab a hat and go.

HIS HATS:

On top shelf front closet:
1 shearling trapper cap, 1 mesh safari hat,
1 waterproof western hat, 1 legítimo Sahuayo,
1 canvas rainhat; 1 hardhat—forest or disaster

Ball-cap hanger on back of utility door:
22 ball-caps assorted colors; sample logos:
K-9 Training Seminar; Mountain Bluebird
Trails; Professional Rodeo Cowboys;
ShopSmith; California Native Plant Society;
Tree Swallows Fly

Chair by front door, ready-to-go:
1 straw cowboy hat, 1 felt Stetson, 1 canvas
safari hat, 2 ball-caps: 1 white Graham Canyon
Ranch, 1 orange Search & Rescue Volunteer,
1 OD wool watch-cap; also a pair of rough-out
chaps & a 4-string banjo

IMAGINE, AN ELEGY

That ageless house by the side of country road, half hidden behind rock wall and hedge—it meant good fortune if I caught a glimpse, driving by. Imagine a farmer’s home with girls in straw hats sitting on the porch, the youngest hanging from a lower branch of the big sycamore. A four-square house settled on its piece of land forever unchanging. Each child in straw hat an imago not yet flown, spring blossoms caught under hatband, a ribbon iridescent as bluebird in flight. Yesterday I drove that way. The hedge was gone, the sycamore a skeleton holding its bone-arms up to cloudy sky. Why? Not one leaf left. I drove on by.

every dragonfly
along the way was gone, and
gone the pure blue sky

SAND BAR

Dark as a bruise in morning light,
Raven: watchful bar-tender by the creek.
Every winter, water digs its own tomb
in sand-spits graveled over by storm.
Overhead scream of Hawk—
no small life escapes. It’s not Raven’s job.
Druid-stone mossy on its shadow-side—
omen for the eclectic seeker of such sign.
Raven’s found a golden prize—
Ogre Tree Fungus?—a leap of faith:
good grows out of ugly.
For the moment, Raven’s done
with sandbar tending.
He paces like a Human wondering
what to do with his treasure.

HORSEBACK TARTOUM
for Cindy

Wind is up again for spring,
wild wind, to fly away her hair.
Horses are part of her blood.

A wild wind sets hair flying
and mane over new green grass,
acres of meadow and trail,

windy mane over green grass
and then untrodden forest paths.
She knew every hidden corner

and the untrodden forest paths
that urged her on, deeper woods
where she could lose herself—

urged on by deeper woods
but there she was never lost,
her horse steady beneath her.

Oh, she could never be lost
to sky and God’s green earth
as wind blows time away.

Acres of meadow and trail,
her horse steady beneath her—
she knew every hidden corner
where she could lose herself
as wind blows time away.
Horses are part of her blood.

Today’s LittleNip:

WHAT BECAME OF THE BARN OWL?
—Taylor Graham

If pigeons drove the owl from its barn,
shall we invoke Merlin Pigeon-Hawk
to magic the intruders away?
Can he transform them back again to owl?

Let the old hay-door open its mouth
to speak that emptiest word of Night:
who-who-whooo?

___________________

Thank you, thank you, Taylor Graham for starting our morning off in the Kitchen with your usual fine poems and pix!

It seems like I’ve made more than the usual number of mistakes lately; the latest was on Sunday, when I spelled Mary Oliver’s name wrong in the caption of her picture! Ouch. It’s bad enough to spell ANYbody’s name wrong, but when you’re trying to pay tribute to someone… Anyway, I apologize to all of you sitting around the Kitchen table, and especially to Michael Brownstein for besmirching his wonderful post/poem.

Head across the Causeway tonight to John Natsoulas Gallery in Davis to hear The Poets’ Quartet, 8pm; or go to Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento for Poetry Unplugged, with featured readers and open mic, also 8pm. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

Some last-minute additions to the calendar, three from MoSt, the lively Modesto-Stanislaus Poetry Center (www.mostpoetry.org). The first is this coming Friday, a reading at Modesto Jr. College from 6-8pm; see www.mostpoetry.org/event/poetry-reading-at-mjc/. Then on Sunday, Ladies of the Knight will read at Carnegie Arts Center in Turlock (sponsored by MoSt, at www.mostpoetry.org/event/ladies-of-the-knight-reading). And on Tuesday (4/9), Second Tuesday at the Barkin’ Dog in Modesto will present readers from the 16 Rivers Poetry Collective, 6-8pm (www.mostpoetry.org/event/second-tuesday-barkin-dog-4-2019). Be sure to take a look at MoSt’s excellent website and the many activities they present, including some charitable projects. And all in the name of poetry!

Closer to home, starting this week, Sac. Poetry Center will be offering its MarieWriters Generative Writing Workshop on Wednesdays AND Fridays throughout April, National Poetry Month. Celebrate National Poetry Month with a new poem!

—Medusa

Deer Brushing on Lilac (or is that deerbrush...?)

—Anonymous Watercolor

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.

Mabel Normand, 1892-1930

—Anonymous Photos

Today’s poems are by Michael Ceraolo, S, Euclid, OH, from his new project, Mabel: Selected Lifeography.

LEAP YEAR

I was born in one,
November 9, 1892,
to be exact
Not in 1895
as it says on my tombstone,
nor in 1893 or ’94
as it was usually written
in the studio bios;
an attempt at autobiography
should at least try for accuracy
I was born in Staten Island,
though it wasn't officially called that
until long after I was dead
and wasn't even part of New York City
until 1898,
not in any of the myriad other places
I told interviewers through the years

I was born early and with a caul
(the membrane usually detached
during the birthing process),
sort of a veil thought to bring good luck
and even presage greatness;
my parents were able to sell it
to someone who paid well for it

I went first to public school at home
and then away to a convent school
in Massachusetts,
finishing early
and starting right in to work,
beginning in the company mail room
but soon sent to the art department
to work as an artist's model

I wanted to be the artist,
not the artist's model,
but it was lucrative
and would do for the time being,
since
it soon enabled me to work with
James Montgomery Flagg and Charles Dana Gibson;
I think I was the only model
Gibson used more than twice

A model friend was posing for lantern slides
(still images projected onto the screens
between the movies being shown)
and she encouraged me to do it too
I later accompanied her to a movie set
(most of the movies at the time
being made in and around New York City)
and was soon hired there myself

As I look back to write this,
I find it truly amazing
how many of my movies' titles
had already, or would in the future,
apply to an aspect of my life
For those readers now ready to panic,
knowing I made over two hundred flickers,
relax,
and remember
the word Selected in the work's title
So here we go

STAKE UNCLE SAM TO PLAY YOUR HAND

During the war I made what I guess
you could call propaganda,
a short with the above-named title
to support the Liberty Loan Drive
But moviemaking wasn't support enough
for my country and my brother Claude,
who was fighting overseas in France:
at a rally I pledged a five-thousand-dollar bond,
and offered a kiss to any bond buyer,
raising over $12,500 in two hours

MABEL, FATTY AND THE LAW

Roscoe and I were both badly treated
by the law, though in different ways
He suffered through three trials
when he wasn't even remotely guilty;
the only one guilty of anything
was the doctor who said she was just passed out drunk
My mistreatment didn't involve any formal charges,
just rumors and innuendos
in a few different cases
But because one of those remains unsolved,
suspicion clings to me posthumously

With Charlie Chaplin

A MIDNIGHT ELOPEMENT, OR
ONE HOUR MARRIED

We could even call it Mabel's Married Life;
here's the story
It was the wee hours of a mid-week night
and we had both been drinking,
so when Lew got down on his knees and proposed
we both treated it as the joke it was meant to be,
complete with a mock wedding ceremony
But almost immediately
we decided to take it seriously
and drove to Ventura to get married for real
Lew and I had appeared together in Mickey
and had been good friends ever since,
sharing a love of pranks and hijinks
as well as a love of books
We didn't live together at first,
but grew closer as time went on,
and he eventually moved in with me
and nursed me during my illness
until I could no longer live at home;
he even kept his heart trouble from me
In my will I left him only a dollar
because he was more than capable
of earning his own living,
and
some have tried to read much into that
But my tombstone has the hyphenated name
MABEL NORMAND-CODY,
and
I wouldn't have done that without good reason

______________________

Today’s LittleNip(s):

There was a long, hard struggle when we were never sure that there would be a pay envelope on Saturday. There were just four of us then—Mr. Sennett, Fred Mace and Roscoe Arbuckle—and me! But we worked hard, and hoped hard, and just trusted in luck. And better days soon came.

