Changing Time

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down to
Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry by
Stephen Kingsnorth, Nolcha Fox,
Joe Nolan, Caschwa, and
Sarah Mahina Calvello

 

 

OFF THE ROAD

The highway’s lined by cedars dense and green
under a cloudless sky Sierra blue.
A forest-camo tarp remains unseen
by hurried motorists. Quite lost from view—
I didn’t notice it at all, did you?
No place for camping. There’s a man who sleeps
here with whatever mysteries he keeps,
invisible as he might be to cars
bound from here to elsewhere. And evening seeps
into a dark that lights its private stars.

 

 

 

 

DREAM JOURNAL

I need to write it all down before daylight.
Finding a recharge plug for the puppy,
an alternate, tech-savvy interior for my SUV.
A smile for the suggestion, a reason not to.
How to throw away all that stuff I don’t need,
discovering the unnamable great land
to explore track by track and scat by scat.
Survivors of lost pairings, one wool sock
which, stuffed with a ball, becomes dog toy.
The one I couldn’t find keeps coming back
like a graveyard marker in the mind,
buried in the clutter or else mouse-eaten
for the estate sale, the wake-up alarm.


After William Stafford, “What’s in My Journal”

 

 

 

 Otis

A HISTORY OF FIGS

Figs have been around a long time,
feeding our primate ancestors with luscious
fare. One of my earliest memories, an old
fig tree almost hunchbacked with variegated
purple tears. I love figs. And now
at the historic winery we’re walking past
a venerable fig tree dropping its fruit
like seduction. My dog wants some. Are figs
safe for dogs? I check the internet. Dried
figs are toxic to canines, but fresh fruit’s OK—
except for the seeds. How does one extract
those almost invisible tiny seeds?
With a pair of tweezers, magnifying glass,
and timeless patience? I think we’ll pass,
we’re already past the tree’s temptation.

 

 

 

 

EROSION OF CONFIDENCE

My new dog harness shipped from SoCal on the 11th, due in NorCal afternoon of the 15th. “Delayed.” I dreamed the harness was a honeycomb of cushioning, countless tiny air pockets needing constant recharging/inflation. No, that was the old model, my dream assured me; the new improved had buckles so foolproof and tough, my fingers couldn’t release them. My dream was bad, but morning dawned. I checked on harness’s progress. From California it had traveled to Georgia. It’s due here sometime. I hope they mean Georgia the U.S. state and not Transcaucasia.

Count on calendar
to know what day it is but
not where it might be.

 

 

 

CHANGING TIME

daylight dies
quicker in
September

it’s the tilt
of our Earth
underfoot

as the chill
of dark seeks
comforters

__________________

OF TWO MINDS WALKING, FRIDAY 9/19           

Today the dogs and I are walking     

                 [in honor of 40 years ago today]
in first drizzle of the season
                [It was Friday, a sunny blue sky]
and we give thanks for rain
                [collapsing on the metropolis]
in this industrial park
                [quaking under weight of highrise]
opening for business.   
                [seamstresses already at work]
What’s this in the gutter?
                [75 per floor of garment factory]
a dead smashed frog—run over—   
                [we with our dogs searching]
and here, a small furred beast
                [survivors buried in rubble]
with delicate fingers, dead eyes
                [Factory owner wants to demolish]
another roadkill.
                [don’t let dogs find anyone alive]
Deer & foxes frequent this park
                [among the thousands dead]
We keep on walking, looking....

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

GOPHER SNAKE
—Taylor Graham

On the compost pile, windblown sinuous
pattern of fallen leaves’ golden, dark ringed—
alive!

__________________

Thanks to Taylor Graham today for chilling poems, both weather-wise and psychologically. I hope you’re not scared of snakes; LittleSnake would be SO disappointed. . .

“Erosion of Confidence” is a Response Poem to our recent Tuesday Seed of the Week, Exasperation, and “Changing Time” is a Response to this week's Seed of the Week, Cooler Mornings, Longer Nights. TG says she suspects that “Of Two Minds Walking” may be a form, but she doesn’t know its name. And she hopes setting dead critters alongside human casualties doesn't offend people... I told her we’re tough, and we can handle the harshness of search-and-rescue.

