Shelter Times

—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
—And Scroll Down for Form Fiddlers’ Friday!

TWO SIDES OF THE ROAD

I just met our new neighbor—is he new?
He may have been here years before we came,
eight green springs ago. We yelled how-de-do
across the county 2-lane. We’re different
colors, who cares? He has a good dog too.
Our dogs run down the fencelines barking their
greetings across the road. It’s what dogs do.
We laughed across the road, our laughs the same
as neighbors whose chance meetings are so few. 

FLOWER PICKER

After a painting by John William Waterhouse

Off-balance, leaning, she reaches for a flower—
does this speak to you now in shelter times?

You’d pick a flower for the old dog friend,
one you could touch even in shelter times.

The lady’s in blue like sky before the dawn,
she’s darkly shadowed as these shelter times.

Whose flowers? the wide world’s. And
whose fence between, these shelter times?

Your dog has died, fur soft as petals to a hand.
Who can count the losses in these shelter times? 

UNSCRUBBED ANGELS

You said, poetry can leap logic.
It goes from here to no-mans-land
and sometimes lands just right.

But after so many years of words
it seems you’ve worn out
the wrist of your writing hand.

Tomorrow you go under the knife’s
logic, sterile and precise
by OR’s cool, bright, white light.

I wish you Monet’s streetlamp
angels hovering as the anesthetist
sets his potion flowing.

Watch for the angels, they’ll be there
to greet you, waking up.
Write down what they tell you. 

PEACOCK FAN

Peacock eye on her feather fan—
the feather’s eye—holds her gaze and
uplift chin and forearm, her hand
lightly on fan to mimic air,
the bird in flight the bird not plucked
fan-feathered in her earthbound hand. 

VEGETATION MANAGEMENT

Every morning the Green Man walks his land
greeting oak, wild plum, and buckeye by name,
and measures a year’s growth rings by his hand—

long life-lines under bark, the trees that stand
as guardians of soil and air. The same
every morning. The Green Man walks his land,

picking up road-blown litter, contraband
of traffic. This blooming natural world we tame.
He measures new-sliced growth rings by his hand

where chainsaws left raw stumps. The laws demand
we clear what’s flammable, an annual game.
Every morning the Green Man walks his land

with weed-eater and loppers. Understand,
he needs to sort the leaping from the lame,
to measure the new growth rings by his hand

outstretched. Blessing of light at day’s command,
sun transforming each leaf to living flame.
Every morning the Green Man walks his land
and measures a life’s growth rings by his hand. 

SLEEP IN TIME OF COVID

August, bedtime with just a hint of breeze
diffusing through sliding-door screen.
The tired mind goes wandering.
Still too hot to sleep. I’ve kicked off
the covers. Breeze can’t dissipate
bedroom air that wraps like a blanket.
Blankets—I’ve been reading about
our country’s past, colonists bearing gifts
to the tribes: smallpox blankets
inoculated with the virus: biological
sabotage. Our nation’s history.
This doesn’t help me go to sleep. 

Today’s LittleNip:

PANDEMIC EYES
—Taylor Graham

Just inside the door, a masked man
holds my online order, glances down
at driver’s license, a quick scan
then back at facial-covered me. I’d
know you by your eyes. The span
between us (6 ft?) seems much less.
Does he say the same to every Ann
or Andy, eyes that smile or frown?
What un-remotes us the way eyes can?

_______________________

Friday-morning thanks to Taylor Graham for her smooth poetry and photos, helping us end yet another strange week. Today she has sent us two Ekphrastic poems: the Seed of the Week (“Peacock Eye”) and an Ekphrastic Ghazal (“Flower Picker”); 2 Magic-9s (“Two Sides of the Road” and “Pandemic Eyes”); and a Villanelle (“Vegetation Management”).

So it must be time for FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!

_______________________

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, by golly! (See Medusa’s Form Finder at the end of this post for links to definitions of the forms used this week.)

Carol Louise Moon has taken up the Unrhymed Villanelle form this week, sending us a poem about her cozy cabin:


MEMORABILIA
—Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA

In my cozy cabin
newsstand of news
a patchwork of memorabilia.

Sunstroke and dried weeds—
the world’s gone mad.
In my cozy cabin

I retreat from violence
and rage outside, such
a patchwork of memorabilia.