—Mabel Normand

Just because I’m a little—well, you know, different—people believe anything weird about me.

—Mabel Normand

______________________

Our thanks to Michael Ceraolo for giving us a preview of his latest project! For more photos and info about Mabel, go to themabelnormand.com OR bizarrela.com/2016/10/mabel-normand-silent-queen-comedy/.

MarieWriters will meet tonight at Sac. Poetry Center, 6pm, with the Friday Generative Writing Workshop which will take place throughout April. Or travel down to Modesto to Modesto Jr. College for the reading there, sponsored by MoSt, also 6pm. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa (Celebrate Poetry!)

—Anonymous Photo of Mabel Normand

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.

Almond Blossoms, Yolo County

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

Even our priests wear masks.
A mask of a swan
Inside of a mask of a crow.
We cannot believe that we are beautiful,
So we wear these things
To hide us from life.
We do the same with language,
Hiding truths inside of lies
While using a lie to rape the truth.
There goes my father, he’s an owl,
No, he’s a laughing hyena,
Here for a corpse to scavenge.
And there goes my mother, she’s an old hen,
No, she’s a dog, a poodle,
Sleeping all day on the sofa.

Old Elm, Spring, Yolo County

Every life is precious, indeed, every item
Under heaven and across the universe is precious.
Every rock, every clod of dirt
Is a piece of the earth that holds us as home.
The plants, large and small, trees and flowers
And weeds and herbs have a value.
And each worm helps feed the soil
That in turn feeds us.
The salmon, the old barn owl, those are obvious,
But also precious are the mosquito, the roach,
Even the tsetse fly serves some purpose,
And so is blessed, and so blesses us all.
So it is that here before you I give thanks
And praise to the river otter and the raccoon,
To the mighty prairie hen, the jack pine,
The arugula and kale, the valley oak.
Let all step forward and be named.
Every life is precious, indeed, every item
Under heaven and across the universe is precious.
Even man.

Spring, Yolo Bypass Wildlife Area

A coyote walks unknowingly toward a man.
He is a hungry and lean animal. This man
Has a hunting rifle and is downwind, hiding.
He raises chickens and pays taxes on the land.
Who is the hunter and who is the prey?
Above this scene, dusk deepens into night,
Crickets sing. The Sacramento Valley.

____________________

Sunrise still an hour away, full-on
Darkness outside. Going out
For a breath of air I hear
Some morning sounds;
A freight train to my west,
It’s moving north very slowly.
A neighbor’s cat wails mournfully.
I can’t see it, but I know which one.
Closer, the coo of a dove. And so
I add my own voice to this cacophony;
“Hello world. I’m still here.”

Springtime, Yolo County

Every evening,
Darkness swallows it all,
Even the sun.
Then, come morning,
The darkness is erased
By the light of the sun.
Darkness. Light.
Some creatures prefer
To live in one.
And some creatures
Live in the other.
It isn’t like one way is good
And the other is evil.
I say, sleep when you’re tired,
Play whenever you wish.
I love both, and I love
The wrinkles and bald spots
Of becoming an older man.
There is a time coming
When the darkness will come
And stay.

_________________

Moonrise over Putah Creek,
A family to love—a place to belong.
Fully present and only 62 years old,
How lovely, this moonlight.

Valley Oak, Early Spring

The last time I ever saw my father
He was a beam of light,
Blue, reaching
From heaven above to the earth below.
Reaching to me.

In life, my father was a complicated man. A hero
In the war, strong on the hardest of battlefields.
In marriage, he was a liar and a cheat, constantly.
He went through his life fueled by good whiskey
And armed with finely made firearms.
My father could not stand a bully. He died at 58.

We agreed on little. He was my role model
Of things to avoid. We fought a lot, followed
By long periods of mutual silence.
In those silences I learned to be a man.

Then my father came to me in dreams.
In the early dreams he was clearly troubled,
Often angry, or upset and weeping.
Sometimes his ghost would be pointing at me.
I would wake up feeling like a criminal.

But slowly, over a couple of decades,
The dreams improved. My father became friendly.
We would sit in cafes and sip coffee and talk.
Conversations that were real.
I would ask him to stay,
And he would smile and say not to worry,
That he would be back soon.

One night when I was a man in my forties
I had best dream of all. My father told me jokes
And we hid from the ghost of his Aunt Dolly
So as not to be interrupted. He said,
“I only come here to haunt you.”

Just like that, it was over. No more dreams.
I was nearly 50. Was I a man now?
I wondered that. Maybe it wasn’t about me,
I thought that. Maybe he needed this.
Perhaps it was time to let my father go.

His name was James Lee Jobe, like mine.
I became James Lee Jobe when I married.
James Elvin Jobe married Alexandra Lee
And we each put the names together.
And I was also James Lee Jobe.
But I wasn’t like him at all.
I had a lot more peace than he ever did.

I began to want to tell him that I loved him.
I needed to say the words to my father,
Words that he and I had used so seldom.
When I went to bed at night, I asked for a dream.
Just one more dream.

It took some time. I was in my mid-50s
When the two James Lees met again.
It was in a dark and silent field somewhere,
We both knew fields in our lives.
A blue beam of light reached from heaven to earth,
Right to my feet. It was simply beautiful.
Blue light shined on me, on the field, on the sky.
I touched the light, and there inside it
Was the face of the other James Lee.
“This is me now, son. I am happy, at peace,
But I can’t keep coming back now. That’s over.”
We each said the words then, and it was done.

My father never returned again,
And I know that he won’t. And that’s alright.
It took us more than a half-century,
But we got there as a father and a son.
Not in the usual way,
But it ended in love and acceptance.

So why am I telling you this?
So you’ll know that you can make it, too.
You might be the drunken parent,
Or you might be the forgotten child,
But I am telling you you can make it to the light.
Old James Lee Jobe made it, and so can you.
Goodbye for now.

________________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Editing poems at night
Under the influence of hot chocolate.
Life opens like a flower.

—James Lee Jobe

________________________

Good morning and thank you to James Lee Jobe for his thoughtful poems today, as we inch into spring.

Today is the annual Sac. Poetry Center Spring Conference in Sacramento; I hope you’re not missing it! Then tonight, The Kings and Queens of Poetry reading will take place in Elk Grove, 7:30pm at the KAST Academy on Grant Line Rd. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa (Celebrate Poetry!)

