Friday, April 19, 2024

Adventures With Otis

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Sacramento, CA

* * *

And then scroll down for
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Joe Nolan, Nolcha Fox,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Claire J. Baker,
Steve Brisendine, and Caschwa
 
 
 
ADVENTURE DOG

Foundling like a hero of legend or myth
abandoned on a roadside,
so much of his history a mystery.
By dog-legs of forest and byways he came
bright-eyed as dearly beloved dogs of my past.
Chimera—black as bat, graceful as gazelle,
long-legged and bushy-tailed as wolf.
Today we walk an ancient meadow
brought back to life with blooming spring—
pink storks-bills and twining vetch,
sandy creek crossing, and on the path, a pill-bug,
tules of red-winged blackbirds’ sweetest song.
This dog, alert in all his senses, says Look!
There floats a single white swan,
air’s alive with bumblebee and moth,
lavish loving world this dog creates
moment by moment, leading me along.
 
 
 
 

YOU CAN’T PUT RAINFOREST IN A POEM

Because this is a land of drought and already
the trails are drying out after winter storms, even
the flooded trestle that kept me from reaching
the Y where it intersects RR track in a rain-
forest of blackberry vines just waking
from hibernation. Remember the guy singing
“Granada” on this trail a few miles east,
said he lived in the rainforest eight kilometers
away by dirt bike—his song transported
me to the Alhambra, I was singing the Spanish
for weeks afterwards, still writing poems.
Isn’t this what art does to us?
 
 
 
 
 
SKY FALLEN   

Bluer than a young girl’s crayon,
bluer than shiny metal plate,
bluer than mountain summer sky,
blue blinding to the eye

though half concealed by April grass,
this beauty, male bluebird with no
sign of hurt—unwelcome surprise,
what brought him here to die?
 
 
 


ANYBODY HOME?

He alerts and leads me to the base of an old live-
oak, all but one of its trunks dead, heartwood rotted
away, leaving gaping mouths like entries
to underworld, doors to magic-land. He sticks his
head into one, draws back, sniffs here, sniffs there.
Where are the dwarves, the gnomes or trolls
inhabiting this place? He starts digging,
grabbing roots as he delves deeper. Snuffling deep
to draw out the hidden life. Soon his whole
torso is in the hole. Working madly, sending soil
flying out behind him. He’s possessed—by
what fey creatures? Not fey—ground squirrels.
 
 
 
 

MYOTIS WITH DAYLIGHT WINGS
    for MyOtis, rescue dog

Split-
second
straight-up leap
arc’ing over
our small creek, nearly
pulling me across with
him—hang on for the ride or
get him back on my side until
the next totally unexpected
rocket-launch of this surprising new dog.
 
 
 
 

SLENDER LINE

We walk
the town edges—
sudden fluster of wings,
four ravens lift in flight—my dog
wistful,
had he wings, he’d join them, raven-
black dog, a winged spirit
were he not leashed
to me.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

WILDWOOD UNCUT
—Taylor Graham

Green communities—
so many colors of field
rooted in one earth.

____________________

Taylor Graham continues to celebrate her new dog, Otis (as in MyOtis, his formal name) as they carve out their new relationship, and thanks to her for giving us a peek into how that is working. Forms she has used this week include a List Poem (“Adventure Dog”); an Ars Poetica (“You Can't Put Rainforest in a Poem”); a Double Ryūka (“Sky Fallen”); an Etheree (“MyOtis with Daylight Wings”); a Butterfly Cinquain (“Slender Line”); and a Haiku (“Wildwood Uncut”). The Haiku is from this week’s
Poetry Super Highway’s prompt to write 99 Haiku! (TG says she only managed 26...) The Butterfly Cinquain is from last week’s Triple F Challenge in Medusa’s Kitchen.

