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medusaThis beautiful and visual poem by S.T. Summers comes full circle as he sits and thinks about what to write about. I loved it.

S. Thomas Summers

Generally, my poems are short, simple affairs. Recently, they’ve been growing. Successfully? I’m not sure. What do you think?

Scylla of The Odyssey/Greek Mythology

Snow

Having secured a modest slather of time,
I’d thought I pen a few words
about the falling snow, its fickle descent,
each flake, as fragile as a lost memory, silently

sliding through the morning, until finally
it finds its rest on the ceramic mushroom
in the garden or the black mailbox
where the driveway spills into the road,

but everyone writes about snow,
its grace and cold; so, perhaps, I’ll focus
on the steam rising from my coffee mug,
hot and wet, the spirits of Hades,

Odysseus’ crew, the warriors Scylla chomped
as they pulled their oars as furiously
as fear allows, and the men Charybdis consumed,
the monster’s mouth open wide,

a briney maelstrom, hell’s toothy foyer,
but all that gore, the broken bones,

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