Thursday, March 27, 2014

The Wind's a Coyote

—Photo by Christopher Moon

—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento

All I did all afternoon
with all those hot pink beads
was make hot pink bead necklace
after hot pink bead bracelet,
until my mind is pink.
At least, I think my mind is pink.

I close my eyes, my hot pink eyes,
and see all those hot pink beads
and feel the necklace around my neck.
The hot pink bead necklace
is not a necklace I should be wearing,
at least not wearing to bed.

 —Photo by Christopher Moon

—Carol Louise Moon

On Noah’s Ark are many daffodils.
And daffy still, are rainbow arcs
which shower the sky with mini-
flowers.  This fella Noah
only knows to grow a daffodil
a day, then two, till there are four—
then plenty more.  Daffy still,
are roses rising trellis-high.

Other lonely fellas sigh for rose
and rainbow, too.  Beaus—
who know their daffodils (with
taffy-colored frills) will thrill
when daffy doves and loves
at last come home.

(first pub. in Brevities, Vol 128)

—Photo by Christopher Moon

—Carol Louise Moon

The palm, she sees the clouds float by
in hues of blue.  The seas, they roll
in this slow dawn on Honolulu’s shore.

What’s more is now the birds
have joined the tree to sit and see
the show of early sunset’s rustic glow—

before the nighttime closes in,
when all the stars shine
not so bright as moon,
later on tonight… but not so soon.


—Taylor Graham, Placerville

The wind’s a coyote,
ranging down the arroyos to hunt
the dark, then skulking off at daybreak,
disappearing like convection
over the ridge.
If you listen in your broken sleep,
you’ll hear the song—
the howling of wind, and pull
a comforter closer against
your dreams, small creatures fleeing
from under the bed over sand
studded with skulls
worn smooth as stone.
And yet, on other evenings
after you walk the dry creek to its
beginning, and let the wind
hollow your head and blow it clean,
your dreams will beat
with angel wings
sweeping the chimney
like coyote breath, like the wind.


—Taylor Graham

The sky ignites with firebrands
the ravens gathered in black hoods,
as sun subsides in scarlet bands
to dark beyond the edge of woods.

Lone traveler to the borderlands,
a peddler cinches up his goods
and turns his step as dusk remands
to dark beyond the edge of woods.

So many unfulfilled demands!
Old lovers put away their “should”s
until the daylight, give their hands
to dark beyond the edge of woods.   


—Taylor Graham

She nests in the wire
dog-crate, temporary safe haven.
But her amber eyes—
pupils dilated rail-spike dark—
speak fear.

On the scales, 60 pounds—
dog-fur over muscle, bone, spirit—

Her tongue flicks soft
against the vet-tech’s hand.
The probing starts:
thermometer. Stethoscope.
“Beautiful heart.”


—Taylor Graham

              for an old search-dog partner

On a fresh spring morning
you picked one egg from a wild-turkey nest,
carried it gently in your jaws
and placed it in my hand—
jaws that could shake a rope-tug toy
like it was a rag-doll.

Through dark November woods
you led me as if on tiptoe, as if walking
on eggs, to show me the lost woman
you found, barely alive.

After decades, you still
return sometimes, ranging into dream-
sight. I reach
for your leash and release it,
follow your lead into the midnight woods.


Today's LittleNip:

—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove

My parents dropped me off
At college.  I picked up my bag,
Turned to wave, but they
Were gone.  Didn’t go home
Though.  Put the house
Up for sale and moved
To Florida.  Took me
Most of Christmas break
To find them.  Then
They moved again.



Sheep in Spring Pasture
(Christmas and Adri in foreground)
—Photo by Taylor Graham