Dogs

Each dog is unique.

One scruffs up her food
before it hits the bowl,
and the other waits
to make sure no more
is coming before she'll
dive in.

One feels compelled to
sit by the window and
bark at anything with a shadow.

The other will sleep through
a tornado, never caring what
may be threatening her habitat.

One wants to tear the porch
apart because a rabbit has
taken refuge, and the other
complains that her feet
are cold in the snow.

Awaiting an Answer

Sometimes I await an answer,
thinking, "if only I knew,"
and then I "get what I wished for"
only to find out that it
was not what I wanted.

One of the happiest people
I ever met was a man with AIDS
who had a short time to live.

I asked him what was the hardest
time for him. "Not knowing,"
he said.

Now that I have the answer,
I am up at bat once again.

I know the score.

What I don't know is how
fast the ball will come,
and what kind of curve
it will have.

Indecision

The cloud filled sky
caused the shadows to lighten
one moment and darken the next.

My dog awaits the intruder.
A vigilant creature,
she moves her head from side to side,
anticipating the enemy.

My wife shuffles through her life,
trying to decide what is needed
and what can be thrown away.
My compliments are returned
with "I could have thrown away more."

My Buddhist friend writes
that nothing has a permanent self,
and I wonder if everything
has an impermanent self.
Meaning that the gravel
around my pond has a self,
which would explain why
my now expired dog would chew
each rock and then spit it out.

An hour later, the shadows
completely disappeared because
of a beckoning storm,
and then,
a moment later, reappeared
as if spring was here.

Changes

and decisions.

Auto pilot,
mindlessly slowly
going through life
as if we are a self-controlled puppet.

Awaken,
get a cup of coffee,
go to work,
come home,
etc.
Not a very surprising life
until something ends or breaks.

Surprises.
The stuff that life
is made of.
Unexpected pregnancy, death,
loss of job, and we are startled
into a "reality check" reevaluating
everything we do and wondering
what we have done with our lives.

Changes. Yes to life.

Moving

Thinking about moving
is always a weaving of
sorrow and excitement.

A new life, augmented
by memories of the last
one, becomes a sort of reincarnation.

Early on, I discovered
that all places were the
same in that our reflection
is the same, no matter
where the mirror is hanging out.

Today we sold one piece
of furniture and loaded it into a van.
It has been part of our life
for many years and its place
is already taken by another piece.

Are we cold and ruthless to let go
of so much before our spaceship launches?

Melt Down

What ee called in just spring
I call "meltdown."

his was a celebration for the balloon
man, who "whistled far and wee,"
while mine is lamenting the possible
end of winter.

The frog will wake up and notice
that his limbs are a little stiff
like the balloon man who is first
lame and then goat footed.

The fish will become hungry and
notice that there are not yet
insects or vegetation to feed upon.

The ice will disappear in the
pond, never to be seen again.

My heroic neighbor,
an airplane gunner in WWII,
will rise up from his easy chair
to mow the leaves.

Spring is not all that it
is made up to be,
but in a pinch,
I'll take it.

4 Journeys

The waterfall
would not stop,
even if she had to slither
underneath the ice.

He took an interesting journey,
intending to go a recycling center
and instead ended up
at the Missouri river.
So much for Google Maps!

Exercising today was
going up and down the stairs
an infinite number of times,
unplugging this and plugging in that,
trying to be obedient to the
cable company help desk person.

We generate and/or use
lots of artifacts
as we grow: books, art, furniture.
Most of it ends up either
in a junk store or a dumpster.
It can be like quicksand.

Who has a Soul?

Above image was drawn on the back of a business card. Image below was done on a Palm Pilot using the program Tealpaint.


The Buddhist tells me that our soul
is only an illusion.

And then he tells me that the frog
might have a soul, we just don't know.

"What about the pond," I ask,
"does it have a soul?"

"Very possibly," he says,
"especially if you were to
dump a gallon of gasoline
in you'd see that
the pond would be affected
in an ecological way."

"So how can our soul
be an illusion and yet
the pond and the frog
have possible souls?"

"You said you had two
questions. What was the
other one?"

I thought that maybe
this would be clearer
when I became older.

Five doves are eating the grass
coming up between the bricks
on our patio. Astutely, they
do so in the sun on this
10 degree morning.

