Following The Arrow

—Poems and Photos by Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA

AN ARROW POINTS THE WAY

We climb the wooded slope where
stands a pointed granite boulder and
Manzanita. Fist-sized quartz rocks
rusted with age lie under these
rich maroon branches. 

We note the many golden bees in
trees as we struggle past. Overhead,
dark turkey vultures circle.

Tall tan grass in shade is matted down
where deer have made their beds
beneath the evergreens. A shadowed
hole among brush hides a seldom-seen
gray fox.

Once on top the ridge, we’ll descend
the other side on yellow mats of
wildflowers—then tumble and roll
toward a small stream of aquamarine.

Autumn nears its end, with bees
and vultures and foxes finding refuge
as winter edges in.

ANATOMY OF AN ARROW

I.  Arrowhead:  Flint a curious rock, brittle yet
strong. A chip here, a chip there, a knapping
of sorts—a weapon is formed. Is the arrow
straight which penetrates to the heart? The
river knows not the arrow nor its straight path.
Cruelty is found in flint, a poet once said.

II.  Shaft:  Dogwood near the river: The blooms
provide snap-shots into what it is to be a lovely
thing in a world that scrutinizes every arch of
brow, splash of rouge across the face, hairdo
a perfect cut—Nature is a girl in bloom.

III.  Pinch Grip:  His knife worked well for carving
out the pinch grip of his first arrow—whittled,
sanded. Pride comes to him through working
with his hands. His grammar school injury, a
nun’s knuckle-rap, had finally healed. He knew
his worth was in his handcraft. To hell with
calligraphic penmanship.

IV.  Paint:  Comanche fletchers painted their
arrows with common laundry bluing. What a
practical people! I could learn more by studying
the complete anatomy of an arrow. Our
American history is riddled with achievements
and failures, progress and misunderstandings,
pride and regret. And, what have we learned?

V.  Sinew:  Deer sinew is something like the
palm’s lifeline. Chew it for awhile; mull over
your life’s disappointments. Then, chart a new
course. Move quickly to execute your plans,
before you end up creating regrets for yourself.

ARROW GHAZAL
                           
Sit with me and imagine you read a tarot
card. Now look upon the clock, the arrow.

The arrow points to all my tomorrows.
I’ve heard it said cruel is the flint of an arrow.

Cruel arrow hits the heart, bleeding sorrows.
Regret should not be my choice of arrow.

I have regret, and the dread it borrows
from the map “You Are Not Here” arrow.

I’ve missed being there for Mother—rows
of Sundays—many and one cruel arrow.

She’s gone. Arrowhead and target know
the poet speaks of another broken arrow.

The bow is drawn, the pathway narrows.
It’s too late. The poet takes an arrow.

URBAN TURKEY

Why did the turkey cross the road
if not to counsel turkeys there
of holiday anxiety in overload?

The biggest tom, and closest to his
expiration date, had much to state
for how he had survived those years
which witnessed other fowl demise.

Had he now another plan, a B-Plan?
Let us see. Would some need to be
sacrificed so others would be free?

Or, could they all lie in disguise,
had too soon met their own demise
through virus, bug or injury—
feign they rigor mortesized?

Perhaps he simply crossed the road,
‘twas farthest from the residence,
having cleared out henhouse first,
then jumped the yellow picket fence.

If they could make it cross the road
past fast cars, big trucks towing boats,
then they’d have saved their throats.

Wistful thoughts are all these are.
For truth is this: we’re thankful
or their simple little minds,
the cute way that they gobble—

and of course, the ease in which
they end up on our table.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Truth is as straight as an arrow, while a lie swivels like a snake.

—Suzy Kassem

___________________

Thanks to Carol Louise Moon today for her pointed, poignant poetry and pictures! 

You might be able to attend today’s Poetry Appreciation Class on Emily Dickinson, presented at 1pm by Marie Taylor at Hart Sr. Center, 915 27th St., Sacramento. Call 916-808-5462 to reg. and see if there’s room for you. And 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.

The latest issue of Sisyphus is now available online at sisyphuslitmag.org/. And the latest issue of the long-running Sacramento poetry journal, Ekphrasis, is also available. See ekphrasisjournal.com for details.

__________________

FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY! 
  

It’s time for more Friday contributions from Form Fiddlers, those intrepid poets who chose to throw themselves into the ring by trying some of the forms mentioned in the Kitchen during the week. First we have Taylor Graham’s response to my comment about trying to rhyme with “Medusa”. About her limerick, she says: “OK, I can't pass up a challenge (mixed metaphors getting tangled as Medusa's hair)”:


RIDING SNAKE-SHOD
—Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

There was an old bard named Medusa
with snake-locks poetically loose-a.
A verse was her hair
when the snakes gave a stare.
Her Pegasus? stoned appaloosa.


Then we have Caschwa’s (Carl Schwartz’s) response to Taylor’s response:


CAPITOL
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

We have a president who will goose ‘ya
till your hair becomes snakes like Medusa
then he’ll toss you away
for a new one today
covered with nothing but fuchsia


Carl just couldn’t help himself this week; he sent another Limerick, plus a poem made up of three limericks with a slightly modified rhyming pattern:


HISTORY BUFF
—Caschwa

I know jokes that are older than I am
but don’t press me for facts about Siam
if it tickles my fancy
I’ll take risks and be chancy
there’s no net if you trip on an iamb!

* * *

SOLD OUT
—Caschwa

take a nibble of the bible
you will choke on false pretensions
it was always the goal
for you to swallow it whole
conforming to ancient conventions

the truth was written and spit’n
that we are just the sheep
the grand design:
what’s yours is mine
there’s nothing you can keep

fork it over and over and over
don’t wait for the bread dough to leaven
the town closes at five
there is no one alive
except for our rich lords in heaven

Carl also sends us a Tritina and a Quintilla, both based on forms sent in by others recently:


EYES HALF OPEN
—Caschwa (a Tritina)

an evening star appeared in the window
competing with a normal street light
to silhouette the falling leaves

at last, when the moon finally leaves
the frost piles up to open a window
of time to make garden chores light

inside, a yule log all ready to light
as told in books with golden leaves
sometimes our only open window

behold the window, light of all lights, that never leaves

* * *

ANY WAY YOU FOLD IT
—Caschwa (a tortilla Quintilla)

Tortillas of wheat or of corn
will be the first ingredient
to greet sleepy eyes in the morn
then add toppings all heaven sent

a beautiful breakfast is born!


Bravo, Carl and Taylor, for fiddling with forms for us this week! Keep up the good work!

—Medusa, always in fine form, yes?

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.