Tomorrow will be the first ever Blue Sky Earth Day Poetry Festival in Cameron Park, from 4-6pm, set up by Sue McMahon, with poetry, storytelling cowboy poetry and music. For news about El Dorado County poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry or see Lara Gularte’s Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077/. (Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!) And of course you can always click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about future poetry events in the NorCal area, including a buncha stuff in the Sacramento area this weekend.

And now it’s time for…  


FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY! 
 
It’s time for more contributions from Form Fiddlers, in addition to those sent to us by Taylor Graham! Each Friday, there will be poems posted here from our readers using forms—either ones which were sent to Medusa during the previous week, or whatever else floats through the Kitchen and the perpetually stoned mind of Medusa. If these instructions are vague, it's because they're meant to be. Just fiddle around with some challenges—  Whaddaya got to lose… ? If you send ‘em, I’ll post ‘em! (See Medusa’s Form Finder at the end of this post for resources and for links to poetry terms used in today’s post.)


There’s also a page at the top of Medusa’s Kitchen called, “FORMS! OMG!!!” which expresses some of my (take ‘em or leave 'em) opinions about the use of forms in poetry writing, as well as listing some more resources to help you navigate through Form Quicksand. Got any more resources to add to our list? Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com for the benefit of all man/woman/poetkind!


* * *
 
 
Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo
 

This week, we received Ekphrastic poems from Joe Nolan, Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth, and Caschwa (Carl Schwartz):


HOUSE ON TOP OF THE WORLD
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Whose house is that
On top of the world,
So huge
With roof
Painted blue,
So as not
To be burned
By DEWs,
Like the victims
Of Lahaina?

* * *

WHEN I KNEW EVERYTHING
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

I was really smart once.
I held the world in my hands.
I had an answer for everything.
Nobody knew more than me.

That time lasted a summer,
the summer when I was ten.

* * *

BALL GAME
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

I fear the clapping, guitar strings,
for happy not go-lucky songs,
though cupped hands not swing clappy bands
incarnate, nor, as flesh of god—
despite the nails to those alert—
but pink and wristy metaphor,
unhelpful all but everywhere.

His audience from hearty sport,
I did see once, an aged pop-star,
long beard and straggly hair apart,
in college bar strike up his song—
intone ‘This little light of mine’,
a memory revived, this prompt.

Like crude, thought blue sky atmosphere
for advertising—‘fine idea’—
but quite unclear and poles apart
from telling what the art or craft.
What solar panel freezes so?
Which centric is geography?

This cloudy global aerial
a hackneyed commonplace to start;
though to start, startle, not its grace.
Should it comfort, One in control?
Is it invite, see, buy my wares?
The logo, failing company?

This world is precious; treat it so—
for ball is in the court of all;
it’s in our hands, wellbeing’s call,
sole stewardship, creation’s goal,
inheritance, willed testament.
We cradle in our palms the whole
health and wealth, our planet’s soul.

* * *

GAIA
—Stephen Kingsnorth

The children are recalcitrant,
not grave enough, their cradle’s keep,
though now it seems the worm has turned,
mistreatment causing us ill health.

I’m told that senses, birds and beasts,
in classes, insects, schools at sea
exceed by far that of our own,
incredible capacity—
in sum of all, so little known—
their skill set way beyond our own
in both design and what achieved.

Their nighttime sight and smell of air,
what present, through antennae told,
the current wafting past, now here,
their navigation, flight and steer;
we are left stranded without peer,
the masterclass, bare arrogance—
these siblings that our mother bears.

They are not fostered, but of tree,
our family, yet we adopt
that illegitimate as view—
they foundlings due as workhouse serfs.

They nurture, feed us, keep us warm,
and let us drink while clothe our frame,
provide our comfort as required,
are subject to our every whim—
when even servitude abused.
It must be Gaia weeps withal.

* * *

Carl Schwartz’s Ekphrastic response is also a For-Get-Me-Not:
 
 

 
OUR WORLD
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

ball in motion
lots of ocean

* * *

Carl has sent us a Tanaga for a rainy day:
 
 

 
It’s raining outside, says I
inside, safely high and dry
went out when much less severe
why would I not be right here?

plenty meals and snacks to eat
recliner chair rests my feet
cable TV, many shows
windows tell if strong wind blows

tomorrow rain will be gone
will end, not go on and on
today I have zero doubt
why the heck should I go out?