My hand built bench distorts
her shape to stand firmly
on the sinking bricks
below her.

I'll have to ask the Buddhist
if these observations are
illusions as well.

Snow Covered Pond

The only snow is sitting on the pond.

The water runs underneath the icy pond,
not caring about the cold weather.

The frog is hidden
in her hibernation mode.
I wonder what it is like
to wake up after such a
long sleep? How would one
contend with the interest
charges on the unpaid bills?

My daily dharma tells me
that there is a difference
between my self and my experience.

I sense that ponds and
hibernating frogs have
no sense of self, yet
have rich experiences
each and every moment.

Living in the now is
easy for these other
forms, unable to
anticipate, remember,
mourn, or hope.

Woodpile

I say that the woodpile
cuts down street noise,
though that is not quite the truth.

When I was a kid, my grandfather
was in charge of the woodpile
for our cold Oregon nights.

He'd pick up logs on the beach
and (always with a hernia) load
them into his jeep
to cut them up with a 3 foot circular blade
attached to the power take-off
on the back of the jeep.

Then he'd split the wood with
a combination of an axe, a mallet,
and some hefty wedges.

I'd try to split the wood myself from time to time,
but never could do much damage to those logs.

For him, it was one way to
take care of those he loved.

I never asked him where he
learned to do the log splitting.
I wonder if that is something he did
growing up in Russia.

My log pile is a tribute to Milton,
my grandpa. The difference is
that we have a gas fireplace
with a remote control. And in
cold weather, lots of neighbors
visit us in their pickups
looking for wood.

"No, the wood is not for a sale,"
we tell them.

Taming Monkey Mind

The light brown January oak
leaves do a shadow dance
on the trunk of their tree.

A truck goes by with the word "clean"
written in large sans-serif letters,
hoping to change someone's ways
with its mantra.

I return to the shadow dance
noticing how one moment
it is vigorous,
and a second later, it is still,
almost.

Another truck goes by with a landscape
painted on its side. A large tree
in the landscape is devoid
of any shadow dancing.

One of the shadows on my tree
quivers, sensing the competition,
and then regains his impetus
to do a fast moving encore.

Curved Shadows

The delicate curved shadows
predict a shape more sublime
than those bold straight expressions

that come from tar soaked telephone poles
or the tall straight trunks

of aged trees that enjoyed
an unfettered growth.

Every day I study my yard
out my window, searching
for that unique event
differentiating today
from all the yesterdays' past.

Much of what I don't see might have been
but was hidden by the shadows
in this special world
of other distinct jewels.

Leaving Home for Another

Many live in a house
that is better than
some and worse than
others.

Now, in the middle of
January, the leaves have
found their home,

nestled in
a garden bed or
a curb.

I see out of the corner
of my eye
one renegade leaf hopping
jumping somersaulting
across the patio
onto the frozen
pond.

I wonder what
was wrong with
her previous
home.

Five Occurrences on a Quiet Day

The ginkgo tree holds its leaves
on the west side of the tree
while the oak holds hers
on the east side.

The shadow from the telephone pole
is cast innocently onto a brick wall,
only to discover
that the top of the pole
is distorted by the roof.

The well-drenched-in-sunlight
huddling trees
break up the facade
of a white farmhouse.

The cold wind tortures
the two lone stems of tall grass
clutching their seeds.

The pond,
mostly in the shade,
turns to thin ice,
except where the waterfall
is splashing.

Not Sin in the Garden of Eden

What separates man/woman
from beasts is that humans
can choose between
immediate pleasures
and long-term goals.

The pigeon psychologist
tells me that pigeons
will delay gratification
for a reward,
meaning that either we
have bird brains or
birds have human brains.

Adam and Eve weren't alone
in the garden. There were
spirits everywhere, peeping
Toms, so to speak, watching
a new species make conscious choices
(if that is possible).

A Nothing Day

Yesterday I wondered
if I had a hole in
my brain and today
I look out my window
and see nothing.

Almost nothing.
The sleepy logs are sitting
quietly on their
dark shadows.

The branch with
leaves is playing
possum, occasionally fluttering
like a kid who can't
stop giggling no matter how
hard he tries.

Just when I'm convinced
that the entire world
is brown and green,
three bright yellow school
buses pass by,
reminding me that
even a dreary day
is full of surprises.

