White Rosebud
—Photo by Ann Wehrman
* * *
—Poetry by Ann Wehrman, Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Ann Wehrman
—Poetry by Ann Wehrman, Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Ann Wehrman
PURITY
white rosebuds unfold
tender, glowing petals
nestled within emerald leaves
become silken full blooms
symmetry more chaste and elegant
than David’s cool white flank
than the Madonna’s shadowed face
white rosebuds unfold
tender, glowing petals
nestled within emerald leaves
become silken full blooms
symmetry more chaste and elegant
than David’s cool white flank
than the Madonna’s shadowed face
Santa Claus Standing Near Buildings
—Photo by Filip Mroz (from Unsplash)
FAT SUIT
backstage in the dressing room
after the show
I strip off the layers
white fur-trimmed red coat, stuffed undershirt
black belt and boots, white wig, gold-rimmed
spectacles
fat suit, worn in character
remove stage makeup. let down my greying
hair
I’m in my head, only half-listening as elves,
Mrs. Claus
doff costumes, grab a drink or smoke, gossip,
make dates, argue
exit into cold December night in the dark
a woman alone in the city
stand waiting for the bus outside the theater
homeless person wrapped in a greasy coat
shapeless, huddles on the bus bench
I pull away, careful, yet castigate myself
board the warm, bright bus
check my phone as we drive to my apartment
no one on the bus but me, Christmas week
no one at my small studio
drop my coat and purse, check the fridge
throw together a turkey sandwich, eat it
standing up
layers of sadness and loneliness strangle my
heart
I log onto the Internet, watch a movie
until I can sleep
—Photo by Ann Wehrman
THE DEATH OF RITUAL
we offered ourselves, studied ritual—
you practiced in the dead of night
incanted, chanted arcane teachings
each syllable spoken, written
with rapt, precise attention
played with fire, perhaps
in another place, a parallel space
I sacrificed, followed, obeyed, indemnified
prayed to grow, if possible, into my best self
do all paths lead to the same place
missing autonomy, freedom
improvisation’s intoxication
I left behind much of the ritual
how does one choose
what to let go of, no longer needed
is it by spirit’s voice, maybe God’s voice
or one’s own will, unaided decision
do we cling to ritual like training wheels
that may be removed at some point
is it too soon, would that result in harm
ritual abounds in secular life
we measure how much soap to use in the
washer
only a few tablespoons, it turns out
specifics for making everything
but what of gifted cooks who never use a recipe
when creating, does God consult a pattern
or has the ritual become internalized
directions no longer needed
if someday humans move beyond rituals
would this world fly apart, crumble—
would the universe cease to exist
or by then, will we create freely, fearlessly
every nanosecond unconditionally one with God
Sunset over Wing, Returning to Sac
—Photo by Ann Wehrman
Today’s LittleNip:
ETERNAL FLAME
—Ann Wehrman
consumed by golden, cobalt fire
he blazed through life, devotion ever brighter
until wrinkles became ashes, and he slept
yet the flame peered out of the ashes
drank air, took wing
darted away to the stars
___________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Ann Wehrman for today’s fine photos and poetry.
A reminder that
Poets Club of Lincoln
will feature Margaret Lange
plus open mic today, 3pm.
For info about this and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
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.
Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.
Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
Poets Club of Lincoln
will feature Margaret Lange
plus open mic today, 3pm.
For info about this and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
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.
Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.
Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