—Caschwa

* * *

Taylor Graham sent us a List Poem this week (see above); here is a List Poem from Caschwa that is also a response to a recent Seed of the Week, Abundance:
 
 
 
 
AND THEN
—Caschwa

there’s good
and then there’s
demonstrably good,
the bare minimum
acceptable measure in

romance
or fine food
or legal evidence
or a pay raise
or cost of living increase
or medical test results
or chances of survival
or meeting your soul mate
or dating someone
or creating merchandise that sells
or gas mileage
or dessert
or remaining toner in cartridge
or excuse to stay home from work
or pricey tickets for seats at a concert
or reason to pull over to the side in traffic
or waking up to an alarm clock
or paying more for meat
or taking unpleasant medicine
or attempt to steal a base

* * *

And here is something new, which Caschwa is calling a Definition Poem:
 
 
 


SUBSUME
—Caschwa

sub-SUME, v.t.subsumed, pt., pp.,subsuming, ppr, [sub-, and L. summere, to lay hold of, to take.] 1. to wolf down a whole hero sandwich in one bite.

* * *

Here is a Cinquain from Claire Baker:
 
 
 


STEM
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

The stem
given students
seldom blooms in those
great gardens of their souls, as with
the ARTS.

* * *

And Steve Brisendine from Mission, KS, has sent us six Cinquains and one Mirror Cinquain. His latest book, To Dance With Cassiopeia and Die, which is all tiny forms (Haiku/Senryu, Cnquain, Cherita and Gembun), will be out April 28 from Alien Buddha Press. A Gembun, by the way, is made up of either a one-word first line or anything up to one sentence, then capped by a Haiku of up to four lines. To see some samples, go to https://prunejuicesenryu.com/2021/03/01/issue-33-haibun-gembun and scroll down.
 
Here are Steve's Cinquains for today. He says the first is a definite homage to Cinquain Queen Adelaide Crapsey's "Triad”. (See www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/adelaide-crapsey for info about dear Adelaide.)
 
 
 Adelaide Crapsey


SILENTLY


 
Snowflakes

in the pre-dawn

dark of my birthday, flakes

and years accumulating in

my sleep.

* * *

MY FATHER’S PLOT
 


Beneath 

buffalo grass, 

the Q tile rests behind 

his shoulder; he always did hoard 

that one.

* * *

PARTLY TO MOSTLY
 


Cool wind

on sweat-slick skin,

but no rain; I breathe both

Thank you and Please through salt-stung lips 

and wait.

* * *

EVENING SHIFT


Setting

sun, the color

of itself (put hand to

heart for two beats; see, it has changed

again …)

* * *

ECLIPSED


 
Hidden

behind low clouds,

the blood moon cannot see

bitter poets putting their pens

away.

* * *

HOME COOKING


 
One more

graveyard shift ends.

Butter sizzles. Shells crack.

Hush, I tell my breakfast. She is

sleeping.

* * *

LETTERS FROM THE WARM FRONT

Second

straight night

of fog, and the poets 

grow desperate; we are running

short on


 
our stocks

of ideas, of similes,

of synonyms for soft,
melancholy
and ghost.

* * *

Nolcha The Fox has sent two Quadrilles:
 
 
 
 
FRIDAY
—Nolcha Fox

When I was a kid, Friday was my manic depressive day of the week. I had to leave the safe structure of school and disappear into a book during two days of parental chaos, until I could pedal off on my bicycle on Monday.

* * *

LAWN ENVY
—Nolcha Fox

I look out the window into my neighbor’s yard as I eat my kale. It’s the beginning of spring, and his lawn is emerald green. Our Kentucky blue grass should be a lush aquamarine, but it is a sickly yellow. And he’s growing weeds!

