—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
CARABINER
It’s snap-jawed, metal-cold and silvery-slim.
It taught me rappelling:
You’re going to step backwards off this cliff;
I’m your link between rope and harness.
It said, Trust me.
walk the cliff, don’t look where you’re going.
It stuck with me.
Now it latches our ranch gate.
It links stockwire field-fence to gatepost,
clips to rigmarole of rusty chain and baling wire,
ignores 3 padlocks (keys and combinations lost—
it never knew their previous owner, who died).
It said, strangers came when you weren’t home.
It won’t tell them its secrets,
lets them clip it back any-which-way wrong.
It has its pride, hates awkward guesses.
It knows its rightful place.
It’s safety, support, home-security spy.
It shines in sun and works in most weathers.
It’s snap-jawed, metal-cold and silvery-slim.
It taught me rappelling:
You’re going to step backwards off this cliff;
I’m your link between rope and harness.
It said, Trust me.
walk the cliff, don’t look where you’re going.
It stuck with me.
Now it latches our ranch gate.
It links stockwire field-fence to gatepost,
clips to rigmarole of rusty chain and baling wire,
ignores 3 padlocks (keys and combinations lost—
it never knew their previous owner, who died).
It said, strangers came when you weren’t home.
It won’t tell them its secrets,
lets them clip it back any-which-way wrong.
It has its pride, hates awkward guesses.
It knows its rightful place.
It’s safety, support, home-security spy.
It shines in sun and works in most weathers.
WHY SNOWSHOES?
You left Main Street far behind—
drove upcountry stunned by sun-glare
off snow—found a pullout
at edge of plowing, wary of getting stuck;
strapped on bindings of borrowed
trapper snowshoes, webbed like
a hundred knotted leather shoelaces
to hold you steady on snow.
From atop a lodgepole, that feathered
pester, Raven—credible sage
of the Sierra—called you sloven
on your fabricated feet. Why
snowshoes? why not skis, or wings?
Who cares for a rude bird’s
mocking? Now you’re trekking across
a sunlit crystal garden
with not a human trace to mar it
except your own, explorer
walking wide and awkward, amazed.
You left Main Street far behind—
drove upcountry stunned by sun-glare
off snow—found a pullout
at edge of plowing, wary of getting stuck;
strapped on bindings of borrowed
trapper snowshoes, webbed like
a hundred knotted leather shoelaces
to hold you steady on snow.
From atop a lodgepole, that feathered
pester, Raven—credible sage
of the Sierra—called you sloven
on your fabricated feet. Why
snowshoes? why not skis, or wings?
Who cares for a rude bird’s
mocking? Now you’re trekking across
a sunlit crystal garden
with not a human trace to mar it
except your own, explorer
walking wide and awkward, amazed.
HARD TIMES
They lost the keys to a bungalow they’d lived in for decades. Couldn’t afford insurance in our climate of wildland firestorms rushing city limits, burning whole neighborhoods. Companies cancelling policies in effect for years. Hard to find a room within reach of their pension. They’ve got an old truck with camper shell. They’re on Main Street on a spring-sunny day, or the shady side in summer swelter. He with guitar, she singing of the down-and-out, anthems of hard times: This land is your land, this land is my land.
Of all the things gone
wrong, she can still sing sweetly
in the key of wry.
They lost the keys to a bungalow they’d lived in for decades. Couldn’t afford insurance in our climate of wildland firestorms rushing city limits, burning whole neighborhoods. Companies cancelling policies in effect for years. Hard to find a room within reach of their pension. They’ve got an old truck with camper shell. They’re on Main Street on a spring-sunny day, or the shady side in summer swelter. He with guitar, she singing of the down-and-out, anthems of hard times: This land is your land, this land is my land.
Of all the things gone
wrong, she can still sing sweetly
in the key of wry.
CAT’S IN THE BAG
An empty 50-lb bag of generic dog food
crackles from inside. Did I miss some kibble?
Loki’s latched on the open end, intently
watching movement. Now she lies
with forelegs across the opening. Entrance
blocked. This makes more mischief
inside. Latches the cat has found a new
dark space to fathom. He lacks a key,
Loki’s got him dog-locked. They’ll get this
settled—dog-cat chase around the house.