In El Dorado County poetry this week, Poets and Writers of the Sierra Foothills features a reading on Sunday from the new anthology, Then and Now, by Los Escritores del Nuevo Sol in Camino at 2pm. On Monday, El Dorado County Poet Laureate Moira Magneson will read at Sacramento Poetry Center, 7:30pm, as part of the Dangerous Women reading with Molly Fisk, Patricia Caspers, and Kim Shuck. And then on Wednesday, Charles Knight and El Dorado Poets & Writers are looking to start a reading on Wednesdays at C. Knight's Steakhouse in El Dorado Hills. The first one is this Wednesday, 8-10pm. Charles says, "Any interest?" 

 

And for info about EDC’s regular workshops, scroll down to Medusa’s Kitchen’s http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html/. For more news about such events and about EDC poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado Poetry on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry/. Or see Lara Gularte’s Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077/. And you can always click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html). Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!  
 
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.)


Check out our recently-refurbed 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 and other ways of poetry. Got any more resources to add to our list? Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com for the benefit of all man/woman/poetkind!

* * *

 

 

 Yellow-Red-Blue, 1925
—Painting by Wassily Kandinsky
Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo

Poets who sent responses to last week’s Ekphrastic photo/artwork were Stephen Kingsnorth, Nolcha Fox, and Joe Nolan:

KANDINSKY
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

To search if rhyme and reason due,
entitled primes, yellow, red, blue,
and reading, curves a vital clue,
predominant, my thinking grew,
subconscious, would banana do?

Those Bauhaus forms, fonts, furniture,
the geometric—in design—
new measure, application tried,
first type, fresh formulae took shape,
demanding in relationship.

A complex life, art theory,
in interplay of colour codes
while hardened lines crack curvature,
absorption into linear,
the I confused in searching out.

Of Russia, Germany and France,
with wives and lovers, students too,
engaged while yet still married to,
abstraction from the rule of norms,
intense indeed his teaching style.

With ferment in the countrysides,
as in philosophies of art,
as bodies, minds in turmoil through,
there’s no red line that can’t be crossed
in this, a visual questionnaire.

Soon spellbound, eschatology,
apocalyptic prophets boom;
witch hex to him familiar?
If ever spirit guide required
then hear, shades of opinion.

* * *

BEFORE SUMMER ENDS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Sunlight slants sideways.
Mosquitos are scarcer.
Sunburns forgotten
as leaves start to fall.
Let’s bring our towels
and lie by the water
before the lake freezes
and light hides in clouds.

* * *

BINGE-WATCHING “TWILIGHT ZONE”
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
 
Bloodshot eye
Bulging red
Chaos pouring
From his head
From binge-watching
"The Twilight Zone."

Kind of makes you wonder
How they stole our thunder
As though they were prophets
From the ’60's
About dysphoria
And Picasso.   
 
* * *

Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) sent us some Limericks:

 

 

 

SHOWING MR. KIMMEL THE DOOR
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Nothing is quite the same anymore
the floor no longer serves as the floor
free speech is disjointed
save the truly anointed
whose rulings are rotten to the core

just look at our sad environment
sand castles built by the government
dependent on funds from the rich
the rest of us live in a ditch
not the life our founding fathers meant

    ~ ~ ~

LEVEL PLAYING FIELD
—Caschwa

Had a good girlfriend at school
to see her I stood on a stool
we couldn’t do much
if it involved touch
but we didn’t break any rule

* * *

A List Poem from Carl:

 

 

 

PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED
—Caschwa

· Please wait for slavery to be abolished
· Please wait for the Abolition Amendment to be
generally accepted and practiced among polite
society
· Please wait for adult women to have the right
to vote
· Please wait for the country to actually take that
seriously
· Please wait for the realization of the original wish
of the founding fathers that this nation should serve
the will of the People
· Please wait for the laughter to subside, then go to
bed and pull the covers over your head
· Please wait for proper Civil Rights to be afforded
to all the people of this nation
· Please keep waiting, and waiting, and waiting…..

* * *

Four Haiku from Carl:

 

 

 

SINCE YOU ASKED
—Caschwa

What is Due West? Part
of a maternity ward,
opposite Due East.