* * *

And Stephen Kingsnorth says he couldn’t resist the fox photo in Nolcha’s MK post last Thursday (4/11), so he sent us an Ekphrastic response to it:
 
 
 


SCOUTING FOX
—Stephen Kingsnorth

For his pause, seeking foxglove scent,
some handsome ware for new found lair
but finds instead magnolia,
a common snare when walls lie bare.
His sniff exceeds the human nose
which merely seeks pleasing perfume;
his searching for a pheromone,
far more than offered by this bloom.
This tulip tree, petals pink, white,
not quite stellata, starry form,
suggests attraction, blossom size,
a burgeon greater than the norm.
The Reynard famed beyond this prompt,
in fables, fairy tale sideswipes,
with which the oeuvre truly swamped,
Volpone through to Just So types.
So why does Jonson—Kipling not—
describe sly, cunning, wily beast
by portrayed traits, made scapegoat blame,
when cub pack simply scouting feast?

___________________

Many thanks to today’s writers for their lively contributions! Wouldn’t you like to join them? All you have to do is send poetry—forms or not—and/or photos and artwork to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post work from all over the world, including that which was previously-published. Just remember: the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

___________________

TRIPLE-F CHALLENGES!
 
See what you can make of these challenges, and send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.) How about a little Cantar:

•••Cantar: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/cantar/
 
•••AND/OR: The Gambun is new to us; give it a shot:
 
•••Gambun: either a one-word first line or anything up to one sentence, then capped by a Haiku of up to four lines. Samples: https://prunejuicesenryu.com/2021/03/01/issue-33-haibun-gembun
 
•••AND/OR: Remember the wee For-Get-Me-Not, like the one Carl sent (above)?
 
•••For-Get-Me-Not: www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1882-syllabic-forms-found-in-pathways-for-the-poet/#veltanelle

•••AND/OR: follow Caschwa’s lead and try one of his Definition Poems:

•••Definition Poem (Carl Schwartz): has the appearance of a dictionary definition, but the actual definition is humorous or unexpected

•••See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic photo.

•••And don’t forget each Tuesday’s Seed of the Week! This week it’s “Mother Earth”.

____________________

MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:

•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Cantar: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/cantar
•••Cinquain (Adelaide Crapsey): poets.org/glossary/cinquain AND/OR www.poewar.com/poetry-in-forms-series-cinquain/. See www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/adelaide-crapsey for info about its inventor, Adelaide Crapsey.
•••Cinquain, Butterfly: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/butterfly-cinquain
•••Cinquain, Mirror: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/mirror-cinquain
•••Definition Poem (Carl Schwartz): has the appearance of a dictionary definition, but actual definition is humorous or unexpected
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry 
•••Etheree: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/etheree.html
•••For-Get-Me-Not: www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1882-syllabic-forms-found-in-pathways-for-the-poet/#veltanelle
•••Gambun:
either a one-word first line or anything up to one sentence, then capped by a Haiku of up to four lines. Samples: https://prunejuicesenryu.com/2021/03/01/issue-33-haibun-gembun
•••Haiku: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••List Poem: clpe.org.uk/poetryline/poeticforms/list-poem
•••Quadrille: 44 words (not counting the title) and includes one word the host provides to you
•••Question Poem: penandthepad.com/write-question-poem-6933078.html
•••Ryūka: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ryūka
•••Tanaga: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/tanag

___________________

—Medusa
 
 
 
 Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!
 
 Make what you can of today's
picture, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)

* * *

—Public Domain Photo
Courtesy of Joe Nolan



















 

A reminder that
Opus Open Mic meets at
Sol Collective in Sacramento
tonight, 6:30pm; also at 6:30,
Elk Grove presents Open Mic at
A Seat At The Table Booksotre;

and then at 7pm, Joff Knorr reads
online for El Gigante.
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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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!
 

 


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Thursday, April 18, 2024

Who The Flux Knows?