News

Doc's receptionist
said it would be
a few day before
they'd determine
if I had a brain.

So I thought I'd
look out the window
and saw an unusually
brilliant day with
the trees glowing
happily.

Behind the wood pile
one tree had a
beautiful nymphet
shadow who fleeted away
when my wife
came down the stairs.

Another tree had a
cross shadow which
slowly morphed to
a dancer arching her
back as if she doing the
"splits."

Across the street
there were a bunch of
trees huddled together
deciding if
the brilliant day with
its rich blue sky is
any more than a meager
attempt to save the
stock market from its
plummet.

In the meantime, my
brain pictures
(unfortunately not
readable by my MAC
computer) are being (slowly)
transported via turtle
down HWY 40 to my DOC

Ring...ring...
Doc says I have
a good working
noodle. (sigh)

Bad News/Good News

The bad news is that
the doc didn't call
to tell me the results
of the test.

The good news is
that he would have
called if they
found I didn't
have a brain.

Here's the
MRI receptionist.
I gave everyone
space helmets
because I was
convinced I was
inside a time
machine, watching
the world through
a periscope, focused
on a sign on the
opposite wall,
"tell us if you
are pregnant."

More tomorrow . . .

Brain Scan

Tomorrow they are
going to take pictures
of my brain. That
seems like an interesting
turn of events since
all my life my
brain has been
making pictures
of them.

I get to hold
still while they
slice it to
smitherines,
and then,
breathlessly some
learned seer will
look at the pictures
and tell me whether
I have a working
noodle.

Assault

or perhaps caressed,
touched, at least,
by the multitude
of glowing lights

coming through
a forest to one
tree, standing
quietly there
minding her
branches.

The sharp
diagonal shadows
of yesterday
were so cleverly
substituted
here, indicating (either)
a choreographer
of immense
abilities,

or a random
generator
that
forever entertains.

The Three Faces of Diagonals

Earlier today
the trees, still
in winter,
shot out a strong
diagonal shadow,
traversing the
sleeping leaves,
and only halted
by another tree in
their path.

Then in the late
afternoon most of
the shadows disappeared,
and those that remained
had a soft edge and
not much contrast with
the ground.

Now, at sunset, the
trees are enjoying
the multicolor sky
as they remember
a good day for
productive shadow
making.

Feeling Ideas

Can you be an
artist without
feeling
the blues?

Does art
need to
provoke emotion
or are ideas
good enough?

Will a fine idea
produce feelings?

Are ideas
and feeling
inseparable?

Elasticity

I noticed
meditating yesterday
the elasticity
of time,
how one moment
lingers around
for a seemingly
eon,

while another
whizzes by like
a hummingbird.

We say, "see
you in an hour,"
yet, depending
on circumstances,
might be
a second or eternity.

Fireworks

We awakened in the
night with the loudest
bang of thunder I've
ever heard.

I glanced out the window
to see the aftershocks
of bright flashes of
lightening.

No trees had fallen,
though I couldn't be
sure until daylight
came.

The explosion was
followed by a torrential
rain, equal, I'm sure,
to what one might experience
in the tropics.

Now the wild party is
over. The oak tree still
has its leaves on one branch.

The leaves swing gently
in the breeze, not able
to describe the fireworks
they had so recently experienced.

Art Time

One hundred and fifty representations
of time before my eyes.

What is time?
Merely a tool
to measure itself?

But what is time, really?

We can't think about time
because we can't abandon it.

I see so many expressions
of time:

time past
time moving
old and new
clocks
more clocks
time space continuum
death
motion
decay
waves
speeding
curves
memories
more memories
events
passages
squiggles
changes
transformations
corrosion
aging
Phoenix
burnt

crude time
and
wonderful time

Time to do this or that
timelessness
Old things representing time.

Your time is not my time,
but is our time to settle in
and settle down.

We all have different times.
Mistakenly we say,
what IS the time,
as if there were only
one time (we know
from Albert E. that
there are many times.)

Motion
is an object moving
through space in time,
but what about a
still object. Can it
not move through a
space that is constantly
in motion?

The clock runs away with time
measuring our precious moments
that never existed before,
and will never exist again.

No One Home

He arrived early,
and no one was home.

The door was unlocked
so he walked in, thinking
this will be a nice
time to be alone.

The floor was cold,
chilling his body
through his stocking
feet. Shoes weren't
allowed in this
sacred space.

