—Taylor Graham, Placerville
No longer small—five baby blue-
_____________________
BIRDS IN BOXES
—Taylor Graham
Nest Box #1: 5 titmice nestlings; #2: 2 bluebirds
on fenceposts nearby; hwy shoulder: 1 roadkill
turkey—supplier of feather-down for a swallow
nest; #3 jumble-bed of grass with yellow thread
(who knows where that came from), and skunk-
fur trim—another titmouse nest. You know
every species, I look to you for guidance.
I take field-notes, try to be scientific. Repaid
in birdsong. 1 meadowlark.
Above the confluence of creeks, revels of cliff
swallows under the bridge—silver kites too
many to count, swoop-sailing after insects
the livelong day. And look, 1 gray fox stares
at us, moves off as if to lure us away, trots across
speeding two-lane, cars & trucks eating the road,
spitting out chipseal. Fox left behind her 3 sable
kits tumbling, skittering, disappearing into dry
culvert that is their safe den. Sky full of wings.
—Taylor Graham
FAIR HISTORIES
—Taylor Graham
—Kevin Jones, Elk Grove
Theo wasn’t my grandfather.
But for the rest of the Crabtrees
It didn’t matter: close-
Enough cousin.
So we were all surprised
That Sunday dinner
After fried chicken, taters
And shots (Theo liked Kentucky
Bourbon) when he told us
He’d sold the south acres
To the county fair. Had to,
He said, because wife Hattie
(She stood, blushing by the
Kitchen door) wasn’t feelin’
So good, and there might
Be doctors’ bills (Hattie outlived
Most every Crabtree in the room,
Though that was another
Matter). Was okay with us,
The Crabtree boys and myself:
Less corn detassling, less bean
Walking in the summer heat.
We became, such as it was,
Fair security—orange cone
Flashlights to guide parking,
Odd and young and flexible muscle
If there was trouble at closing.
And if there was a bear that
Caught a Crabtree’s attention
Just before the blowoff—
Three balls at the milk bottles,
And “We have a winner!”
Most all of the Crabtree boys
Eventually went into
Law enforcement.
And me, I wrote this.
ON MEMORIAL DAY
—B.Z. Niditch, Brookline, MA
After war
we invent silence
even memory,
inside the quiet rooms
of our nerves
in the recall of him or her
will find us offering a prayer
when the sunlight appears
on Memorial Day
through windows of birds
who flutter up over our windows
covering May's cool heavenly air
hands outstretch to poppies
is reflected in our mirrors
along the surf's breeze
knowing we exist as words
become our lives
in every whisper
and tiny gesture
we choose to pick flowers
as a poet's shadow
turns in the high tide
drowning a remembrance
as rainbows in the waters
rise by the sea's headstones
choosing to revere
the silver thoughts
from our angel's occupation.
_______________________
THEY STOLE MY FATHER
—Caschwa, Sacramento
My father was a good man
Raised three sons
Married over half a century
To our mom, till he died
But he never spoke
Of a certain part of
His past, a part that hurt him
Camera film overexposed on war
World War II
Seabees, semaphore
Normandy
Don’t remind me
He showed disfavor for any product
“Imported from France”
As if it was lava from a volcano
That would destroy all it touched
He took us to Navy ports
Gave us ship tours
We had mess down below
Wore sailor hats
He became a ham radio operator
Form over substance
A one-key computer
22 words a minute
The garage was his ham shack
Filled with paraphernalia
License plates from decades past
Bearing his call letters
He has been silent key now for 23 years
The war stories he never told
Are still somewhere lost at sea
Don’t remind me
_______________________
Today's LittleNip:
MORNING OF THE ANGEL
—Taylor Graham
Under a clouded sky no birds sang ceremonies
of weather, though it was morning of the eve
of speaking in tongues. No wind riffled
drying grasses for the time of harvesting
first fruits. Drum-beat of heart against bone.
A sigh as if a breath were passing, gone
on unfamiliar wings; a break in clouds let
loose the eye of day, and a childless
mother howled for the angel rising away.