Monday, April 06, 2015

Free At Last

Free at Last
—Photo by Taylor Graham

—Carol Louise Moon, Sacramento

Eggs of many colors are now hidden
in flowered greens along a picket fence.
Easter time, and all the children bidden
in formal dress.  Among carnation scents—
one plastic egg contains the many sixpence.


—Carol Louise Moon
Out from the gray
of a hazy sea
a swoop of swallows
glides a colorless sky.
In silence they fly
following the tip
of a conductor’s baton.
Golden harps are their souls.


—Carol Louise Moon

a gray wall of packed dirt
scraggle trees—dusty
rusty branches with mistletoe
geometric chalk rock
at the base of any
skinny tree trunk

dead leaves and bark
both dark and light
a poison oak bed
red tiny berries
zigzag light and shadow

five red bricks stacked on
a patio; a white-breasted
sparrow flitting about
trees without bees

—Photo by Taylor Graham

—Taylor Graham, Placerville

This morning the puppies are a heaving

crying mass, wild with longing.

I open the gate, let them out in springtime

green, past untidy lawn, down the cast-

off garden where they walk on stone—

as if they could pull creation back together,

make it flow. What do they know

of elemental forces? The quicksilver moon

breathing in full midnight over a slatted

roof. Owl winging soundless, taloned.

Clasp my hands in wonder that I can’t hold. 



—Taylor Graham

No more pie-tins of gruel

for our pups to wade through like swamp

at the edge of life’s currents—

they’ve gulped their bowls clean

of kibble, first meal as night dims to dawn

above the slatted roof.

Now they’re crashed like small dead cars

but not motionless—breathing

in sighs and whimpers that lift the fine

fox-hairs of their cheeks. They sleep

heaped, or scattered as in rabbit-chase,

open-air to weather; sheltered

from winged shadows. It’s spring—time

when dark’s owl and day’s hawk

are out hunting to feed their own young

famished as our puppies for their

lives. We circle like mothers

who can’t get close to their dreams.   


—Taylor Graham

The fleeting breath of dawn’s a bell-ringer

calling me outside to such bird commotion,

I thought the leafing oaks were full of griffins,

song too bold for a native nesting species;

gathering force in the filigree of vetch twining

the stockwire fence, and penetrating hidden

passages of ground squirrel, their safe alleys

from rocky hillside to the tenderness of garden.

And I knew I was too late to catch this spring,

though barely beginning on its mystery ways.


Today's LittleNip:

Nothing is too small. Nothing is too "ordinary" or insignificant. Those are the things that make up the measure of our days, and they're the things that sustain us. And they're the things that certainly can become worthy of poetry.

—Rita Dove



—Photo by Taylor Graham