A nice caretaker
came in and turned
the light on, not
knowing the dim
light from the windows
was perfect for his PDA.

He thanked him, and
before he knew it,
others came in, crushing his
moment of solitude
but providing good fodder
for this picture poem.

The Soccer Game

It seems like
the wind has been
blowing for days.

The tall grass is
facing northwest, tired
of the indecision surrounding
the upcoming election.

The leaves appeared to be
playing soccer this morning,
with the players tirelessly
running back and forth
on the field.

The wind chimes
cheered the leaf
players along,
encouraging them
to keep running
despite the bitter cold.

Now it is dusk and
the field is almost
cleared of the leaves.
They finished their game
and decided
to spend the night
next to the wood pile.

The Last Resolution

Four days
into the new year
and already
I'd like
to start anew.

If I had
made the last
resolution "don't
follow any of the
above"
I would have
been fine.

What is it
about resolutions,
apparently a
secret weapon
of the devil,
to make us feel guiltier
than sin (what does
that mean?)?

In fact, it seems
one way
to be sure something
is not going to be
done is to make it
a resolution.

How about you?
You can comment
below — click on
"anonymous" after
you click on
"comments."

Sharp Shadows

Finally this morning
my dogs decided
they wanted to go out.
It was a short bout
with the elements,
and then they came in, hoping
that my wife would give them
some scrap.

The shadows are sharp today
as the the wind is cold.
The wind chimes ring like
a siren, inviting me outside.

The bird incessantly bites
his mirror, letting us
know the meaning of the
phrase "bird brain."

The oak tree leaves open up
in the sun and face its
warmth like good soldiers.

The oak tree itself is not
worried about growing during
the winter. It is deep in
thought about one year past
and another year to come.

Two Worlds

The pond is frozen over,
except at the bottom
of the waterfall.

The old bird taps against
his mirror as if he has
found a new friend
who he doesn't
quite understand.

I woke the dogs up
too early. They went
out in the cold and
came right back
in to continue
their sleep.

The oatmeal on the
stove simmers,
provoking an
aroma that fills
the kitchen.

Nothing other
than the tall
golden grass
and the occasional
passing cars
dare to move
this cold early
morning.

Oh, yes, the
curled leaves
on the oak tree
still defiantly
dance in the wind,
determined not
to hit ground
until spring.

In the other room,
there is a philosophy
book, filled with
"deeper" subjects
like "what is piety?"

Socrates

Poor misunderstood Socrates,

indefatigable in
his search for
the truth, and
a gadfly in his
dialogues.

His subjects
were too busy
to talk to him,
especially
when they realized
the shortcomings
of their ascertations.

He never published,
so he wouldn't have
a chance getting
a university job,
but he didn't think
teachers should be
paid, anyway,
especially
since they didn't
know anything.

In the end,
perhaps the wisest
and most influential
thinker of the West,
was sentenced
to death for "corrupting
the youth" and other
serious infractions.

Happy New Year Grinch

In keeping with this special
day, the one that closes
the year, we should go
to a party, or at least
open a bottle of champaign.

But we'll just stay home
and I'll draw a picture.

I remember, when our kids
were young, our baby sitter
was upset with us for not
celebrating a good year.

She brought over a bottle
of whiskey for us.

I want to retain
my full resources when I
celebrate. And luckily
we don't have to stay up
until midnight, since Times
Square is on a different
time zone, and,
obviously,
we are dead beats on
another wave length.

The Chair

He found the small metal
chair with the red seat.

It allowed him access
to all that was just
out of his reach.

He'd carry it around,
climb up on it, and
rearrange our world
to perfect all kinds
of skills.

Looking on were
all of us, totally
clueless about
what was going on
in his golden head.

Waffles and Milk

He doesn't exactly
know the words for
waffles and milk,
but we read
his moods, from happy
to hungry, and then
start trying out this
or that, hoping to hit
the nail on the head,
eventually.

He seems to get his
needs met, somehow,
without an ability
talk. I wonder how
much of our talk
in the bigger world
is really needed
for our happiness,
or even, just our survival.

Toys

Maybe toys came
from the days when people
didn't have much stuff,

or even when all
that they had was
human sized.

So the Indians
would make a
little bow and
arrow to teach the kids
to hunt,

or a doll to
teach the kids
how to take care of a
baby.