—Anonymous 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 by Dah, Berkeley, CA
—Photos by Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA
from her "Wall" series

A LIGHT-BULB MOMENT

This busyness in life
this false confidence

We feed off of
things to do

Cruising time
we live
again
and again until

our thinking is removed

We … a fleeting experience
a dogged determination

O forging
searching
as if we are close

BONES

Ample strength of ice

the mountains are
too old for this

/ fallen granite
like stony corpses /

all bones
nothing else

CONDITION

Regarding life:
we exist as hollow
inside and out

Know this
as eternal
know this as
the only condition

hear this as truth
In The Beginning
is never-ending

SHAKER

Afflicted with existence
confusion's hardship
when and where
are we going
after the shaker
of mysteries
rattles our bones
until no eyes can see
no eyes can find
no eyes
no

WHITTLED

To know this is to remember
a journey of grounding,
wings broken off / oxygen-
laced veins
/ eyes snapped by swift
light glare /
the fragileness of breath
powdered skin of genesis
/ shivering / ripening
whittled into life

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

SAILING
—Dah

In leaps and bounds / we
procreate with
beast-like motion:

seeds sailing out of one
into the other / as if
this is the final port

_____________________

Our gratitude to Dah of Berkeley and Carol Louise Moon of the Sierra foothills for their wonderful Sunday offerings to us around the Kitchen table this morning!

If you’re of a mind to travel to Turlock to hear the Ladies of the Knight read their poetry, today’s the day: 2pm at the Carnegie Arts Center, 250 N. Broadway, presented by MoSt. Check it out! Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa (Celebrate Poetry!)

—Anonymous Photo

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

—Photos by Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

JOHNSON’S LAKE, ILLINOIS
—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove, CA

State couldn't
Open it as a park.
They'd found
Quicksand.

Uncle Eddie
Went to
Check it out.

Said it didn't
Meet his needs:
Was actually
Pretty slow.

SPIDER-PLANT BLOSSOM’S
ODE TO BEES
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

After a long winter’s dormancy,
Bursting out into heat,
My spider-plant is eager
To crawl up a wall.

“When shall we meet?”
Its flower says to bees.
“I am waiting here for you
And will be
My most Complete
When we do!

I’m waiting for your
Buzzing song,
A tune of Spring
That lively brings.

Please don’t be long.
Otherwise,
I’ll fear my fate:
To pollinate
Too late!”

__________________

THE BEAUTY OF SPRING
—Joseph Nolan
I see
Tiny, green leaves
Push flowers from trees;
Pink petals
Fall to the ground.

Cats come out
To sun themselves;
There are smiles
All around.

The sunlight falls
So gently,
Not strong enough
Yet, to burn,

We reach outside
Our orbits of fear,
Of cold
That shut us in,

Out into love,
Into joy and
Out into play,
And into rebirth,
My dear!

GROWING SO MUCH MORE,
DAY-TO-DAY
—Joseph Nolan

Maybe I’m fucked-up
But I don’t know why?
Maybe I’m lost to reason
And I shouldn’t try?

I see my own reflection
In windows,
As I pass by.
I wonder where I’m going,
And I wonder why?

In these days, is it easy,
To just simply be?
Or has it become
Complicated:
Too many nuts
Upon the tree?

Maybe we’re too sensitive?
Too easily in pain,
Too eager to be victims,
Too easy to cry, “Rain!”

Raining on our picnics
Raining on our parades
Raining on our sunglasses
We like to call our “shades”?

It seems we’re on the outside
Of our communities,
By the score:
Totally alienated
And growing so,
Much More
Day-to-day.

___________________

CASTLES ARE FOR KILLERS
—Joseph Nolan

I shun castles.
Castles are for killers:
Cold-blooded,
Bloodthirsty killers.

Talk about walls?
Castles are all
About walls.

How could you get
Any sleep at all
Inside an
Old, cold castle?

I think I’d
Rather wrestle
With a 'gator,

And tell the
Royals living there,
“See ya later!”

A BOX OF FITTING PIECES
—Caschwa

Where a large jigsaw puzzle is missing even
one piece, the hollow of the Grand Canyon
imposes its enormous emptiness, replete with
breathtaking descents of up to a mile, switchback
trails, reliance on sure-footed mules, the treasure
of one, small, sip of fresh, spring water.

And so it goes also when a speaker or writer
composes a thought where one key word is
locked out or blocked out, because the memory
just can’t retrieve all the names, vocabulary,
meanings, and correct spellings needed to
complete every thought.

Some people may have a box to harbor stray
jigsaw puzzle pieces. One can pair that with
the flashcard concept to concoct a “box” for
storing some of those terms that just disappear
when most needed. Here is mine, for example:

chaparral, Condoleezza, filibuster, actuary,
copasetic, electrolytes, gerrymander, parlay,
provincial, ricochet, silhouette, hyperbole, Don
Rickles, Tasmanian devil, 4-corners states
(Utah/Colorado/Arizona/New Mexico).

Each person’s own box of missing puzzle pieces
will likely look far different than mine or anyone
else’s. Try if you wish, and have fun!

SCORECARD
—Caschwa

Growth is essential for business
            Good for mental acuity
            Good for moral compass
            Good for muscle fitness
                       Bad for toxic mold
                       Bad for cancer
                       Bad for tumors
                       Bad for crime statistics
                       Bad for rips in fabrics
                       Bad for debt balance
                       Bad for pollution
                       Bad for cataracts
                       Bad for structural fatigue
                       Bad for sink holes
                       Bad for strength of undertow
                       Bad for infestations

___________________

FIRST CHAIR
—Caschwa

A very tight ensemble, conducted by
Dr. Synchropath, eminent modulation
specialist known for losing his key
centers in odd places only to have them
light your fire when you least expect.

Sitting first chair trombone is none other
than Dorothy from the Land of Oz. One
day she mistakenly entered the set for the
Land of Uz, and was so overtaken by the
scenery she fell asleep on the Jōb.

The music opens with a fanfare for the
common denominator, melting like cheese
inside all those taco trucks on every corner.
Much thanks to our top-notch studio mixer,
which uses a somewhat different design than
the one your mother uses in the kitchen.

Wishing all’s well that ends, well, “I’m thinking
about it,” said Mr. Benny.

SO CLEAN
—Caschwa

We know what a problem it is getting
that perfect shine on dishware, flatware,
and cookware, so we resolved to only buy
the “Original Sin” line of products, since
each piece carries a lifetime guaranty
that perfect cleanliness is not possible,
so it is okay to just rinse and reuse, and
not sweat it.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE GREAT ESCAPE
—Caschwa

Haiku prisoner
desperately
tunneling
at last, a break-out!

____________________

Thanks and more thanks to today’s contributors; spring seems to be creeping through the doors, and windows, despite the rain!

Red Fox Underground will be reading in mid-June at Sac. Poetry Center. Some of you may remember founding member Brigit Truex, who moved far away several years ago. She has remained active in the arts, though, and sends a website address where we can keep up with all her projects, including a new book about our local Wakamatsu Farm, Sierra Silk. See booksandsuchbybrigittruex.wordpress.com/.

Poetry in our area begins tonight at 7:30pm at Sac. Poetry Center, with Brad Buchanan reading from his new book, The Scars Aligned, plus open mic. Then Tuesday, travel down to Modesto for Second Tuesday at the Barkin’ Dog, featuring readers from the 16 Rivers Poetry Collective plus open mic, starting at 6pm. On Wednesday, Poetry Off-the-Shelves meets at 5pm at the El Dorado County Library’s main branch in Placerville.