    ~ ~ ~

POET’S LIE
—Caschwa

AI really means
Audible Indigestion
commonly, a Fart

    ~ ~ ~

BETTING ODDS
—Caschwa

Played Mega Millions,
but until I win, it is
just minus 5 bucks

    ~ ~ ~

 

HURRICANE SEASON
—Caschwa

Humberto is near
your humbrella is ready
that won’t matter much
 

 
* * *

And here are three Haiku by Sarah Mahina Calvello from San Francisco; more of her poetry will appear tomorrow (and next week!) in the Kitchen:

 

 

 

Fallen leaves
A circle of leaves on the grass
Dew filled

    ~ ~ ~

Persephone
Your ruby pomegranates
Forlorn hope

    ~ ~ ~

Tread of fate
Too interwoven
To decode

_____________________

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.) Let’s go mad with s Mad Calf or a Mad Song Stanza:

•••Mad Calf: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/mad-calf

•••Mad Song Stanza: https://poetscollectivepoetryforms.wordpress.com/2014/07/23/mad-song-stanza

•••AND/OR be silly and write a Dribble:

•••Dribble: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/dribble

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

•••And don’t forget each Tuesday Seed of the Week! This week it’s “A Deer Passed By . . .”

____________________

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

•••Dribble: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/dribble
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Haiku: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/haiku-or-hokku AND/OR www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Limerick: poets.org/glossary/limerick
•••List Poem: clpe.org.uk/poetryline/poeticforms/list-poem
•••Mad Calf: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/mad-calf
•••Mad Song Stanza: ttps://poetscollectivepoetryforms.wordpress.com/2014/07/23/mad-song-stanza
•••Response Poem: creativetalentsunleashed.com/2015/11/18/writing-tip-response-poems
•••Tuesday Seed of the Week: a prompt listed in Medusa’s Kitchen every Tuesday; poems may be any shape or size, form or no form. No deadlines; past ones are listed at http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/calliopes-closet.html/. Send results to kathykieth#hotmail.com/.

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

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

* * *

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 
 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that the
Fran Herndon & Jack Spicer Centennial
begins today in the Bay Area.
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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tired of Waiting

 —Poetry by Lynn White, 

Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales
—Public Domain Photos of Gaza Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

TIRED OF WAITING

From Langston Hughes to Ray Davies,
from the political to the personal
and back again,
back and forth,
back and forth.
From Kissinger to the newbie
pretenders standing in line
moving back and forth,
back and forth.
From Stockholm to The Hague
back and forth,
back and forth.
We are so tired,
so very tired,
but all we can do is wait
to see where we shall find them.

 

 

 

 

 

FORTY MILLION TONNES AND COUNTING

Forty Million Tonnes
and what do we get?
Almost a song lyric
written for those who don’t get older,
the uncounted ones lost in the rubble of Gaza.

Forty Million Tonnes of homes, roads,
and infrastructure converted into rubble
that will take uncountable years for us to clear
and still longer to rebuild towns and villages,
to replant crops and trees.
And who are the ‘us’—the ones who will pay.
The same ‘us’ as did it before
and will do it again
unless perpetrators are held accountable.

And while this goes on, year upon year
‘they’ will feed those surviving
living still in that wasteland of rubble.
The same ‘they’ as did it before,
are trying to do it now
and will do it again
unless perpetrators are held accountable.

And how will we, us, they and them
deal with the hate engendered.
It will have to be dealt with,
then what will we do
as we count the cost
once again.


(First published in Dissident Voice 21, July 2024)

 

 

 

 

SUMMER IN GAZA

In the rain of the rockets
there’s no water.
Metal rain.

In the rain of the rockets
there’s no sunshine.
Smoke rain.
Black rain.

In the rain of the rockets
there’s no life.
Death rain.
Life ending rain.
Death without life rain.

In the rain of the rockets
there’s no hope.
Deaf rain.
Death rain
Death refrain.


(First published by Rain, Party and Disaster Society, November, 2014)

 

 

 




A STATE OF TERRORISM


There are tunnels everywhere,
they lie,
under every road,
under every building,
every field and every tent,
they lie.

They are all terrorists,
they lie,
the old men and women,
even the children,
even the babies
born and unborn,
they lie.

The journalists are terrorists,
the aid workers are terrorists,
the artists and poets are terrorists,
the medics and nurses are terrorists,
the teachers and cooks are terrorists,
the dying, the dead and the buried are terrorists.

In a state of terrorism,
a state of terrorists,
they will lie and they’ll lie and they’ll lie.


