Wednesday, February 20, 2013

Lambs, Grahams, and Waiving Judgement

The Reef
—Photo by D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

—Taylor Graham, Placerville

Sailors gave the sea
a few gold flecks rippling underwater,
small coin, ancient jars scattered
on the bottom: long-necked,
hips flaring wider than the shoulders,
all stained by turquoise water; one
with painted eyes, a goddess's perfect-
moment gaze. With this image
of the luck of drowning and treasure,
you could make your fortune below
the waves that swell foam-white horses
running out to sea, shipwreck
artifacts on the shifting tidal floor.


—Katy Brown, Davis

Wednesday, and Thursday
slipped-on their charcoal knee stockings
to gambol
in springtime owl clover and rye—
their pockets filled with sunshine
and joy.


—Katy Brown

sheep, hearty creatures,
dropping spring young in icy mud—
dark knee-sox
their only warmth against cold feet,
wool coats buttoned to the neck—
cool lambs.


—Tom Goff, Carmichael

Blessings on thee, little lamb,
babe with cheek of black and tan!
(Or hast thou, biter of grass and sage,
jowls more truly black and beige?)
But “thee” is three, so I should speak,
one for each midmost day of week.
First, Tuesday’s child, offsprung with Wednesday;
then, bringing up the rear, sweet Thursday.
Freckles mommed these wobbly lambs
midwived to stouter strength by Grahams.
You precious imps, so small portrayed
in photos, make free to abrade
whole lawns now sweet green, now quite frayed.
On Fortune’s cap the wool-clad button,
each garbed and marbled in soft mutton,
you’re clothed too in the finest nap
of sheepspun likely to plush a lap.
Ye tiny whelps, O spritely lambkins,
seem cupped popover in three wee ramekins.
Happy birthday and welcome, eanlings,
cuter than girls in pearl earrings!

Michigan Marina w/Barge
—Photo by Katy Brown

—Caschwa, Sacramento

Full leg cast
wooden crutches
starting college

an otherwise
awkward commute
now a pleasant ride

courtesy the
generous offers by
classmates with cars


Eagle Court with an
overabundance of terrific
food yet at clean up time

we packed the leftover
succulent cuisine
into cars and vans

and made a surprise
visit to a shelter
warmed the heart


Artistic verse quickly
disappears into the
ether of poesy

from whence it
reappears in print
or speech or fire

or lunar cycles
steering the tidal
flows of great oceans


—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove

The St. Patrick’s Day Parade
Moves slowly through Old Sacramento,
Pausing, halting often.  The
Beauty queens’ convertibles are
Stalled in front of the saloon.
The queens smile wanly, give
Weak waves: it’s going to be
A long day.  Out of the bar
Comes a biker all leather and
Denim, ZZ Top beard and
Jailhouse tats, stopping by
One of the cars.  The crowd
Gasps.  “No, No, Miss. 
You’re doing it all wrong: you
Have to roll it.”  And he gives
A wave so regal, so perfect,
You can hear the Corgis barking.
She tries, he nods and lopes
Back into the bar.  The parade
Jerks to life.  The queens all
Wave, properly now.  The crowd
Exhales, then cheers.


Our thanks to today's contributors for lots of fun poems about our Seed of the Week: Waves (that word has so many meanings and connotations!) and also about Taylor and Hatch Grahams' new lambs. Katy and Taylor tackled our Form to Fiddle With, the sweet little Cameo, too. More about that later in the week.

And Placerville, where the Grahams live (as does Medusa), had snow yesterday—our first of the season. We still have some on the ground, but the good news is that Placervillians rarely, if ever, have to plow. The best of both worlds...


Today's LittleNip:

—Taylor Graham

gray morning, the house
alien, a tunnel under
snow. You asked
for bread. I kneaded, punched down dough
with chopped chives; baked you a loaf
of gold.



Pig in the Snow, Port Sanilac, Michigan
—Photo by Katy Brown