December Sunrise
—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
RETURNING THE GIFT
I don’t know how far he traveled to get here.
But there he was behind the counter,
computer repair, just when I needed someone
to gaze into the depths of circuitry; to smile
and say he could fix it, and he did. And the next
time I passed that counter, he called out
greetings by name. What kind of service—
what gift—is that in the craziness of holiday
returns, everyone’s electronic gift-wish
not quite right this season. Just look at the lines
of people, in or out. Merry Christmas.
Did he light his smile for that holy day, or
some other? I think such a smile is his everyday
natural, a gusto of fresh breeze in this stuffy
store; his glow at fixing my inscrutable
magic-box, so I can’t help but smile. A joy-
light that has little to do with electronics.
Winter Woods
TILT-SHIFT TIME LAPSE
It’s winter but the big pond doesn’t freeze.
Is the blue heron on the lagoon, the egret
at the wetlands mouth? Prehistorics
grace our just-this-very-dawn meanderings—
as jazz might lilt a march, brisk breath
riffing the odd old leaves that didn’t fall,
turning underfoot the dead that did. Listen.
A whoosh, ruffle-shuffle of leaf-drift, it’s
the turkeys, head-pumping forward step-along.
Dinosaurs among us; passing through bone-
brittle grasses, gone; up the hill where
blue oaks still let acorns fall, for living food.
Upcountry
INNER OUTING
It’s pernicious, getting-old. But maybe
it’s not frivolous, to long for high country, here
in the flatland depths of soul waiting for
spring’s second coming, to restore those days.
Let’s drive up to the cow-camp, meadow
abloom and switchback trail beyond.
It’s the wrong season? Don’t quibble. Thin air
does us good, even walking at a rock’s pace.
I’ll pack baloney sandwiches—that’s all
I’ve got in the fridge and who wants to waste
time shopping? You’ll stop along the trail
to wonder like a blind man seeing
the meadow wild with paintbrush, larkspur,
hellebore. I’ll hike just a bit farther.
Snow? Never mind. Mind is its own journey.
Glorious, so close to heaven, where granite
shines like quicksilver. Quicksilver
in my boots. How could I stop walking?
Forest
RECALLING OLD HOLIDAYS
three generations
together at home-made house—
small boy piggy-back
on Grandpa’s shoulders, glitter-
eyes in incense cedar woods
how big is color?
like a little boy it runs
through the whole wild world
small girl in small house
bedtime dark except for street-
light winking thru blinds—
blue-glass globes on unlit tree
sparkle a magic forest
Barbs
WHICH HUNT IS ON?
Response to Caschwa’s “The Hunt Is On,”
Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/29/17
An arrow’s shot into a stranger’s hillside,
trajectory horizontal eye-level over
his front gate and straight up his driveway.
The archer’s target’s on the backside
of two stacked straw bales across the road.
What’s the range of a Predator arrow?
How far must that arrow fly
beyond its bullseye, for the hunter
to know he missed?
Trek Dance
RE-BOOT
I’m retiring the old ones, trail-running boots
that were cheap at the outlet. Meant for
following my dog as he follows whoever’s scent
I give him; through school or business complex
on a weekend, a civilized place where I won’t
need tread that clings to granite, keeps my feet
tethered to my shadow in a landscape flighty
as deep space. These old cheap boots have done
their miles of pavement, their cushioning
is gone, soles separating from uppers.
I’ll buy a new pair, maybe a different brand,
maybe they’ll wear better. Shall I give
the old ones to my dog to chew? My dog on four
paws running for the wind; he bootless dances.
Samovar
Today’s LittleNip:
BOXED FOR GOODWILL
—Taylor Graham
A sort of
Aladdin’s lamp but
not golden
no genie
inside except in a child’s
imagination.
Tea kettle
of some provenance—
samovar,
the mother
called it, maybe by mistake;
a family heirloom
or just a
thing no one knew what
to do with,
stored in
attic for some child to find
and dream of genies.
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Taylor Graham for today’s fine poetry and photos! Head over to Davis tonight, as Poetry in Davis presents Chris Erickson plus open mic at the John Natsoulas Gallery, 521 1st St., Davis. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.
A sort of
Aladdin’s lamp but
not golden
no genie
inside except in a child’s
imagination.
Tea kettle
of some provenance—
samovar,
the mother
called it, maybe by mistake;
a family heirloom
or just a
thing no one knew what
to do with,
stored in
attic for some child to find
and dream of genies.
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Taylor Graham for today’s fine poetry and photos! Head over to Davis tonight, as Poetry in Davis presents Chris Erickson plus open mic at the John Natsoulas Gallery, 521 1st St., Davis. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.
—Anonymous Photo
Celebrate the magic of poetry!
Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.