I’m sewing a new quilt:
the mind’s release here
in my cozy cabin.

Heat stroke of humanity,
healing, blossoming into
a patchwork of memorabilia,

silver thread of brighter days
I hope to remember.
In my cozy cabin—
a patchwork of memorabilia.

 —Public Domain Photo

We’ve also been talking about Ekphhrastic poetry. Sue Crisp sent us the appropriate “Heat Wave”, based on last week’s Seed of the Week illustration (see below):


HEAT WAVE
—Sue Crisp, Shingle Springs, CA
                                                        
Oppressive heat lingers.
Molten mottled clouds
hold no promise of rain,
hovering over undulating
waves of the churning
blue sea.

Fan in hand, she waits for
the slightest of breezes to
cool the humid air.  Her
ruffled long sleeves hang
limp, stagnate.  Her em-
broidered blue gown
showing bodice dampness.
Under her festooned head-
covering of blue, hair in
damp unseen ringlets.

Blooming blossoms in her
garden feel slow wilt in the
midst of waiting...waiting...
waiting...for a whisper of a
cooling current mist.  Per-
haps tomorrow brings a respite.

 —Public Domain Illustration, Seed of Last Week

Joyce Odam’s “Stand of Blue Trees” is based on Normative Syllabics, with the same number of syllables to each line:


STAND OF BLUE TREES
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

(After a painting by Anselm Kiefer)

These thin blue trees, all
we have to go by—
too inelastic
to withstand the storms
that we imagine—
too lonely in this
washed-out winter light.
We study them for
secrets—anything
to praise endurance.
They huddle. Maybe
that is part of their
resilience, their
branches twined in a
way that holds them braced.
What makes an artist
love such thinned-out blue,
too cold to match to
one’s own life—or love—
examples like that.
So far these spindly
trees have lent themselves
to mercy, envy
in a sense, as of
just holding there. We
clasp hands and shiver
and decide to quit
this painted winter—
this admonition
to surrender—and
seek a warmer wall.

 —Public Domain Photo

Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) says that “Forms are like department store mannequins: different ones suit different expressions.” For his “Three Buses”, he has chosen the Alouette form:


THREE BUSES 
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

sleeper car on train
reappears again
as a long-haul touring bus
static scenery
one stop beanery
quiet pastures with Angus

again, sing it loud!
remind them you’re proud
stand up, sit down, fight, fight, fight!
the team and pep band
ride on hand in hand
nervous energy all night

peaceful protest group
met like fly in soup
zero tolerance at all
big guns threaten to
kill their point of view
herd them off to jail, last call 

 —Public Domain Illustration

Carl has been form-fiddling again, making them up, this time using 9 lines with syllables 7,7,5,5,5,5,5,7,7 and rhyme scheme aaxaxaxbb. He says that, if nobody can find an official title for this form in the Dept. of Official Titles, he’ll call it “Sandwiched by Sevens”. Here are two of his “sandwiches”:


PENNY PLAYING POKER
—Caschwa

pass the salt she would declare
glazed and bare as earthenware
fully intending
to draw the men’s stare
gyrating softly
and swinging her pair
of queens, she would bluff
that her hand was much stronger
could her chips last much longer? 

 —Photo by Caschwa

LITTLE ME, BIG WORLD
—Caschwa

planted a bare root fruit tree
that at first just reached my knee
now it is so tall
towers over me
I am contra bass
it sings out high C
notes I cannot reach
got an extension pole to
grab some high ones, eat a few

______________________

So that’s it for this week, and many thanks for the contributors who fiddled with forms! Send in your own poems, forms or not, to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post work from all over the world, including that which was previously published. Remember—the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

—Medusa

______________________

MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry forms mentioned today:

•••Abacadaba (Magic-9 poems): www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/magic-9-poetic-forms
•••Alouette: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/alouette.html
•••Ekphrastic: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Ghazal: poets.org/glossary/ghazal  OR  poetryschool.com/theblog/whats-a-ghazal  OR
www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ghazal  OR
www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/ghazal.html 
•••Villanelle (rhymed or unrhymed): www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/poetic-forms-villanelle

The Flower Picker
—John William Waterhouse (1849-1917)

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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