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, 6-8pm on both Wednesday and Friday nights through April. There will also be a Wellspring Women’s Workshop this Thursday at 11:30am at 3414 4th Av. in Sacramento.

Also on Thursday, Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar will feature Chris Erickson plus open mic, 8pm. On Saturday, Sac. Poetry Center’s Second Sat. Art Reception will feature “Shift” with the artwork of Stephanie Smith, 5-8pm. And back to Modesto to the Barkin’ Dog on Sunday from 2-5pm for the MoSt (Modesto-Stanislaus Poetry Center) Annual Benefit. Info, including how the money will be allocated: www.mostpoetry.org/event/sixth-annual-benefit-gala/. 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!)

Did someone say sex?
—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.

Sand Painting

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

ON THE BEACH ALONE
(Long Beach, CA, 1939)

I am following the long stretch of shoreline;
the sun is going down; strips of seaweed
lie along the wet sand, left by low tide.

A few last seagulls circle in mauve twilight.
The sunbathers and swimmers have gone home.
I am on the darkening beach alone—

stumbling in heavy sand the slow mile back
to where I turn in—past the small rental cabins,
up the one small block—to 39 Mermaid Place.

I have been gone since just after breakfast.
My mother is home, scolding at the sand I track
all over the thin blue rug and the scarred linoleum.

After supper, I fall asleep on the floor,
curled up in front of the small gas heater—
too chilled to get warm.

One loud block away,
I can hear the surf—feel its power—
dream I can swim.

Poets’ Forum Magazine, Spring 2000 (Challenge: Epiphany)
Chapbook: A Sense Of Melancholy, Rattlesnake Press, 2004

Boardwalks

DREAM OF RUNNING

There is the boat lapping at the shore
softly bumping and thumping against the sand,
the small wooden boat we need to escape in.
We are running toward it as fast as we can
but the dream is heavy
and tangled with jungle vines and
there is breathing behind us, close as our ear.
And we are afraid we have lost the way,
but at once we see the beach, soft in the moonlight
suddenly before us, lying cool and deep,
with silvery light upon it, waiting for our footprint
and we know we can make it.
And there is the small boat rocking like a cradle.
We want to be in it pushing out over the water
snuggling against its round sides in the moonlight
looking up at the stars
feeling the cool night on our flushed faces
easing down into gentle breathing while we ride.
And now we are running across the sand
but so terribly slowly
a force is pushing against our chests
our arms make swimming motions through air
pulling distance toward us, pulling our bodies forward
and the small boat is patiently rocking.

(first pub. in Voices International, 1992)

Sunrise

TURN OF SEASON

I wake and find the morning not in tune,
a cold wind humming and a band of sun
fading across the east, too thin, too far,

some ragged bird-cry caught against the window
just as it flashes by, forewarned of nothing;
the winter leaf I always watch for, fallen—

done for, simply fallen, and the air
gone silent for it—just one breath of silence
before some new sound that the wind remits

decides to suffer to its farthest pitch
and in stubborn grief, give up its long-held wailing,
just like a voice I’ve heard before—my own.

Did night do this to me—no thought forgiven?
Oh, how begin another day like this!

Quick

TIDE TURNINGS
(after “Riptide” by Heidy Steidmeyer, Poetry, 1999)

All that is grim, caught here on this long and shining beach in
the warping moonlight—vague things gleaming in the distance;

a bird wing caught in the sand; the small look of something
made of string; the curve of the wet land where it goes on and

on past the following night; the old deliberate way you
glide along the water’s edge until you feel yourself disappear—

and why does it always seem at once so far away and so near—
as if time and distance can be traveled simultaneously.

__________________

CONCERNS

swimming into the mouth
          of locked water
                   a young whale

                            finding the
                                 shallow beach
                            at the end

                   and rocking itself
          to death
against our helplessness

(first pub. in Parting Gifts, 1997)

__________________

TIDAL

Look what the sea has done—those shadow lines
light touched and cast into striate patterns
for the relentless winds to worry

and try to change. But the persistent sea
will return and change it all again—
will suck away the trace

of all other touchings. This is mine, claims the sea,
and it will return again and again
to wrinkle the sand with

its ebbing, for always it must draw back
into its great heaving self—
like a breathing.


(first pub. in Hidden Oak, 2005)

Desert Art

WE CATCH THE BALL OF LIGHT

We catch the ball of light
under the twelve stars
of some mysterious sky-symbol

and throw it to each other with
such skill that it shines in the air
leaving after-streaks of motion.

Blue was never this kind,
not even the soft blue of twilight,
not even the cool blue of dawn.

Auras of silver surround us,
guide us over the wet sands
by this phosphorescent ocean.

Whispers muffle around us—
those presences again.
Our hands are the

deliberate hands of dancers;
our bodies follow, and we
cannot be silent about our joy.

The hours have more measure
than the moments.
We know a moment of pure religion.

We are bodiless…   Sexless…
Mindless even…
in this simplicity of movement,

this participation
in the surreality of thought…
this fanciful abandon…   This play.

________________

WOMEN MOVING AMONG WOMEN

You see how it is—women moving among
women like a dance of loneliness—or like

a practice of memory when life was free and
no one guarded their secrets, which were pure,

when only the long blue sands of twilight
would remember their dance. The reaching sea

would try to belong—but it too would leave them,
pulling at them to follow, or let go. The white gulls

would turn silver and vanish, leaving their threading
shapes in the turbulent air. The women would try

to forget those cries and emulate that grace;
the sands would cover-over as the sun lowered

and erased everything but this memory of women
moving among women in a dance of loneliness.

The World Over

ENDINGS

1.
This is where we take the different ending :
the walk on the beach
in that peculiar light—
the sea immense and lonely.
“Oh,” you protest,
“we can’t say the sea is lonely.”

2.
This is where we take the delicate ending :
the walk on the particular beach
at a particular time,
approaching some object
made of dark light
that seems to be moving.
When we near it,
it is the disheveled doll
left by our childhood
that seems to remember us,
for we pick it up and hold it.
It is so cold and wet and
featureless. It gasps like a kitten, and expires.

3.
This is where we take the difficult ending :
walking the roiling beach in winter light,
leaving the doll behind.
The sea rocks and moans over the doll,
retrieving it in its foaming arms.

4.
This is where we take the desperate ending :
You look back and tell me
what you see.
I don’t look back.
I am watching a seagull swooping and crying
into the sea’s defining loneliness.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

FROM MY ALBUM OF THOUGHTS
—Joyce Odam

As far as memory’s reach . . .
strolling summer’s moon-lit beach
again.

____________________

So many thanks for this poetry and artwork today from Joyce Odam, as she explores our Seed of the Week, Quicksand—the quicksand of memories and dreams and all sorts of metaphors that can be found in her work.

Our new Seed of the Week is "Nesting". 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.

Cold River Press has released its book of poetry by the Tough Old Broads Victoria Dalkey, Kathryn Hohlwein, Viola Weinberg Spencer and Annie Menebroker. Called Tough Enough, it’s now available at the Cold River website (www.coldriverpress.com), or at the Sunday, April 28 reading which will be held from 1-4pm at Harlow’s, 2708 J St., Sac. In addition to Victoria Dalkey, Kathryn Hohlwein and Viola Weinberg Spencer, Sue Menebroker McElligott will be on hand to read some of her mother, Annie's, work—plus there are some pretty cool extras that will be announced shortly. Host: Cold River Press, with Traci Gourdine as the Emcee.

Speaking of Cold River Press, deadline to submit work to the 2019 edition of Sacramento Voices is June 30. Check the website for details (www.coldriverpress.com).

