Barb Wire
—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
GETTING THROUGH AUGUST
This afternoon, the sum of summers:
heat that stops the clock, the tick
of dry grass in no breeze. No breath.
A rusty coil of barbwire beside
heat that stops the clock, the tick
of snake whose rattle garnishes
a rusty coil of barbwire beside
sun-glare, a daze akin to blinding
of snake whose rattle garnishes
insect skirl webbing dry weeds to field.
Sun-glare, a daze akin to blinding—
blue bottle smashed to dazzle,
insect skirl webbing dry weeds to field
of dry grass. In no breeze, no breath—
blue bottle smashed to dazzle
this afternoon. The sum of summers.
Silver Fish Clouds
MORNING GRACE
for Tom Goff
Between first-light and sunrise,
the heavens are full of silver fish floating
in sky-schools, bright-bellied with night-scraps
of dark on their backs. They don’t bode
rain, just more hot weather.
My dogs crazy-race through cool half-light,
oblivious to cloud-fish as I carry jugs of water
to the garden. Soaker-hoses never
satisfy. I need to see silver
stream from my watering can, seeking roots.
Water is life, they say; it carries
its own light before sun-blessing. My dogs
dance as if to bite off bits of morning
from slowly lightening sky.
No rain dance, just the moment’s joy.
Trail Through Brush
ASSAYING THE HILL
Like a magic peak ever in the background
of childhood photos, the hill draws me—rising
steep and golden above residential streets,
its surface articulated by ravages of weather,
and beneath, by fathomless human delving
for treasure. But I reach impasse.
A gated community, remote mechanisms
against entry. Never-ending combat between
Man’s ideas of progress and Nature’s
custom; between possession by Law and
a wanderer’s right to roam. Lowlands to high
places, dark to light. A long steep hike
up the backside of childhood’s magic mountain.
Hooded Sun
CAN’T STAND FENCES
Up this hill above Senior Center, one misty
morning I found remains of a homeless camp,
zippered parka red as a carrot set aside,
forgotten like the structure of home.
Mist was lifting its white-out. A slight breeze
played dead manzanita like a broken lute.
Now the homeless are gone. I hear distant
pounding, someone mending a legal house.
I touch nothing, keep moving along a trail
through brush. Concluding my walk
on the fringes…. Abruptly I see silver stars.
Two officers marching my way. They’ll
want my name, my residence, my intentions.
Or I could slip into the brush….
Pond Weed
AFTER ILLNESS
On Saturday night your friends go dancing
under circling colored lights. You
prefer to watch evening go dim then dark
for stars. When you’ve counted your
portion of bright-black sky,
you’ll sit by lamplight turning pages,
poetry of a praise to come—Sunday dawn
cool and free. Autumn. Will there be
freshwater seaweed blooming its delicate
white flowers on the pond?
Will wild geese still leave wakes
reaching for a farther shore?
But now it’s evening; kingfisher and heron
folded into sleep. Your Saturday night
is for healing, pure dreaming.
Harness
HISTORY AFTER-HOURS
History sits in his ageless dark replaying
favorite pieces of the past. Anachronistic, yes.
Things set down haphazard out of their
time and place. A wagon train rolls along Main
Street, tourists in shorts and tank-tops
pausing to click smartphones. A Pony Express
rider urges his mount down-mountain
in moonless night, trusting his horse
to remember the trail—Washout! The old
route gone. Clogged concrete culvert
above transcontinental highway. Since the last
Pony run, decades of men have worked
the forest; now Man lets the mountain take
care of itself. A never settling, restless, turning
planet. What memory, what language
does the land speak? Earthquake, deluge,
drought. Now bark-beetles, dead
trees. Firestorm gone crazy at the urban
interface with wild. Torrents of wind. Then
flood, landslide. History watches
horse and rider tuned to each other, throwing
their hearts ahead of them, improvising
dark to a narrow, night-lighted path down.
August
Today’s LittleNip:
UNDER THE OVERLOOK
—Taylor Graham
Three vultures cruise the geologic
tilt, dizzy views over canyon as
earth falls away under spiral wings.
Pines overgrow the logging spur
abandoned years ago, three rattle-
coils of choker chains rusting.
Looking up I trip on my shadow.
___________________
—Many thanks to Taylor Graham for her fine poems and photos today! Head over to Davis tonight, 8pm, to hear Cathy Arellano and Nancy Aidé González (plus open mic) at the John Natsoulas Gallery, 521 1st St., hosted by Dr. Andy Jones. Free. Or visit Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento, 1414 16th St., for featured readers and open mic, 8pm. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.
The Facebook page of Medusa’s Kitchen (www.facebook.com/Medusas-KitchenRattlesnake-Press-212180022137248) has a new photo album, this one thanks to Michelle Kunert and Cynthia Linville at the annual Chalk It Up Festival in Sacramento over Labor Day Weekend. Chalk It Up is a 501(c)3 non-profit established in 1991. Chalk It Up promotes and supports Youth Arts by offering small grants to individuals, groups, and arts organizations throughout the Sacramento region. For more about Chalk It Up, see chalkitup.org/about/annual-festival/.
Michelle notes that “Salvador Dali seemed to be a big theme this year… Must’ve had something to do with Dali’s body being disturbed (likely unjustly) from his grave in Spain; see www.nytimes.com/2017/07/21/world/europe/salvador-dali-exhumed-paternity.html/.
Thanks again, Cynthia and Michelle!
—Medusa
Creek Sign
—Photo by Taylor Graham
Celebrate Poetry—and the poetry that is fresh water!
Celebrate Poetry—and the poetry that is fresh water!
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then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
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