(First published in Militant Thistle,
Spring/summer 2025)

 

 

 

 

THE POPE SPEAKS


Is the Pope a Catholic.
It is said so,
but maybe he’s a Humanist,
or perhaps just a human
as he has spoken
out
in the silence.

Is Joe Biden a Catholic
and Marco Rubio
and Vance.
It is said so
still.
The unanswerable question is
why
the Pope allows it.
Why
he doesn’t have a word,
why
he doesn’t use his power
to excommunicate the inhumane,
the ungodly in his Church,
he only speaks.

A small act of rebellion
along the journey
to justice.


(First published in Visible, April 2025)

 

 

 

 

STRANGE PEOPLE

Perhaps it’s not so strange
to focus on the minutiae of life
everyone needs self-defence after all.
And to take notice of catastrophes happening now
would be worse than stormy weather and family
    squabbles
so we must protect ourselves from such exposure.

But not everyone has looked away
in history, or in their own history.
Some of them have had enough.
Burn-out happens,
that’s not strange.
But those Anti-Apartheid campaigners
who unconditionally support the perpetrators
of the genocide and apartheid being committed
    now.
Those people are strange.

Yes, such people are strange and strangers.

(First published in Culture Cult Genocidal Anthology,
Spring 2025)

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

If I must die,
you must live
to tell my story
to sell my things
to buy a piece of cloth
and some strings,
(make it white with a long tail)
so that a child, somewhere in Gaza
while looking heaven in the eye
awaiting his dad who left in a blaze—
and bid no one farewell
not even to his flesh
not even to himself—
sees the kite, my kite you made, flying up
above
and thinks for a moment an angel is there
bringing back love
If I must die
let it bring hope
let it be a tale.

—Refaat Alareer

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Lynn White for these fine poems about Gaza, a subject dear to her heart~

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Lara Gularte’s workshop,
Writing Words to Light the Way,
meets in El Dorado Hills today, 5:30pm.
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!

 

 

 

Do You Love?

 —Poetry by Sushant Thapa, Biratnagar-13, Nepal
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA, USA

SURVIVAL COSTS

A safe place to be
Teaches you no survival.

A tough place to be
Teaches you why love seeks its
Home.

A nomenclature will
Make your identity
When you work with passion wheels.

Daylight and night,
Spring and autumn,
Winning or losing

Life is a greater compliment
When you plant a seed,
And watch it grow.

A heart is magnetic
To love.  
It attracts at its cost,
And leaves you out of debt,
In exchange for
Survival costs. 

 

 

 

 

DO YOU LOVE?

Do you know?
Do you realize?
Do you act?
These are questions
For lifetime,
Not greater than
Do you love?

Do you express?
Do you respect?
Do you forgive?
These are questions
Not greater than
Do you heal?

War or life?
Freedom or cage?
Enlightenment or
Bookish memorization?
Do you love how life progresses,
When you embrace it? 

 

 

 

 

FREEDOM CAGE

I have an agony
That could be a fiction.
The world is a mirror,
Survival is its memory,
That changes past to present.
A nail-biting blue and dark sky
Before the storm
Is an unforgettable childhood
When grandfather
Had a long wisdom lesson
In his scroll.
Something does not feel right.
If everybody cares
Who dares to speak up
The truth like the
Morning sky.
I am about growth,
I am about a key-hole
Looking at the world,
Enough of the roadside stray
Star gazing.
I am a flying saucer
In the world's freedom cage. 

 

 

 

 

AT ART VILLA

Again I seek
Freedom.
Again I die every minute.
You are a part of me
And I am what you
Know of me.
We could be us.
I dance to the sound of rain,
Only you do not like getting wet,
You are one step away
From the freedom spell.
Living every minute,
Passing every journey,
Life rolls like a rock.
Rejoice to the upbringing
Or else find your own way.
Your future is in recited tales,
In memory rooms
At art villa. 

 

 

 

 

METHODS AND UNLEARNING

I am free to write,
No chains tie my hands.

I am free to imagine
A childlike innocence
Is my flowery heart.

Come like a happy wave
That sweeps through my feet,
Come like the figment of first light
For the newly opened eyes.

I am a dawn,  
I am the dusk.

I kiss the storm
And soothe the darkness
Of the bright universe.

No one to rejoice
No reasons to forget
To live is to kiss the pain.

This garden invites you,
Pluck the rose from my heart.

Leave me broken
Like art pieces, at least.