 Shadow Lane
—Poetry and Visuals by Smith, Cleveland, OH 


Large old rescue dog at my feet
wish I could be as content
or prance in such joy at walk time
not sure which of us is creakier
has worse arthritis
our main differences are
kids love to see him
and I don't shit in the street
 
 
 
 Borders


A light here
a light there
a lot of dark between
 
 
 
 Attention


Oh Great Guru on mountain top
what say you to lower lot?

Nothing is always
and always is always nothing soon

In sun and shadow, rough and smooth
whatever your angle, you snooze you lose
 
 
 
 Second Self


Deep low slow pull
big weight freight train moan
always going never coming

I am Sisyphus
I am rock
I am hill

(aren't we all?)

I live on the corner
of Random Ave and Marginal Drive
just off Lost Nation Road

(fog in fugue of chance and choice)

I'm no Johnny Red-Toes
dipping his boots
in others' blood

(backup beep of Reality repairing itself)

I keep my needs simple
a sip of water
a sit in the sun

Out there
persistent rooster tries to raise sun
under constant Cleveland cloud
 
 
 
Stage Fright


From water
to land
to atoms
to ashes
we went from pointy sticks
to nuclear fission
awfully fast
for folk who understand neither value
nor mission

Error Error willful one
404 logic not found
go to 420
 
 
 
From the Future


Riding off into the sunset
82 mph
one hand on the wheel
low on gas
no destination
just enough time to get there
 
 
 
 Tu
 

Almost dusk
rooster still crowing sun up
clouds 1, chicken 0

Okay flux, here we go
into the body of the body beast

Rooster cries "rise"
chainsaw growls "die"
both wolves feed

Why does day run on so
why isn't sleeping time longer?

Underwear is put away
some hanging things are hung
my work here is done
 
 
 
Bottom Line


Some days you could use a little extra edge
like another year of sleep
or an endless cup of big black coffee
with a sticky cinnamon bun
on a quiet street in Amsterdam
back before the plague
before the dead mom and the new live wife
who's likely saved my life at least twice
so far physically
more literally
the why and how of how I'm still here
who the flux knows
but she's part of it
plus me being old bird tough
and of course luck
always luck
lots and lots of luck
and maybe just maybe me making the gods
laugh
often, deep, long, and loud
for which I'm grateful
proud
and, as always
a fool in fuel of fussion
 
 
 
 Last Touch


Today’s LittleNip:

The wind is cold
the day gray
the sky wet
yet
the fireplace is warm
the wife wonderful
the two cats and one dog
comforting
it's a good life

—Smith

__________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Smith (Steven B. Smith) for more of his jammin’ poetry and fine look-sees as we cruise through April, fools that we are…
 
 
 
 
 
Ape Planet









 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
A reminder that today is
POEM IN YOUR POCKET DAY!
Also, at noon, Third Thursdays
at the Library read-around

takes place; then at 5:30pm,
El Dorado County Library
Poets and Writers Workshop

meets at the Cameron Park Library; 
this evening in Sacramento,
Roberts Family Development Center
will hold an open mic at 6:30pm; and it’s
Crocker Art Museum Open Poetry Night
with Andru Defeye & Coon the Poet, 7pm.
Also—today is the deadline
to register for
Gillian Wegener’s presentation

in Livermore this Saturday afternoon.
For info about all these 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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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!
 

 






















Wednesday, April 17, 2024

Write What You Know

 —Poetry by Joshua C. Frank
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
 
 
CENSORED BEAUTY (a Nonce poem)

The modern reader’s such a prude,
He’ll brand me both depraved and crude
If I should write about conception,
Where sperm and egg become one flesh
And both their genes together mesh
To cause a human life’s inception—
Unless I preach the modern creed
That women just need men for seed.

Without this prudishness of others,
I’d write of pregnant and nursing mothers,
Of how through womb (and later, breast),
Just as her body’s made to do
(Though saying so is now taboo),
A mother feeds her honored guest.
The only pregnancy they’ll fail
To censor is a pregnant “male.”