In the mood for a road trip tonight? Second Tuesday at the Barkin’ Dog will present poetry from the 16 Rivers Poetry Collective, plus open mic, beginning at 6pm at the Barkin’ Dog, 940 11th St., Modesto, sponsored by MoSt (Modesto-Stanislaus Poetry Center, www.mostpoetry.org/event/second-tuesday-barkin-dog-4-2019). 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.

Barkley and Poet
—Poems and Photos by Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA

FASTIDIOUS

The internet informs that
Miniature Pinschers are fastidious,
obsessive/compulsive—
a fact that bears out in my dog’s life.
He is a short hair; so am I.
He is fastidious, and I am
fascinated by this.

Barkley is a black and tan, miniature
Doberman with a pink tongue.
He looks fierce until observed
industriously licking the kitchen
floor with his little pink tongue.

He displays pride of ownership,
owning our bedroom with its
clean tile floor and soft green
quilted bed.

Does he know that, two
houses down, there’s a small dog
living in backyard dirt?

Be kind. Don’t tell him.

Barkley on vacay with his plaid suitcase

BARKLEY AND THE PLAID SUITCASE

A plaid suitcase holds his clean
blankets and two small sheets.
Beside this, a small container
of munchables, treats for when
he is his better self.

The clock on the wall ticks out
a steady beat as warm sun
cracks between curtains in
this blue motel room.

Inside a large crate there, he sits,
bedding dry and warm. He
mulls over his many thoughts,
and sighs, peeking out the metal
crate door.

This strong-legged, perked-eared
little black dog used to be the
Alpha among people. But now
the Second Beta, he sits quietly
being his better self, waiting for
the exercise hour on a sunny
deck or a green motel lawn.

Munchables (he can almost
taste) in a tight-lid plastic
container still sit beside his
plaid suitcase. He’s done with
this vacation and wants to
go home to begin a vacation
of his own making.

Captain Barkley

OUR GUARD DOG

Our guard dog sits by venetian doors
basking in taffy light, a fraction of the
light shining past the nursery. His bark,
as if wind through gloved-muzzle,
would merely waft to the garden from
this balcony. Below, the garden pin-
wheel near potted plants, the buttoned-
down shirt drying on the line are
witnesses to his vigilance in guarding
our napping toddler.

Our shepherd sniffles and snorts as if
guarding a cave entrance from the
intrusion of sunlight. But look... the
garden hose, now a fountain, threatens
to flood our neighbor’s terraced yard.
It has already washed away a weed pile,
uprooted poppies, and floated a baseball
glove. Where will dog and toddler play
following this midday catastrophe?

________________________

IRISH WOLF HOUNDS

Grandpa tells me that these two
companions sitting on his front
porch have been around for
7,000 years.

He tells me that the green hills of
Ireland where they roamed for
centuries, no elk could survive.

He tells me that even the wolf
fought and lost battles with these
magnificent creatures. Large with
wiry gray hair, a caveman-skull of
a dog’s head, long lumbering legs...

his Irish Wolf Hounds are his pride
and my amazement.

Barkley wears his lifejacket in the dinghy with Carol Louise

IN CAUTIOUS TIMES

In times like these dark times, anxious
men and women of the land will pace.
Back and forth, and forth and back,
like the endless cogs of machinery.

To what the purpose, now? We spoke,
believed the best of fellow man and friends.
But what of man’s best friend,
a momentarily forgotten pet.

Anxious Rex, seated near an open cottage
window, looks as if to see a horseman
plodding up the path. Perhaps he bears
news of food, with cautious dogs in tow.

But what becomes of us, we ask.
In silence Rex now meditates, replies—
his steady out-of-window gaze
signals us to hope for better days.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE BLACK PURSE
—Carol Louise Moon

black of little Blacky’s coat
black of morning coffee grounds
black of Blacky’s beady eyes
black hands of the kitchen clock;
black, the numbers ten and noon
black, the back of a napping dog
black, the purse which holds
yellow bits of kibble for
Blacky, the waking, stretching dog

___________________

A big thank-you to Carol Louise Moon and Barkley today for these dog-gone fine poems and pix!

Poetry event choices in our area today include Mary Mackey reading at the CSUS library, 3pm; Poetry Off-the-Shelves poetry read-around at the Placerville library on Fair Lane in Placerville, 5pm; and MarieWriters free workshop at Sac. Poetry Center, 6pm. 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!)

Fashionista Barkley

—Photo by Carol Louise Moon

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

MEMORY LANE

Alley flowers bright against the dark unknown; hollyhocks and pansies. Beyond, walls with doors all closed, keyholes calling for a magic key. One door leads to Grandmother’s cellar, forbidden place slumping into earth. I might catch a glimpse of Honey-Bear earth-lit with bear-knowledge slipping into dark. Scene remembered from a child’s book gone years ago. Quagmire of memories. Driving through town, I see an alley with trailing ivy; walkway behind a bungalow abutting weedy lot, daffodils blooming in spite of. Beyond lies the edge of possibility. Then I see the sign, PODIATRIST. Beyond, another sign: NO TRESPASS. The place is gone, locked in ice of the mind. My mother forgot almost everything, entering the unknown dark.

living flowers light
a path for the next footstep
where the bear might be

A STOLEN DAY?

You held out the carrot: Adventure.
We set out on a hike—just a short walk
through summer meadow lavish
with annual wildflower show: lupine,
paintbrush, columbine…. Far below,
thin line of snowmelt lake dissolving sky’s
blue. Along this creek, willow in thickets
not yet touched by autumn, beckoning
higher up the slopes. Willow bright
with song—maybe the elusive willow
flycatcher. Willow rooted in mountain,
locked in a green embrace.
Almost impenetrable. Not quicksand
but where’s the way out? You say,
don’t worry. But ego is a swindler: I can
find a way out of here. Distant thunder.
Dark clouds race for the summit,
thunder’s closer. Here’s a hike
to remember—if we reach our car.

RIDGETOP SCHOOL

They’ve redesigned the entrance, cut down trees, built more fences. But memory leads past the bungalows, down into woods. Spell of pine and cedar deepening the sky’s blue. The path has shifted, but it brings me to cedar-bark tepee—Nisenan? Imagine sleeping under that cedar where Raven perches, knowing I don’t belong. I walk around to the tepee’s entrance. What’s that? a wooden hobby horse for a very small child. Pioneer artifact? or product of someone’s power tools?

a horse to carry
a child’s imagination
across endless plains

BREATHING POEMS

Isn’t poetry-for-money like quicksand?
That’s what I thought when they offered us
money for poetry. Doesn’t money have strings?

The cost of paper and pens for writing poems,
of course. But fancy paper, fancy pens?
Who can write poetry that way? Don’t the best

verses come when you don’t even have
a scratch pad, or your hands are occupied with
steering the car? Isn’t poetry like breathing?

Just close our eyes and invoke metaphor;
transform quicksand to a sea of word-
sound-image. Swim. Don’t forget to breathe.

SPRING VISITATION
a Zejel

Far out of sight, from down the swale,
flush out of March’s gloom and gale
and into spring still fresh and frail

as blossoms on the wild-plum bough—
a laughing giggle—who knows how?
unseen and subtle, shy somehow
but getting louder on the scale

of birdsong. Such a trilling thrill,
a gobble! bolder, climbing still
up through our trees, our pastured hill:
two hens, a tom—his splendid tail!

