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Saturday, October 31, 2009

Medusa's Kitchen published these two poems today, this Halloween


She filled her hands

With winter light and November's

Crows, a calcophany of wings

Against the blue of early evening.

Children used to come here.

There were hills and copses and woods

Challenging the imagination with shadows

Caught alive in stories of the Fall.

The road ended at her mouth,

Full of weeds and drifting terrors

Searching for a body to accompany

During the dark evenings of the waning year.

Shaken, she reaches for the twilight

As if it were a vessel of some kind,

Easy on any sea, unmoved and with sails

Painted in the colors of forgetting.

To dream was to vanish into memory,

The twinkle of an eye,

The brush of a hand across a shoulder,

No place for sharing stories, whispering.

This time of year is full of stuff

Like this, fine of hand and bathed

In a crystal construct made of wood,

Made of fire, made of singing.

She was not given to understand

More of this than her hands covered

With the cool and brilliant light.

She wishes us luck as we continue

Toward the shoreline, the same light

Glinting off the water, infecting

Our minds, making everything in life

A challenge and the turning of the days

Borne on the backs of black birds

Exploding time with cackling and shrieking.


There are no stars in the sky tonight.

It is not because of the clouds.

The ego is so immense.

I feel I have called this to myself.

Thursday, October 29, 2009

today Medusa's kitchen published the following


The moon is unsteady, trusting its light

To the stars it cowers behind clouds

Not allowing beams or dreams

To release themselves from its foggy

Journey. The voice is gone.

From the jungle floor we are able

To see those stars with proper names.

We do not greet them nor they us.

From here they seem cold. Distance

Is such a detatched maiden, full of thought

That have nothing to do with our petty concerns.

Closer, a night bird tells the darkness

Another secret, crazing the place where we sleep

With lines of sound. Fear begins to rise from

Its shadowy rooms, tells us we should be afraid,

Of what we have no idea. Just be afraid

Comes the message. Halloween arranging

Its crested headpiece in orange and yellow,

Glaucous whites and using the wind as voice,

Begins the seasons tales. We have heard them

All before and we have never heard them.

“Wait for the moon to return.”, someone whispers.

“She will be round and huge and full." We will be able

To see everything the night conceals clearly.

Perhaps this is a good idea. Things fly quickly

Just above our heads. We smell the cinnamon of

Autumn rising to the top of the night.

Someone calls our names.

We never recognize the voice.


Bright orange CALTRANS

Trash bags piled on the side

Of the freeway: Seansonal garbage.