But God keeps calling me to write
The Truth I see beneath His light.
I won’t deign to accept a duty
Not to trespass from the box
Of placid verse that never shocks;
I won’t stop writing truth as beauty.
They always say, “Write what you know.”
I know His Truth; that’s what I show.


(First published in New English Review)
 
 
 
 

AGAINST THE SWORD (a Kyrielle)

When boys are told they’re useless and no good,
And girls are pushed away from motherhood,
Told children aren’t a blessing, but a blight,
To fight the power, I fetch my pen and write.

When mothers have careers as if they’re men,
And every cultural mouthpiece says Amen
To children only having moms at night,
To fight the power, I fetch my pen and write.

When fathers lose their children to divorce
As slaves lost theirs when sold, just like a horse,
Or worse, to their own wives’ abortion “right,”
To fight the power, I fetch my pen and write.

When Christians must deny their faith’s beliefs
To keep their jobs because of left-wing beefs
And thus submit to rainbow-colored spite,
To fight the power, I fetch my pen and write.

When rainbow flags eclipse the church’s steeple,
And priests preach leftist lies to media-sheeple
And from the faithful few obscure the light,
To fight the power, I fetch my pen and write.

When people claim oppression, despite all gains,
While new oppressed must suffer silent pains,
I’ll be the voice of victims leftists slight—
To fight the power, I fetch my pen and write.


(First published in New English Review)
 
 
 

 
LEFT IN THE COLD (a Nonce poem)

His parents left him frozen cold,
Three-hundred-plus degrees below.
An embryo at five days old,
For seven years, he’s ceased to grow,
With bio-functions all detained;
His house, a cryo-sleeper hole.
Although too young to have a brain,
He’s human life and has a soul.

The lab conceived him on a plate
With seven sisters, seven brothers,
And gambled with implanting eight
Into the body of his mother.
She bore two kids, two years apart;
Six others perished on the way,
While six more, with him from the start,
Have stayed in stasis to this day.

Instead of their beloved son,
He’ll be a snowflake in that room.
There’s nothing more that can be done;
He has no home but Mother’s womb.
His parents call two kids enough;
Three is too much, they want no more.
He’d need the cash that buys their stuff,
And in their minds, he’s just a spore.

Rejected runt, no conscious mind,
His whole life in a freezer pod.
When he leaves his cells behind,
Will his soul ascend to God?


(First published in New English Review)
 
 
 
 

IN EVE’S FOOTSTEPS  (an Interlocking Rubaiyat)

Based on “Genesis 2: Teaching its Truth to Women” by Kimberly Hartke: https://www.kolbecenter.org/genesis-2teaching-its-truth-to-women

“And the Lord God said: It is not good for man to be alone: let us make him a help like unto himself. ... And the Lord God built the rib which he took from Adam into a woman: and brought her to Adam.”  —Genesis 2:18, 22


God said, before He wrote on slabs of stone,
“It is not good for man to be alone.”
From Adam’s rib, He fashioned him a jewel:
A woman helper of his flesh and bone.

The rest is history, taught in Sunday school,
Called cruel by every feministic fool.
The serpent slithers ’round the world to hide
That woman’s made as helper to man’s rule.

Now Kimberly had never been a bride;
Near barren thanks to age, she’d tried and tried.
Her clock wound down as children slipped away
And seminars and sermons gave no guide.

One Sunday morn, a preacher came to say:
“You need to read your Bible every day!”
Her threadbare faith in tatters, she agreed
To cling upon God’s Word and then to pray.

She opened at the front, began to read
That God made every beast and star and seed.
She read the verse here quoted at the start
And saw her spiritual fog recede.

“Is this,” she prayed, “what You would now impart?
Was I created for the home and heart
Of one specific, lonely man out there?
Is this how You decree I play my part?”
She meditated on the verse in prayer
And felt her heart become as light as air,
For Genesis was true, no Aesop fable—
Man’s past, and not “The Tortoise and the Hare!”