TURKEY MOON

Taking the slash pile apart, twig by branch
by lichened limb chain-sawed off the corpse
of a great live oak fallen in storm,
we found three fresh turkey eggs. Carefully
I placed some branches back over the pile.
We left as quietly as we could.
Next day, four eggs. I checked my guide:
8-12 eggs normal, up to 20.
She’s got a lot of laying left to do.
Incubation: 28 days, a whole moon-cycle.
By good fortune, the nest will thrive.
I’m wishing on a Turkey Moon.

Today’s LittleNip:

SPRING SURPRISE
—Taylor Graham

Under the pile of
brush we meant to dismantle—
three new turkey eggs!
It’s time to revise our plans
if we treasure wild turkeys.

___________________

Thank you to Taylor Graham for today’s poems and photos, as she skillfully works the recent Seed of the Week, Quicksand, into this morning’s offering. Count how many times she slipped it past us! And for more info on the zejel, go to www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/zejel-poetic-forms/.

Wellspring Women’s Writing Group meets today at 11:30am at Wellspring Women’s Center on 4th Av., and Chris Erickson is the featured reader at Poetry Unplugged tonight (plus open mic), 8pm, at Luna’s Cafe on 16th St. 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!)

Click once to enlarge these
FUN TURKEY FACTS!

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.

Norman J. Olson, Maplewood, MN

—Poems, Photos and Original Artwork by Norman J. Olson

at Loew’s Hotel in Santa Monica

flunkies in white…
pacific breeze cool
like ice
melting in a McDonald’s
soda cup…
a world of echoes
and turquoise water
touching the spoiled
thighs and skinny
asses
of those on whom
the lucky god
has smiled…

santa monica beach

palm trees on stilts
walk along the
beach…

beggars in piles of rags
and shopping bags
live in the alleys and
locked doorways…
their rocking bodies and
crazy voices
raise questions of
medicine, politics
and
ethics…

a feathery contrail
drifts above the lemon
sun like the hand
of somebody’s
serene
unworried
god…

whose hand is this veined and wrinkled claw?

still… my brain seems
to be
a timeless seagull
riding waves of fresh
Pacific air… above
a sinking sun
beneath a bone white
half
moon… where the
sky is blue as angel’s hair…

on the bus ride from Marco Polo Airport to Mestre

above flowers and
green ditches,
concrete buildings moldering,
I saw the spires and roof tops
of Venice through
a misty rain… riding
the five-Euro bus
from VCE to the Mestre
bus station… later walking,
lost, the
Italian rain
felt warm
after Minnesota and
ten hours
on the airplane… I wondered
if Titian ever walked
here, back when it was
a farm field, maybe, or
a dirt road… and marveled
at the gray-white light reflected
through thinly painted
trees…

I worry about Vesuvius

65 feet up from the sea
on the deck
of a huge cruise ship… which was
like a
chandelier grown monstrously
big… I watched the volcano
near Stromboli twice
blow fire and sparks
into the clouds… the expert
said this volcano had been
continuously
erupting all through
recorded history… but
of course, that is just
an eye blink
to a volcano…

storm near Madera in the Atlantic Ocean

the huge ship with its
cargo of
aging legs, skinny
asses and tuxedos rolled
like the whole world had
come unglued… I sat on deck
three and watched the
giant waves looking, yes, just
like enormous saw teeth
turned upside down…
the old Australian guy confided
to me that he had just
had “a bit of a chuck…” but
I chewed
another anti-seasickness tablet
and headed for the
buffet…

almost across the Atlantic

two days out of Fort Lauderdale,
we saw a cruise ship
in the distance
like a goblet of frozen lights in the blackness
of the ocean night…
later from the back of the ship,
the moon came out,
round as any balloon,
and stepped with
slippers of light
across the turquoise path
of the ship’s wake…

driving across Alabama

after a month out
of the USA, driving from FLL
to MEM in the middle of the
night, it was good to
see familiar lights
and advertising signs… even
McDonald’s… I stopped and
got a soda…

the only rental car available
was a huge Mercury… so I drove
while the others slept
and thought how American
is this, driving an enormous,
poorly engineered gas
guzzler
through the warm woodsmoke
of an Alabama night… contentment
sitting in
my fat American
belly like a Moon Pie
and two Big Macs…

Today’s LittleNip:

birthday poem
—norman j. olson

in the hotel window
I see thinning grey hair
cropped short
and fading green/blue
eyes…

Norman w/Self-Portraits

Welcome to the Kitchen to artist/poet/travel writer Norman J. Olson, who writes: I am a 71-year-old small press poet and non-commercial artist who published my first poem in 1984 after many years of regular submission and rejection. I have now published hundreds of poems and artworks all over the world... my one and only book of poetry, Forty-Four Image Poems, published by Urtica, 2018 (French poet and editor Walter Ruhlmann in English), is available at: www.lulu.com/shop/norman-j-olson/forty-four-image-poems/paperback/product-23723310.html/.My website is normanjolson.com, and I also have a blog entitled Synchronized Chaos; some excerpts from that can be seen at:

•••synchchaos.com/travel-vignette-from-norman-j-olson-2
•••synchchaos.com/travel-vignette-from-norman-j-olson

•••synchchaos.com/travel-vignettes-from-norman-j-olson

•••synchchaos.com/travel-vignettes-from-norman-olson

•••synchchaos.com/essay-from-norman-olson

•••synchchaos.com/travel-vignette-from-norman-olson

And you can see more of Norman's art at: www.facebook.com/norman.olson.12/media_set?set=a.104373629582355&type=3/.

Thanks again, Norman, and don’t be a stranger!

And don’t forget Sac. Poetry Center’s free MarieWriters Generative Writing Workshop on Friday's as well as Wednesdays through April, in honor of National Poetry Month. That's tonight at 6pm. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa (Celebrate Poetry!)

All hands on deck—with Norman!

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.

Tractor, near Ripon, CA

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

Like the green of the pine trees in the rain.
Like finches outside the closed window.
Or watching the moon wax larger,
A little more every night until she is full.
Like the owls hooting in the darkness.
Life in my valley is lovely,
To both the eye and the heart.
And soon tomorrow will become today
Again. Rest well, friend.

Tractor, near Knights Landing, CA

My old house is framed with color
As the bright orange leaves drift down
In the light wind and soft rain.
A wet afternoon on November,
Looking up in the drizzle.

Tractor, near Walnut Grove, CA

In their world, I suppose am a poor man, but not in my world; in my world I am wealthy. I have my life, my family, and a home. People love me and I love them. Money is nothing.

__________________

I was a basket of whiskers,
A ball of regret. The Dharma,
When I found it, was a fresh shave
And a long toss of the ball.
(I never looked for that ball again;
Perhaps a fine young dog found it.)

Tractor, near Winters, CA

It’s a ghost, it comes and goes at random times,
You cannot predict, and you cannot request.
Something will happen and I just know it is there.

It might be with me when I sleep
Or when I take a walk where tall pines grow.
I am glad for the company.

The ghost of my son, checking in on me.

Tractor, restored 1948 John Deere, Sacramento, CA

They say when you see starlight,
That those stars are already dead,
And have been for millions of years.
2:30 am, the Sacramento Valley,
The night air is smokey, murky.
A forest fire rages 100 miles to the north
And the smoke has blanketed my valley.
Looking up, I can see the memory
Of a couple of determined stars
Peek out at me. The universe goes on.
Stars can die out and forests can burn
But we do go on. Being alive
Is like turning the pages in a book.
Just keep on reading, friend.
The end will come soon enough.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The day is beautiful, it gives us a place to enter the light. Likewise with the night and the darkness. In the balance of this cycle, we grow and we love.