Then they’ll lie nose to nose napping
on the couch, dreaming up new games.
An empty 50-lb bag of generic dog food
crackles from inside. Did I miss some kibble?
Loki’s latched on the open end, intently
watching movement. Now she lies
with forelegs across the opening. Entrance
blocked. This makes more mischief
inside. Latches the cat has found a new
dark space to fathom. He lacks a key,
Loki’s got him dog-locked. They’ll get this
settled—dog-cat chase around the house.
Then they’ll lie nose to nose napping
on the couch, dreaming up new games.
KEYING THE BLACK OAK LOST
The only Quercus kellogii on our foothill acres among other species of oak. Black oak: critical species for wildlife; its acorns a staple for Native Americans. Height 30-70 ft (I paced the trunk out to 55 as it lay, but broken-off crown scattered farther). Bark ridged and dark. Leaves deeply lobed (fingered hands vibrant green with spring-light shining through). In closed stands (our hill of oaks), its lower trunk free of branches, crown rising narrow (lost in a canopy of green—a basketball player in a crowd of oak, trying for a shot). Roots penetrate to bedrock (such a crater our black oak left when it fell);
feet rooted in hill,
its crown-head reaching for sky—
how I remember
The only Quercus kellogii on our foothill acres among other species of oak. Black oak: critical species for wildlife; its acorns a staple for Native Americans. Height 30-70 ft (I paced the trunk out to 55 as it lay, but broken-off crown scattered farther). Bark ridged and dark. Leaves deeply lobed (fingered hands vibrant green with spring-light shining through). In closed stands (our hill of oaks), its lower trunk free of branches, crown rising narrow (lost in a canopy of green—a basketball player in a crowd of oak, trying for a shot). Roots penetrate to bedrock (such a crater our black oak left when it fell);
feet rooted in hill,
its crown-head reaching for sky—
how I remember
FINDING THE LOST
for Taco & Cowboy
Lost keys? My dog would range out far beyond
anywhere I dreamed they could be—my keys
past edge of parking lot, off toward the pond.
How did they ever get that far? a breeze?
Dog trained as pup to seek out human scent
wherever and however—surely sent
to earth to help me. After years, he died.
Who will find my keys, dog not at my side?
for Taco & Cowboy
Lost keys? My dog would range out far beyond
anywhere I dreamed they could be—my keys
past edge of parking lot, off toward the pond.
How did they ever get that far? a breeze?
Dog trained as pup to seek out human scent
wherever and however—surely sent
to earth to help me. After years, he died.
Who will find my keys, dog not at my side?
Today’s LittleNip:
YELLOW-DANCE
—Taylor Graham
February breeze,
first daffodils dance too fast
for my iPad lens—
out of focus? no matter,
sun catches them on the wing.
YELLOW-DANCE
—Taylor Graham
February breeze,
first daffodils dance too fast
for my iPad lens—
out of focus? no matter,
sun catches them on the wing.
__________________________
Good morning and thank-you to Taylor Graham for her poems and photos today, reminding us of our recent Seed of the Week: Lost Keys. About today’s post and her fiddling with forms, she says, “Oh, those lost keys! I'm sending the usual Tanka & Haibun plus a List poem and Rispetto (thanks to Carl [Schwartz] for reminding me).” Carl sent us a risotto—I mean, Rispetto—last week for Form Fiddlers’ Friday.
Three poetry events in our area tonight:
•••This just in: The MACC and Cordova Community Council present A Night of Poetry and Song with Acoustic Guitarist Gabe Becker plus Sacramento Poets Bob Stanley and JoAnn Anglin reading at The MACC, 10191 Mills Station Rd., Rancho Cordova, 6-8pm. This presentation is part of The MACC's current exhibit, "1968: A Folsom Redemption: An Exhibit of Johnny Cash's Comeback Tour at Folsom Prison: A Special Art Exhibit by California Inmates." Info: www.facebook.com/RCMACC/photos/gm.182498406294909/805054263331624/?type=3&theater/.