Hence Eve was made to bear Cain, Seth, and Abel,
And fill the just-invented kitchen table
With sons and daughters, helping Adam raise
Them all to love and follow God as able.

The spark from God became a roaring blaze
Illuminating modern culture’s ways,
Its families ground between its factories’ gears,
And churches’ neutered preaching, prayer, and praise.

Her pastors all had preached for twenty years
That women find fulfillment in careers
And marriage must distract from serving God,
Thus soothing all those feministic ears.

Our comfort from our Shepherd’s staff and rod
And membership within His holy squad,
They said, should give us all our happiness,
And seeking marriage would at best be odd.

This heresy served only to depress
And never let her wear a wedding dress,
As did her seeking for a man to be
Her helper in her corporate-throne success.

She prayed that God would finally help her flee
Misogynistic feminists’ decree
To serve a distant boss and swing an axe
And chop the roots of every family tree.

She could admit the truth and then relax:
She did not wish to own big dollar stacks,
But only cared with children to enrich
And give a man the female help he lacks.
She flipped her just-discovered mental switch:
Instead of her career making her rich,
She’d work from home, for no one else on earth
Except the man to whom herself she’d hitch.

She married soon; the job of greatest worth
Became hers in conceiving, giving birth,
Her fondest wish fulfilled in dividends
From treasures in God’s Word all may unearth.

This isn’t where our marriage story ends,
For Kimberly helped many hurting friends
In storm-wrecked marriages and singles spurned
With what she’d found, with God to make amends.

As long as she still breathed, she always burned
To share the truth that in God’s light she learned.
The women welcomed words they’d longed to hear;
To her delight, their mental switches turned.

Jane sold her business, married in a year,
And Abigail would scale back her career
To homeschool any children; soon she’d marry,
And Celia soon became a man’s most dear.

Sue left her desk job in the military.
Career-bound women made her guy friend wary,
But soon they fell in love with one another,
And now she helps him farm his beef and dairy.

More single women felt free not to smother
Ambition towards careers as wife and mother,
And wives could value building up the clan—
No more did they feel less than any other.

For Genesis presents God’s marriage plan:
A woman’s made to love and help her man—
“It is not good for man to be alone.”
So spread this truth as widely as you can!


(First published in The Society of Classical Poets
)

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

CHILD-POOR HOMES  (a Triolet)
—Joshua C. Frank

The ghosts of children never made,
In child-poor homes, I always see.
One day, when I a visit paid,
The ghosts of children never made
All ran around the house and played,
From ages eighteen down to three.
The ghosts of children never made,
In child-poor homes, I always see.


(First published in The Society of Classical Poets)

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Formalist Poet Joshua Frank for his fine work in the tricky House of Forms. (See Form Fiddlers’ Friday in Medusa’s Kitchen for more form-play from Joshua and other Snake-Pals.)
 
 
 

 













 
 
 
 
 
A reminder that
Open Mic at The Roux
takes place in Sacramento
with Khiry Malik
and open mic, tonight, 9pm.
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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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!
 
LittleeSnake celebrates
Cherry Blossom Season~



























 

Tuesday, April 16, 2024

I Am the Dance of Joy

 —Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Joyce Odam
 
 
THE PAIL OF DARKNESS
—Joyce Odam

I carry the pail of darkness
up the hill to silence
which is full of stars
punctuated by sleep
which is full of seas
tidal at deep
pulling at all my skies
and land and
entering the structure
of my hand
which holds everything I am
and I put
the pail of darkness down
upon a dream
which is reverent and real
and where I seem
to enter with my crime
which has been
given me to carry
and I am held
in humming danger
eerie light of apprehension
things to flee
a turning figure everywhere
and I am helpless
all my effort pulls
I follow into
each revision of myself
my arms attempt to lift
are held
my smothered cry surprises me
I am in a barren place
the sky pulls deep
I look in
the pail of darkness,
am swallowed
by a sleep.
 