—James Lee Jobe

______________________

Thank you, James Lee Jobe, for your fine wake-up call here in the Kitchen this morning!

A reminder that this Sunday, Apr. 14, midnight, is the deadline for the 10th annual Art Where Wild Things Are contest for nature-themed works in all visual art media: paintings, drawings, sculpture, fiber art and photography, hosted by Sacramento Fine Arts Center. Info and to enter online: www.sacfinearts.org and click on the “Art Show Entry” link on the right, then on the "Prospectus" link in the center, under the drawing.

The 15th Annual Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest is now open for submissions, deadline July 20. Entry forms/contest rules are available at www.libraryatlincoln.org; see Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest in the blue box on the right; for questions, contact Alan Lowe at slolowe@icloud.com.

While you’re thinking of submissions, it has been announced that the deadline for Sac. Poetry Center’s 2020 issue of their annual journal, Tule Review, is July 31. Go to spcsacramentopoetrycenter.submittable.com/submit/.

Tonight from 5-8pm, Sac. Poetry Center presents the Second Sat. Art Reception for “Shift”, the work of Stephanie Smith. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

And Bethanie Humphreys’ new chapbook, Dendrochronology, is available for pre-orders at Finishing Line Press: go to www.finishinglinepress.com/product/dendrochronology-by-bethanie-humphreys/.

—Medusa (Celebrate Poetry!)

—Anonymous Photo

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

e.e. cummings, 1894-1962

e. e. isn’t coming to your rescue
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

e. e. cummings
Isn’t coming
To your
Poetic rescue.
He’s not a muse to you
Nor would he likely
Choose
To be one
When you are
Turned upside down
Searching for
The verb
Or noun
With which to
Fill a line
The one that
Fits in perfectly
As though from
The Divine!
e. e. isn’t coming
To your rescue.

You have to write it
On your own
You have to sweat
And rack your bones
Sensitive to undertones
Of words
That drift off sideways
Into innuendo
You didn’t intend, Oh!
How hard it is
To get it right
In the middle
Of a writer’s night.
And e. e. isn’t coming
To your rescue!

_________________

Our thanks to J.N. for helping us celebrate the writing of poetry! For more about e.e. cummings, go to www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/e-e-cummings/.

Two road trips in poetry in our area today: Joseph reminds us how active the Modesto-Stanislaus Poetry Center is, and they have a fundraiser this afternoon at the Barkin’ Dog Grill on 11th St. in Modesto, 2-5pm. And heading the opposite direction, Yuba Sutter Arts will present five readers this afternoon at the Burrows Theater in Marysville, 2pm, including Ladies of the Knight poet Angela James. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—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.

—Photos by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento, CA

TAXES
—Michael J. Brownstein, Chicago, IL

standing in line to pay taxes
the weatherbeaten and strong
we saddle up against one wall of chairs
lean our way out the door to another
find ourselves outside in the mist
why do we wait to the last day
and why do we stand in line to pay
these are not questions but answers
the lobby when we get that far
damp with footprints warm with bodies

________________

THIS IS WHY THIS IS
—Michael J. Brownstein

The ice storm begins in the heart
quietly waking its way to the outer limits of toe and finger.
Without a hat, ears soon
fear the crush of heavy cold, breathing
an act of war, breath
an air raid of frost, large chunks of hail, winter squalls:.
Is this the hell of ancient Norsemen?
Somehow the vapor surrounding us
a napalm attack of frost-bitten knives into eyeball and flesh.

A year of fire and water, tornado and hurricane,
snow bombs and whiteouts, asthma and skin on fire,
flooding and erosion, earthquake and extinction—
Mess with me, Earth Oya, the Goddess of Weather

and Sustainability, says,
and I'll mess with you two times double.

Davis Whole Earth Labyrinth

MEMORY
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

Memory,
A dream,
Stretching back
Into a
Fuzzy wind
That twists
And turns.

A twisted dream!
Too many turns
To tell
What it
Might mean
Or if it’s real.

Try it on
Or take it off—
If left alone
It might
Just run away
And leave you
To atone
In this new day.

_______________

AN INDEX-FINGER’S IDYLL
—Joseph Nolan

A red-headed finch
Perched on your
Index-finger
Regards your mouth.

To her
It appears rather large,
Large enough to
Capture her whole
Inside.

She wonders
If you might eat her
If you got the notion
Either now or later?

She doesn’t want
To take the chance,
Just for an index-finger’s
Idyll romance
And flies away!

MUD-HUT MADNESS
—Joseph Nolan

Mud-hut madness
Is coming to our land!
We’ll build our homes
Of concrete
And polish them
With sand;
We’ll build our
Stone-walks crooked,
Good balance
We’ll demand
From all
Who come
To call.

We’re gonna go
Full natural
And build
Our roofs
From straw
And smear them down
With tons of mud;
On top,
We’ll grow
Grass, tall.
We’ll plant some
Red tomatoes
The tastiest of all,
And live
Just like natives!

_________________

DECLINING
—Joseph Nolan

Slowly but surely
Shutting down,
The lights grow
Dimmer each night.
Even now,
They’re not so bright
And the dull thud
Of diminution
Creeping in,
A dirty bug,
Propagates its breed, as
Greater grows my need.

The articles
Of constancy,
Upon which
Are all built,
Suffer from
Infirmity,
As time betrays—
The bedrock is
Just silt.

We worship
Diminishing idols,
Ourselves,
And all those
About us.
We can’t help
But be
Somewhat anxious.
An abrupt ending,
As pin-ball goes “tilt!”

Rose Show
McKinley Park Garden and Arts Center, Sacramento

COOKING MAGIC
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

It was just the little plastic cap
from a bottle of extra virgin
olive oil, which met the slick
of my palm and then deftly fell
onto the floor. No problem, or
so I thought.

Then the floor, which had been
perfectly level when this food
prep had commenced, suddenly
shifted, assuming the angle of
a boat launch ramp, and the little
cap dutifully bounced and cascaded
down the ramp until it was totally
out of sight under the stove.

___________________

THE MUELLER REPORT
—Caschwa

Okay kids, get out your decoder rings
and get ready to set sail for a shortcut
trade route to India for those tasty spices.

Oh wait, what are those other continents
sitting out there? We’ll call those the
Americas and hit them with Spanish
colonization, pilgrimages of tattered
Europeans, and don’t forget those original
13 colonies: the ant colony, the penal
colony, you know the rest…

So we didn’t find exactly what we were
looking for, but that’s all right. Once we
get rid of those savages that were here
long before us, we’ll replace our oppressors
with our own culture, religion, government,
and language and mandate that everyone
conform to just that, period.

“So what about Russian collusion?”

Please don’t change the subject, we have
big money deals waiting to be finalized
and whatever we do, we don’t EVER want
to upset the big money handlers.

Red Circle Dancers, Old Sacramento

NO LIFEGUARD ON DUTY
—Caschwa

Since the fall of the Soviet Union the new
Russia first promised greater freedoms of
speech and other civil liberties, but that was
only setting the mousetrap to later snap down
fiercely hard on anyone actually trying to
exercise those freedoms or liberties.

Just as before, if one is living in Russia one
is not free to criticize the government or its
members. Sadly, some of this limitation on
civilians speaking their mind has helped paint
the American political picture as well.

On social media, for example, if someone
doesn’t agree with what you stated or the
way you presented your position, they may
go all the way down to the bottom of the
swamp to cover you in filthy expressions of
blatant disregard for your words and your
character.