I've noticed my grandson
is much more interested
in my things than he
is in the toy closet.

Lucky he has my spare
cell phone. It is one
of his favorite pastimes.

Thanks, but no Thanks!

Sometimes
I ask for help
and regret it.

Not that the
helper was
not well-intended
or even skillful
in their craft.

It is just that
sometimes we want
the job done,
and we don't want
to do the work
involved.

So I asked my
former accountant
father-in-law to
help me set up
a financial system,
only to realize
that I'd have to
rebuild my mental
transmission before
I could shift that
many gears.

Pecans

My daughter brought
bags of pecans for
everyone, carried from
her Texas pecan tree.

Her aunt brought
one gadget for breaking
them open,
and her grandpa brought
another.

We worked feverishly
to crack open enough
to get a cup of pecans
for a pie or whatever.

I drilled a new
hole in one of
the gadgets but it
didn't do much.
The pecans were too
slender and long.

In the end, hours
later, we were
failed piece
workers. My daughter
said that next
year she was going
to rake those
nutty nuts into
the compost pile.

An Hour

In an hour my son, daughter-in-law, and
grandson come for the holiday.

The plane is now in the air, heading
west at record speed, I’m sure.

I guess the pilot gave up
or at least delayed
his XMAS for the occasion.

We haven’t seen my son and his
family for a couple of
months.

I don’t expect that they have changed,
though certainly my grandson, not yet
a year and a half, will be into new
things.

The XMAS sun blasts through by
bamboo shades, reminding me
not be somber on this day.

Their plane arrived early so
I stopped writing and went to pick
them up.

As soon as we were home from the
airport, my grandson went to the
toy closet and picked up a cup.

I think he was more interested
in a holiday drink than play.

'Tis the Season to be Jolly?

Christmas eve, and I went to the grocery,
two hardware stores, a bookstore, and the
car wash.

I didn't go to all these places to
to check that everyone was jolly.

I knew that some
of the Christmas hype is just that,
and some people have a mean and
tired look on their face in this
special time for celebration.

I didn't want to write about
my disappointments,
from the squenched up faces
to the aggressive driving
of shopping carts and automobiles
because I didn't want
to perpetuate the sourness
I was experiencing.

But then joy came
as one woman
passed me with her cart
in the grocery store.
When she saw that
I was looking at her,
she broke into a smile
as big as they come.
I smiled back.

Yes, it is the season . . . .

No More

I"m not going to write
a poem today, I thought,
until my dog started to
bark in protest.

I tried one about the
holiday trance
we are all in,
"getting and spending,"
but that is old hat,

and then the phone
rings, and it feels
like it's my daughter,
but it was the
wrong number.

And sometimes the
honeymoon is over
and friends tell you
what they really think
and you feel like shrinking
to the size of a
head of a pin,
wishing you didn't say
or believe this or that,

and then you escape to the
country to see how
the trees survived
their first snow of
the season and you
see them basking
in the sun, and loving
the bitter breeze, with
their dark brown bark
glorified by the bright
blue sky and accented by
the fluffy white clouds.

On the whole, the trees
always stand up straight,
don't they?

The Bed of Rocks

I'm not sure what a rock
can see, nestled in a bed
of sister and brother
rocks.

There isn't the option
of deciding to jump on
a bus and take off to
the west or the east.

Though, inadvertently,
the bus might pick up
the rock in his tire
and take her to some
unknown place, to
find a distant
bed of rocks.

We had a dog who
was called to separate
certain rocks from
their neighbors.

She would spend countless
hours picking up this
rock and that, dropping
certain chosen ones into
a new pile.

Though we tried,
we could never understand
her methodology, but
believed there was
a method to her madness.

When her back was
turned, however,
we returned the rocks
to their next of kin,
only to watch the
dog patiently extract them
once again
from their families.

Memories

How often we think of
things past, like the
milk man who drove his
horse and buggy
down my street in
Chicago or the time
my friend got bit
by a cheetah.

Our lives seem to
accumulate
these events
some educational,
some fun,
and some we'd give anything
to erase from our memory bank.

Are we this
volume of stories
that fill our
minds and hearts,
or are we here, now,
listening to our
inner voice and
looking out the window
noticing every incident
that shaped every branch,
every bent browning blade
of grass, and every dent
in the cars and trucks
passing on the road?