•••In Sacramento at 7:30pm, the Sac Unified Slam fundraiser will take place at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar on 16th Street;
•••In Davis, also at 7:30pm, The Other Voice Poetry Series welcomes Rhony Bhopla (in place of Traci Gourdine, who had to reschedule), Bill Gainer, and open mic at the Unitarian Universalist Church Library on Patwin Road. 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.
_____________________
FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!
It’s time for more contributions from Form Fiddlers! Each Friday for awhile, there will be poems posted here from some of our readers using forms—either ones which were mentioned on Medusa during the previous week, or whatever else floats through the Kitchen and the perpetually stoned mind of Medusa. If these instructions are vague, it's because they're meant to be. Just fiddle around with some forms and get them posted in the Kitchen.
Today we have several poems from Caschwa (Carl Schwartz), who has been furiously form-fiddling this week:
LAUGHINGSTOCK (Triolet)
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
we were once the keepers of world peace
powerful, respected, admired
having all that others desired
we were once the keepers of world peace
now that the fox has shed its faux fleece
our decorum is on par with geese
we were once the keepers of world peace
powerful, respected, admired
* * *
I’VE HAD IT! (Villanelle)
—Caschwa
I’ve had it, enough with pluperfect tense
what’s done in the past should stay in the past
a nickel should always be just five cents
“correct me if I’m wrong” just makes no sense
people correct to hear their own lambast
I’ve had it, enough with pluperfect tense
we’re done now with pounds, say goodbye to pence
here is the brand-new financial forecast:
a nickel should always be just five cents
right now, hitherto, and by all means, hence
don’t dig a hole that is not going to last
I’ve had it, enough with pluperfect tense
the court is open to hear arguments
trial quick, speedy, nothing if not fast
a nickel should always be just five cents
maybe Mexico will pay for a fence
this mind-reading stunt will leave us aghast
I’ve had it, enough with pluperfect tense
a nickel should always be just five cents
* * *
REALLY TRYING TIMES (Ottawa Rima)
—Caschwa
Seven-and-a-half cents doesn’t mean a heck
of a lot, doesn’t mean a thing, but give it
to workers who live from small check to small check
to face the winter’s cold and keep the fires lit
deal them a good card from the top of the deck
give them the strength to sometimes take a strong hit
they will repay you by working their butts off
smiling for wages that will stifle their cough
Carl has also been working on Sonnets, with a bit of frustration, so he penned this ditty, trying to break as many rules as he could:
BREAKING-ALL-THE-RULES SONNET
—Caschwa
trumpets blaring, signals flaring
march on, senior high school band
no one in the stands is caring
shako too small, glove slips off your hand
the tune is common, patriotic
showing respect for battered troops
ice cream and toppings, symbiotic
yes, please, give me three scoops
drum major is your BFF
for whatever that is worth
money’s gone, there’s no more left
next, they’ll question your birth
deport the cheerleaders, they are a hex
put them in cages, use them for sex
__________________
Shocking, Carl—your last line will wake us up on a Friday! But thanks.
It occurs to me that, with all this talk of forms, I should re-list some resources that can be used to find online information about forms:
•••Shadow Poetry: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/types.html
•••Poets’ Collective: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/example-index
•••Poets.org: poets.org/glossary
•••Poetry Foundation: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms?category=209
•••Bob’s Byway: www.poeticbyway.com/glossary.html
•••Desolation Poets by Sacramento’s Jan Haag: janhaag.com/PODesIntro.html
•••Baymoon: www.baymoon.com/~ariadne
•••The Poets Garret: thepoetsgarret.com/list.html
•••Writer’s Digest: www.writersdigest.com/?s=poetry&submit= (just type in the form you want in the search bar at upper right)
•••Classical Poets: classicalpoets.org/category/poetry-forms (articles, but not in any order)
There are lots more, but these are a start. Let me know if you have any others to pass on.
___________________
Finally, Joseph Nolan sent us this Haiku. As always, thanks to all the fiddlers for their music:
BUTTERFLY IN WINDSTORM (haiku)
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
A butterfly’s wings
Were blown off in a windstorm.
No-one heard the news.
___________________
—Medusa, trying to find those butterfly’s wings ~
No-one heard the news.
___________________
—Medusa, trying to find those butterfly’s wings ~
Nesting Season is Upon Us!
—Anonymous Photo
—Anonymous Photo
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