Paint me when I grow old
Turn me to the nodding fire
Where I read slowly,
The book of passing life,
In all its scripted colors
Of methods and unlearning.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Read a thousand books, and your words will flow like a river.
 
―Lisa See, Snow Flower and the Secret Fan

______________________

—Medusa, thanking Sushant Thapa for his fine poetry today, and Joe Nolan for fine photos to go with it!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For info about
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!

 

 

Peace Be~

 Sanctuary
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Original Art by Joyce Odam 

PEACE BE TO THE MORNING
—Joyce Odam

Peace be to the morning
with its cool announcement of arrival,
pale and thin, on wings of nothing . . .

And peace be to the fading of night
that takes away its dreaming and its sleep
or its long wakefulness . . .

Peace be to the mystery
of whatever is there—or not there—
that turns such pages . . .

Peace be to the memory
and the forgetting of all that needs to be
forgotten and remembered . . .

And peace be to the moment
trembling on the brink of the next one,
and to that mystery, peace, too . . .
                                         

(prev. pub. in Say Yes, 1999;
A Sense of Melancholy, Rattlesnake Chapbook #4
by Joyce Odam, 2004; and in  
Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/7/15; 2/23/21) 

 

 

 

 While Outside It Rained

THE LURE OF AUTUMN
—Joyce Odam

This is the autumn we’ve waited for all year;
we are the falling leaves—the fierce red light
that turns the air to copper—the brimming night
that echoes this for hours, like a smear
of ancient blood upon the sky—minds clear
and open to the season—to the sight
and feel of all that hurry with hearts that might
turn rhythmic to this churning atmosphere.

We are the ache and joy of all that change—         
transfigured into something newly strange—
an older blood-flow urgent to belong—
happy to follow some age-old desire:                                             
We, who are an old, nomadic pair,
becoming now another autumn song.
                                         

(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, Fall 2021;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/27/15; 9/26/23)

 

 

 

 When It Rained

SEASONAL CHANGES
—Joyce Odam

At once the season changes. Every tone
of light is on another plane. The day
constricts. A shiver in the air finds bone.
Trees shudder and release the birds
that flutter out and briefly fly away.

Then time resumes its count, shifts back in place.
Summer continues, canceling what was there :
a touch of winter in some kind of race,
something to mock the lack of words :
which season choose, with no time to prepare?

                                                       
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/14/10; 6/28/22)

 

 

 It Was The Rain

out of arid night
legion of migrating winds
morning patina

    —Robin Gale Odam


(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2020;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/3/24) 

 

 

 

 Away Is Not Far

SUMMONED
—Joyce Odam

True as the gold light in your eye
that fastened like a sun
to my dark mirage,

a circle of stars, a core of words,
like a power surrounding you.
I was only heat-shimmer,

spinning in the light.
We did not reach,
I was dreaming on a blue ice floe,

you on another.
There was nothing to save us,
but love. Even our souls wept.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/7/12; 4/12/22)

 

 

 

 The Seventh Rain

WAILINGS OF WIND
—Robin Gale Odam

We have crying yet to do,
it will arrive now and again  
as the sprinkling over an early
autumn . . . and as a torrent.

Even now our tears are welling,
even now, though it is quiet, and
we are at peace . . . even now . . .
we remember wailings of wind. 

 

 

 

Night Has A Need

 

 

SEARCH THE WIND
—Joyce Odam

Know this of me, that I will search the wind
for your last touch. I will become a scavenger of
every breeze for something of you I have known.

Often I hear compassionate grass lean to a sound
and mourn against the soil in ravaged listening,

then sigh against my legs and tell me you are here.

Our energies converge. Nothing of what we are to
one another is spent, but borne through all the 

filters of awareness.

My hands enclose the living emptiness to treasure
you; the bending of my fingers makes a sound of
love upon the wind for you to hear. My pulse 

works thunder.

The chasm of our distance storms with angry love,
and I can feel you miss me in the lashing of all 

growing things. There is a wailing in the air when 

love shreds on the pangs of loneliness.

Nothing is lost. I answer with a yielding you will 

feel upon the wind’s return.
 

 

 

 Writing About Rain

Today’s LittleNip:

RUMOR AS TRUE
—Joyce Odam

What is this force of blueness
that comes from everywhere,
that we know will swallow us.