Conflict

The world seems
to teeter-totter
between "what's the weather"
and "when will the war end."

I've often imagined what
the weather might be if
it was fixed by legislation.
Could we all agree on the
ideal weather, and, if so,
would we waiver a week later
and ask for rain, or fog, or even
a blizzard to help the sale of
firewood.

On the war issue,
it is interesting
we continue to engage in war
irrespective of the data
that millions die in such endeavors.
Are we kept in uniform believing
that it will be the other guy,
or the other guy's son,
that will die?

Wars don't just take place
in war zones.
Everyday we see them
at work, at play, and in the home.
Resolving these minuscule wars
can be as challenging
as diverting WWWIII.

"Is it warming up any out there,"
she asked as I came in with my
hat in one hand and my scarf
in the other."

The Second Hand

The second hand,
on my electric clock,
patiently moves around and around,
every minute,
every day,
every month,
and every year.

He takes just a little energy
to do his duty, and,
like Sisyphus, never complains,
despite his boring task.

I suppose he makes the minute hand move,
which in turn makes the hour hand move.
This wouldn't amount to much
but these movements determine
when we work,
when we eat,
when we play,
and when we sleep.

If I was a second hand
I'd take frequent naps when no one was looking,
and then speed up at dawn
to get to where I am supposed to be.

Late Afternoon

My house is shading the snow
on the east. The dogs have
made numerous tracks during the
past few days, and the 40˚ sun
has done is best to shape the
snow by melting her edges.

It is about time for the dogs
to be fed, so they remind me
to make sure they are still on
my radar. I quietly say "food"
and they leap off the porch
to devour their dried pellets.

Looking north, I see shadows
as tall as their trees.
The branches are slow dancing
from enough of a breeze to
make the wind chimes play.

Our parakeet is discussing
the weather with his mirror.
It is an animated discussion
with some disagreement.

The dust bunnies commensurate
one another in anticipation
of the holiday preparatory vacuuming.
Realizing that their destiny
is to become one with the
inside of a dust bag is more than
most of them can stand, so they latch
on to one of the dogs hoping to be
taken outside in their quest for
immortality.

Now, later, the breeze is gone and
only one ray passes
through the tree from
the setting sun. At a second
glance, even it is dimming to
become a gentle apparition.

Changes

I've been noticing
that every day is
different from the last.

What I didn't realize
is that every moment is
different from the next, something
that every photographer should know.

Early this morning,
it was foggy, cold, and overcast,
with a little warmth in
the eastern sky.

Later in the morning,
the sun was shining,
casting sharp shadows
on the snow and buildings.
Yesterday the sun
was shining as well,
but the shadows
were nowhere as distinct.

If we change as rapidly
as these moments,
then finding ourselves
can only be an
impermanent accomplishment.

Sun

Nothing seems brighter
than the sun on a fresh
sheet of snow.

The warmth of the sun
seduces me until my
hands and feet get cold
from the coolness of the
blue white snow.

The blue white light foreshadows
the forthcoming darkness
from the shortened day.

The melting snow suggests that
spring is here

until a cool gust warns me
that I am barely at
the beginning of
winter's wrath.

Snow Today

It is a quiet snow.
In the morning,
it seemed brighter
through the curtains
but I couldn't be
sure if there was snow
until I glanced out the window.

The dogs forgot how slippery snow
is and skidded
as they jumped down the
stairs to see if any rabbits
were out and about.

Glancing at the snow
covering the fall leaves,
I sit at the table
wondering if this
beautiful blanket of crystals
is the work of natural forces,
or that of some very special
intelligent being.

Stuff

I have stuff.
As a wantabee hippy in the 60s,
I thought I could reduce
my belongings to what
would fit in a duffel bag.

I even included the provisions
for a darkroom, and jumped onto
a bus to Oregon.

Now, if I only had two of everything,
I would not feel so excessive.
Somehow I've acquired multiples of
multiples, and only their inventory
list would fit into the duffel bag.

If my brain remained a mirror image
of the simplicity of
that old army duffel bag,
I wouldn't be so alarmed.

But no, as I look at my piles of papers
and stacks of computer equipment,
video tapes, and books, I can't
help but think that my clutter
must be a reflection of my noodle —
a dead ringer for the serpents of Medusa's head.