—Caschwa, Sacramento
Don’t give me a diamond studded
Digital pocket watch with
Roman Numerals
I’d sooner take a slow walk in the forest
Don’t tease me with a new luxury car
Adorned with all the latest electronics
That drives itself
I’d sooner take a slow walk in the forest
Don’t offer me a large screen HD-TV
Complete with DVR, UFO, HIV, etc.
Remote control
I’d sooner take a slow walk in the forest
Don’t give me the royal tour of a loft
With a view of the smog-smothered city
Handily close to traffic noise, crime, pollution
Urban renewal
I’d sooner take a slow walk in the forest
Don’t invite me to look at time share properties
Teleconference, videoconference
Communal saunas
Wi-Fi
I’d sooner take a slow walk in the forest
Don’t roll out projections and statistics
Bar graphs, pie graphs
Actuarial data
Contracts
I’d sooner take a slow walk in the forest
______________________
REALITY CHECK
—Caschwa
I expect that if I win the Lottery
In that span of time between
Matching the numbers and
Collecting the money
I would feel like a patient
Who had just been told
He was first in line to get
An organ transplant
None of it would seem real
Until I could wake up one morning
And know that I had survived
A life-changing event
—Taylor Graham, Placerville
I got up early. You’re my alarm
in the crate beside the bed, always a breath
ahead of me, catching up in puppy-
time that never lasts.
I lift you out of whimper, out the door
to do your business.
You’re the weight of life exuberating,
mumble of leaf-fall underfoot,
rustle of brush-pile loved by the beautiful
spotted towhee. Twigs dry as vanilla
bean pods. Taste of coffee before it’s brewed.
Sometimes—this very morning—
I follow you into the woods
where you’re friend of the oak-stump
scored by years, each lichened boulder.
You show me what light
smells like as it moves through shadow;
you find every gap that leads
to discovery. You’re the first syllable
of a full sentence not yet written.
_________________________
DAWN*
—Taylor Graham
What could people make of morning
without that word? Its premonition—Ahnung,
almost a warning—wakes me
with my pup’s first whimper. Get up,
get moving, evacuate the night, its dreams.
The color of something not there
anymore, but weighing on the heart like waiting
for a knock at the door. A shimmer between
shadow and bright, infused with its own
light like moon-shine on hill pasture
that’s not quite ghost. A silken veil whose color
changes—char to mid-gray, pewter,
silver golding—as I watch. Did the ancients
have a word for this, before dawn?
Have we lost it like a child vanished?
*noun first used, they say, by Shakespeare
________________________
PUPPY WANDER
—Taylor Graham
Her eyes were new moons dark and blank
behind cloud; even blind, she crawled to edges,
the shores of an unknown world as if
she heard voices from under the rug—forlorn
or beckoning memories of what she didn’t know;
calling her from the whelping box, sniffing
her way to the sliding glass door
where voices escaped to drift on April wind.
Nine weeks old now, ready to follow
a stranger into her new life. But this morning
I followed her as she checked fresh
scents under the buckeye where deer slept;
paused, listened to traffic on the two-lane;
moved on, down rimrock to the swale,
wandering wondering. Stood for a moment,
a statue of what she’ll grow to be. I clicked
the picture in my mind. Pixels, dust
motes. An instant. Already she was vanishing
as children do, wandering farther away.
—Tom Goff, Carmichael
Young sweet light, if I may talk to you,
one human supposing for this instant you are human,
I could bathe forever in your odorless perfume,
that which we call warmth. Because you
are tender, and if you were human I would call
you blond, young light, I must not deceive you
about my feelings. Too much of your darling
fingertips’ pressure upon mortal skin, and I
will singe, burn, somewhat of myself
peeling eternally from myself. It isn’t self-involvement,
young sweet light, that holds me back from too
much of your bright life: oh no, I have a prior friend
who is dark, she is all swirl and can become
funnel cloud when she despairs, yet she wheels
her dark spare frame in joy. She comes in
at my window all California, yet when I scent
her atomic structure black as a girl’s hair, what comes
in a rush like smoke is all Aegean, the salt that cures
the “wine-dark sea” so I consider her preserved for me
since Homer’s own dark day. Oh, and she unveils
herself: stripped naked of her robes she too
is young light, a more silver morning, a being compounded
of the air she is and the window glass shutting me
away from her unbearably beautiful touch. Do not
despair, young light: perhaps you and she
are one, and so I will turn someday from her to you
finding no one taken from anyone forever…
Today's LittleNip:
GONE IN 7 DAYS
Saturday, GOD is quiet.
Sunday, others don't forgive.
_______________________
—Photo by Stacie Sherman, Orangevale