Our melting pot is having a melt down. So
the Russian plan is already working, lighting
the fire under us to disagree with one another
with such absolute, total, complete hate, until
all this friction serves to erode the very unity
that has heretofore made our nation great.

Once we can ensure truly fair elections, we
can offer our consent to be governed to some
faithful public servants with real leadership
skills, that we might come together again with
renewed unity of purpose, and rid the White
House and Congress of any trace of Russian
style dictatorship.

____________________

CORRECTION
—Caschwa

At the end of my poem, “Beyond Mad”,
I added the expression “End of rant.”
That is so not going to happen!
As long as the very lives of unarmed
individuals are intentionally or mistakenly
ended by gunfire, the fire fueling this and
other rants will not be extinguished.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

CLAMOR
—Caschwa

Correctional Services
conducts inmate reception
considering what housing
corresponds with the required
cooperation techniques
copasetic prison guards
characteristically use.

____________________

Thanks to our contributors today for their tasty buffet of poems and pix! Start your third Monday of National Poetry Month with lunch and conversation with writers at Solomon’s Delicatessen in Davis, 11:45pm; then tonight go down to Sac. Poetry Center to help Tim Kahl celebrate the release of his new book, Omnishambles, 7:30pm.

SPC workshops this week include Tuesday Night Workshop for critiquing of poems at the Hart Center (27th and J Sts.) on Tuesday, 7:30-9pm (call Danyen Powell at 530-681-0026 for info); and MarieWriters Generative Writing Workshop at SPC for writing poems, 6-8pm both Wednesday and Friday nights. The Wednesday night workshop will be facilitated this week by Joshua McKinney, and the Friday workshop by Bethanie Humphreys.

Also on Wednesday, El Dorado County Poet Laureate Suzanne Roberts will lead a workshop at 5:30pm at the Cameron Park Library on Country Club Drive, Cameron Park, followed by a reading there at 7pm by Suzanne, Lara Gularte, and Loch Henson.

On Thursday, Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar will host featured readers and open mic, 8pm. Also on Thursday, Poetry Overturned with Carol Lynn Stevenson Grellas, Jeanette Set, and Angela James will read at Poetry in Davis, 8pm. And on Friday, also in Davis, The Other Voice will have a poetry round robin at the Unitarian Universalist Church of Davis library on Patwin Rd. in Davis, 7:30pm.

Saturday at 2pm, Poetic License poetry read-around meets in Placerville at the Sr. Center on Spring St. The suggested topic for this month is "good fortune" but other subjects are also welcome. And on Sunday, the Davis Arts Center Poetry Series, this month with Lisa Dominguez Abraham and Shawn Pittard plus open mic, meets at the Center, 2pm.

Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute, since the enthusiasm of National Poetry Month is causing readings to pop up all over the place!

—Medusa (Celebrate Poetry!)

—Anonymous

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

Arrival

—Poems and Photos by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

THOSE GRAY MIRAGES

I take the loud map of time and follow it—the flat land-
scapes—the edge of direction—the vertigo of distance.

My old eye clears the way and removes all obstacles. I
thrill to the path of birds, those silences that were song.

I wade through the dreams that assail the dark intervals
between sleeps—every mountain has another side and
every sea its crossable depth. I enter forest after forest

with familiar longing—whoever else is there has not
found me. I am invisible, though I have seen my own
image in reality after reality—that clouded mirror.

I fetch far into the realms of distance, those gray mirages
that tremble and hold and wrap around me when I arrive.

I am the pilgrim, and the anchored one. I diverge. I go
and stay with the same intention.

Neither Here Nor There

MIND TRAVEL

We’ve come to love the travel of the mind
where we can marvel and blithely wind

through purple hills that stretch as far
as they really are

and not ever go near them;
actually we fear them—

how one could get lost in such empty reaches.
And I prefer beaches

where the shore continues as far as light can shine—
clear into that flat and seamless time

when the long day’s sun goes down—
then mosey back to some nearby, noisy town

for seafood where candle-glow windows face the sea.
I’d gaze at you—you’d gaze at me—

make ready, then, for some music and dancing—
even some romancing.

But, I’d rather just stay put and dream about all this.
So, goodnight, my old dear. Sweet dreams. Kiss Kiss.

Inexplicable

AND SHOULD YOU MEND

Love, you have come to me on failing wing.
How can I warn you of the peril found
where you must learn a bitter song and bring
your final hungers to a barren ground?
Had you come yesterday I was not sealed
against your need. That was a younger time.
Stay if you will, knowing my meager yield,
or contemplate another sky to climb.
I cannot promise love—this winter tree
is all but leafless, though my arms are deep
and waiting curvatures—shelters of me
to break the winds of winter that I keep.
There rest your throbbing self and should you mend
then spring will have a meaning to defend.

More to Come

THE KNOLL

Our voices dwindle—time runs down
—night soothes around us, a light rain
misting the grass.
We do not mind this, or complain,
for something holds us : we exist,
with but a twist
of minds and hearts : we bond as one,
and loath to leave, we stay.
What is begun
must guard the magic of this day
—this little knoll—our talking done—
under the soft rain, where we lie
with outstretched arms, feeling the sky.

From Whose Distance

FOR THE CUP THROWER

I am glad to have your book
with the spilled coffee on it.
I know how it feels
to throw a cup against the wall.
All the precious paper in the world
cannot stay such anger.
What a furious design you have made—
all that splatter—all the poems
have become suddenly holy.

(first pub. in Epos, 1975)

_____________________

OLD HABITS

We are so difficult today,
caught up in more domestic fray
than we can handle, though we love.
Dare we leave, or dare we stay—
old battles lost, old battles won—
their truce—their same old killing done
with not much more we’re guilty of?

Passive

WANING

A helicopter overhead. Blue evening at
the window. TV
off.

Books in hand, they separate toward
their silence:
he to couch, and she to bed.

The orange sun has fallen
from the day, making one statement more
for them to speak:

They glance and say: Oh yes, they love
the view . . . Oh yes, it is so beautiful . . .
It is enough . . .

The twilight trees become old silhouettes,
like they are. The helicopter
flaps and drones—as if to stay.

They frown and glance
away from that annoyance and finish their
errand of goodnight—that separation.

_____________________

WHEN YOU LEAVE

Take all the comfort—
all the vague insistences
for love with its slow failure.

Shadows :
where,
and nowhere.

Old words
of finding.
Useless now.

Where you go is forever.
Stay there. Take your heart
and your broken truth—

your anger as weapon.
It is
useless.

The year is only
the numbers and their arrangement.
It is always there.

Maybe it is winter, the coldest symbol.
But how am I to know.
All time blends into now—

and now is where everything
begins and ends: Every tale of woe,
and every bliss.

They are all in the book of experience
that you keep reading
as though it makes sense.

(first pub. in Ophidian, 2011)

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

HEALING TIME
—Joyce Odam

You are vague . . . extend this thought :
memory releases you . . . I let you go.
Stop your trembling—as if caught
on some confusion. It’s not
too late to stay if you must. Healing is slow.

___________________

Healing is slow, says Joyce Odam; our thanks to her for today’s poetic insights about our Seed of the Week: Nesting. “And Should You Mend” is a Shakespearean sonnet; “Old Habits” follows the pattern of “Repose” by James Reeves, with a pattern of a single 4-foot stanza, rhymed as: a, a, b, a, c, c, b.

I would add that burdens are heavy, and that is our new Seed of the Week: Burdens. 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