Look how it is forming—   
becoming a climate.

It knows where we are.
It has not yet made a decision.
Come, let us dress for the weather.

                                
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/8/22; 4/12/22;
12/5/23; 1/21/25)

____________________

Joyce Odam is no longer with us, having passed away last week, but Robin Gale Odam has been skillfully curating her mother’s poetry and photos for the Kitchen for years now, and (thankfully!) she would like to continue to do so. Our gratitude to you, Robin, for continuing to send Joyce’s and your work to us.

Our new Seed of the Week is “A Deer Passed by. . .” 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.

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

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Joyce Odam (1924-2025)
—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis, CA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

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 at 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!

 

Wailings of Wind~

Bye-Bye, Persephone

—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa
* * *
—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Caschwa, and Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Visuals Courtesy of
Joe Nolan and Medusa

 

 

HINTS OF AUTUMN
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

I pull out the comforters,
and set the thermostat to heat.

The morning chill reminds the trees
to kiss their leaves goodbye.

Darkness chases daylight
to an early snooze with me.

I rise to moon instead of sun
and stumble through the house.

Cooler mornings, longer nights
mean autumn will be here.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

ALARM
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

This seasonal non sequitur—
heats, length, like an athletics track—
at least in these Welsh hills about,
as nights grow longer by the hour,
light timers are set earlier.

Soon dimmer sight brings switches on,
and central heating prices rise;
by Christmas cactus, window closed,
and as dusk gathers, school-gate kids
fall victim, autumn, charcoal skies.

But thus the cycle, hands on clock,
a pointed change to what occurs,
plane angle pose around our star,
at least for those midst hemispheres,
meantime observing Greenwich zone.

Confused when night and sleep equate—
for older age keeps shorter sleeps,
effects insomnia, awake,
those daily dozes claiming space,
reducing need for pillow bed.

I fool myself this cool is not,
though duvet raised around my neck;
or else this slot’s for grandkids’ ‘cool’,
another morn, or eve more like,
though know not how define that mood.

Their cooler mornings quite, in tents,
some new events, experience,
chill factor, naught to do with cold,
a festival in muddy field,
discomfort duly certified.

So is it season, attitude—
or even pillow altitude,
persuades me that the time is nigh,
a change in pattern is required,
behaviour changed for what befalls.

I am relieved that nature sends
these formulae for earthly health;
a stealthy axis, planetary,
in universal mystery;
alarm if I’m to face the day. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo 

Courtesy of Joe Nolan

ROPE LADDER
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

One tree house ready
for cooler mornings
while dew is busy
dripping from awnings

climb up, settle in
soon you’ll feel stronger
it won’t even matter
that nights become longer

trees are really libraries
open through the eve
lots of books for all to read
oh the stories that they weave!

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

THE BIG LIE
—Caschwa

(Poets Lie)

There are whoppers and then there
are bald-faced, evil as the Devil, lies
which are so brazen and sharp they
make the Poet’s Lie look like truth
not quite dressed for dinner

Cable TV for a fee, such charges once
cited as sufficient to forego many of
those pesky commercial advertisements
that totally interrupt the flow of action
making viewing our favorite shows now
a nasty chore

Hey marketing whizzes, you don’t have
to ask me more than once if I’d like to
enter a purchase contract for a luxury
car I could never afford on my wages

Lower your price to real world, lower
your tone to a Poet’s lie, lower your
expectations to fit the aspirations of
working folk, erase your presumption
that your lovely car for sale is exactly
the one of my dreams, you’re are NOT
EVEN CLOSE. I need a vehicle that fits
in my small garage, not one that could
hold all the baggage in Grand Central
Station and light up the entire neighborhood
for fun and games. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

TIME FOR NEW SOLUTIONS
—Caschwa

America’s War for Independence
    We’re still dealing with old
    laundry with the same stains
    on it

War on Drugs
    Who’s kidding whom? The
    Cartels have this completely
    bought and paid for

War on Crime
    Just more losers, no winners

Jewish Holocaust
    Killing 6 million was just the
    opening move

Israel’s War on Hamas
    Until the world holds Hamas
    accountable for the war crime
    of using human shields, Israel’s
    military defense feels no need to
    stand alone in following the rules 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

SERENE MEDITATION GARDEN
—Caschwa

(The Self-Realization Fellowship Lake Shrine lies
a few blocks from the Pacific Ocean, on Sunset
Boulevard in Pacific Palisades, California. It was
founded and dedicated by Paramahansa Yogananda,
on August 20, 1950, and is owned by the Self-
Realization Fellowship.)