 
 
Today This Bread
 

BROWN BAG
—Joyce Odam

At dark of morning
he prepares my lunch;

how he surprises me
with

unusual bread,
creative combinations,

a sandwich
of such taste . . .

and I, at work,
unwrap it slowly

on my half-hour,
to see

what delicacy,
or what plain fare,

is there.
Today—this bread:

Whole wheat.
Buttered meat.

Some carrot strips.
An apple, quartered.
 
_____________________

THREE RIVERS
—Robin Gale Odam

three damn poems
me standing in the dark hour

offering my interpretation
arresting the sorrows

the piper took them
the tainted rivers flowing

blah blah blah . . . it was
a memory—a simple prayer

holding my heart
and keeping them here  

an empty page
three blank lines 
 
 
 
 Holding The Light


A BOOK OF LOVE AND REGRET
—Joyce Odam

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

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

such a book as you have become . . .

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

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


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/12/19)
 
 
 
forgive....forgive....forgive....
 

BAD MEMORIES
—Joyce Odam

Not to be forgotten
for memory is
the last place they will go.

And you will go there, too,
and suffer for them,
having caught up with yourself,

a suffocation of thoughts,
remorse tweaking your mind
at unexpected moments

until you ask,
of no god but yourself,
forgive…. forgive…. forgive….


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/17/12; 6/1/21) 
 
 
 
The Lyric of Tears
 
 
THE UNEXPECTED WEEPING
—Joyce Odam

tears came to my eyes
and I marveled

that they were for
a fox in a poem

that got hit
by a car,

and I wept and wept
to myself

in this new grief
that I could not stop thinking of
 
___________________

THE DESPOILMENT
—Joyce Odam

To note a scribble on a page
and deplore that scribble
as a spoilage of intention,
or accidental blemish—

or some perfection unexpectedly
loved,
as holy words are loved—
words you read as wisdom,

and then to ponder them as willful,
as defacement,
followed by
a second-thought reaction :

should you erase them,
leave them be,
white them out, if ink—
or trust as something learned,

a thought-barrier of interpretation,
the otherness of it—apart from you—
or sense the bemusement that you
might be the one who put them there.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/10/18; 5/5/20)
 
 
 
To Myself
 
 
I NEED NO PRAISE
—Joyce Odam

“In a past life, I was Nostradamus.
Nothing. I  mean nothing, surprises me.”
(based on leaping silhouette of man against sea
and horizon)



Oh, this is such a night.  I am the dance of joy. 
I own
the very sky—the sleeping sea.

I can hold the light.  Everything fits my leap and
waits for me to return through gravity.

No one remembers me as I was—and as I am—
pure self, released from others.  I own the moment.

The horizon is unimportant—nor the seamless sea
beneath my levitation.  For this I need no praise.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen 12/20/16; 4/7/20)

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:


THE ANGELS CAME GATHERING
—Robin Gale Odam

the angels came gathering—i held my
breath every time . . .

the holy whispering for hearts—i make
no ceremony, it’s their call . . .

the wolf has one—and the raptor in the
wilderness . . .

but in the holy of holies only the raising
of souls . . .

___________________

Lovely “unexpected surprises”—our Seed of the Week—from Joyce and Robin Odam this morning, and many thanks for those!

You may’ve noticed that I recently proclaimed March 22 to be Earth Day. I suppose I could say I meant to do that, but…well…no…Just one of Medusa’s little quirks these days—a diminishing ability to keep things straight. Anyway, there’s no harm in having two Earth Days each year, yes?

Anyway, let’s get back to the conventional calendar, and celebrate April 22 as the official Earth Day. So this week’s Seed of the Week is Mother Earth. 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. And see every Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.

And be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

___________________

—Medusa
 
 
 
 —Photo Courtesy of Public Domain




 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
For 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.

Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
 to find the date you want.

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!