Six decades ago my main means of transportation
was a noisy motorcycle, which I rode all around
town. One of my favorite places to visit was a Self-
Meditation Center at the edge of Santa Monica,
less than 10 miles from my home. There I could 

park, kill the engine, and immerse myself into the 

endless beauty of undisturbed silence. I and my 

ears much preferred this instead of the barrage of 

sounds that emit from big city venues.

In the ensuing years, I faced daily challenges to
silence: UCLA, always tearing down old, or
building new, structures; working in downtown
Los Angeles; commuting to work on the light rail;
living next to noisy neighbors; the noise of endless
household responsibilities and the constant re-
minders to complete them; shopping in humongous
stores nestled closely together in giant shopping
malls; the harsh sounds and lights of police activity,
both ground and air; political rallies with mega-
phones, shouting, and screaming; family gatherings
where all relations, near and far, gathered to 

sharpen their swords on judgmental mandates.

Now I am retired, surrounded by dust and weeds
that overstay their welcome; urns of ashes to r

emind me of lives that ended; cable TV that 

assumes I would just love to pay additional 

monthly fees for programming that used to be free; 

and here I am in Sacramento, hundreds of miles 

away from that Self-Meditation Center. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

PURIFICATION BY ANNIHILATION
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

We shall have Heaven on Earth
By going through Hell
Every twenty years
With another war.

Really, you don’t have to
Count that long—
Wars occur more frequently
Than that.

From the War to End All Wars
And make the world safe for
Democracy, ah, democracy,
A banner we wave to overthrow
All the dictators of the world,

To the Sands of Iwo Jima,
Where 6,800 Marines died
To wipe out 18,000 dug-in
Japanese,
In February of ‘45,
Six months before
The bombs were dropped,
Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

It just goes on and on—
Korea, Vietnam, Iraq,
Afghanistan, Iraq, again,
With 500,000 dead Iraqi children
Between the two Iraq wars,
Dead, because of sanctions,
And Madeleine Albright
Said it was justified.  

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

I HAVE TO LAUGH
—Joe Nolan

I have to laugh!
Oh, yes, I do.

Every little thing
Your Mother do.

She’s able and
She’s strong.
She knows so many ways
To get along.
She’s wise and
She’s shrewd.

Don’t get me started
On her last dark plan
About how to crucify
A man
Who didn’t really deserve it
But couldn’t withstand the scam,

So he went in flames
Like many others.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

ONYX AT PLAY
—Joe Nolan

Onyx doesn’t listen to the sea.
Minerals in the desert
Can be had for free
When you clear Arabs
And Muslims away.

Onyx is deaf
To human pleas.
It cares not a whit
For you and me.

It’s all about feeding a machine
With rare-earth minerals
With which cell-phones are made
While Onyx is at play
In the toys we use
And throw away.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Joe Nolan

READY FOR LIFT-OFF
—Joe Nolan

It’s getting close to lift-off
So we add a little fuel
To the major thruster
To make sure we can blow
Gravity behind.

Lift-off is a state of mind.

It’s about being willing,
Ready and able
To disable gravity
And all that holds you down,
As though you were
Part of the ground,
Like an over-ripe apple
Fallen from a tree,
Left to rot.

Flip the switch
On the dashboard
That says, “Lift-off.”
Add a little fuel,
Look at your watch and scoff.

Let them know
You’ve been here, before,
Before the Garden of Eden,
Well before the Fall,
You’ve got it
Under control
And you’re ready
To blast off
Without taking a bite of the apple
That caused the downfall.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Words are, of course, the most powerful drug used by mankind.

—Rudyard Kipling

___________________

—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

Our thanks to today’s contributors, some of whom wrote about our Seed of the Week (Cooler Mornings, Longer Nights). Today we celebrate the Autumn Equinox, as Persephone heads off to hang out with Hades for six months. Brrrrr…

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

Straight Out Scribes are a poetic phenomenon, and they have a new book out: Spirals, Spirits and Spells, available on Amazon and Kindle. You go, girls!

 

 

 

 

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center
presents An Evening
with Mary Mackey
tonight, 7:30pm.
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!