—Poetry and Photos by Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA
IN TIMES OF PLENTY, EL SALVADOR
Two oxen, and an ox cart too,
a pile of kindling bound and rounded
by cloth tarp—cart wheels of wood.
They’d hitched their two gray
oxen to a carreta with water
jugs strapped on. We’d guessed
they were headed home—guessed
wrong. The elder gentlemen, two
brothers, ventured out; enough water
to drink for a week for well-rounded
visit, Cerro Verde, to stay with graying
Tia Solterona. The cart of wood
held a bundle of twigs and wood
for Tia’s wood stove, we’d guessed.
The elder brothers’ home with gray
tin roof had collapsed, crops, too.
They left for drier ground; rounded
the old church, headed where water
was less plentiful, no rainwater
flooded canton, El Salvador. Would
they be gone a full-rounded
month? Others had guessed
longer. Aldeanos, tin roofers, too,
had put in their wagers: gray
coins. Now thundering gray
temporales threatened more water
dumped onto roads. Wells too,
(though full wells were good) would
be plenty for summer, we guessed.
A full teaspoon of luck rounded
with prayer! The men rounded
la colina just as a cloud, dark gray,
appeared as unwelcome guest.
Oxen plodded through slick water,
loaded down with jugs and wood,
the burden almost too
much. We rounded plaza so water-
logged, gray-cast—in our own wood
carreta—guessed we’d be leaving, too.
Two oxen, and an ox cart too,
a pile of kindling bound and rounded
by cloth tarp—cart wheels of wood.
They’d hitched their two gray
oxen to a carreta with water
jugs strapped on. We’d guessed
they were headed home—guessed
wrong. The elder gentlemen, two
brothers, ventured out; enough water
to drink for a week for well-rounded
visit, Cerro Verde, to stay with graying
Tia Solterona. The cart of wood
held a bundle of twigs and wood
for Tia’s wood stove, we’d guessed.
The elder brothers’ home with gray
tin roof had collapsed, crops, too.
They left for drier ground; rounded
the old church, headed where water
was less plentiful, no rainwater
flooded canton, El Salvador. Would
they be gone a full-rounded
month? Others had guessed
longer. Aldeanos, tin roofers, too,
had put in their wagers: gray
coins. Now thundering gray
temporales threatened more water
dumped onto roads. Wells too,
(though full wells were good) would
be plenty for summer, we guessed.
A full teaspoon of luck rounded
with prayer! The men rounded
la colina just as a cloud, dark gray,
appeared as unwelcome guest.
Oxen plodded through slick water,
loaded down with jugs and wood,
the burden almost too
much. We rounded plaza so water-
logged, gray-cast—in our own wood
carreta—guessed we’d be leaving, too.
LEAVING WALES, 1880
There is not much to this story,
yet—a story of leaving the Wales
my mother never knew. Her copper
hair shone just so in the light,
Mom’s Welsh heritage. This gift led
her on a discovery as rolling
and true as any ancient rolling
adventure over blue seas. A story
of a land where Mom’s mother led
a pony through meadows in Wales,
as green as green with light
as bright as sunset’s copper.
Mom’s mother had hair of copper,
too. She watched her mother rolling
and twisting a bun of auburn light.
She may have read the story
in her blue eyes, seen through Wales
and the country life her mother led.
The story: Mom’s grandfather led
the family in dinner prayers, copper
chalice, family Bible. Anglesey Wales
with daffodils and cattle on rolling
hills, stone chapels seemed a story-
book land in 1880s. The light
of the gospel spread in Wales, light
of church rule. Non-conformity led
to a way out. Men sailed three-story
steam ships of wood, steel, copper
for weeks through storms in rolling
seas—to Liverpool from Wales,
Liverpool to Nova Scotia, Wales
being left behind. A light
load of one trunk each in rolling
seas of familiar faces were led
aboard to blue carpets and copper
gas lamps in hallways. Stories
of Wales shared: Welshmen led
by faith’s light, through
sunsets of copper—
stories roiling in our family’s history.
UNTIL SUNSET
Early morning lessons
under a leafless tree—
Now, begin to write,
all of it downhill
about winter morning.
Or, about a day which carries
into its own theme, carries
into autumn lessons
of the mourning
dove returning to this tree
atop this barren hill.
Alright
then, your birthright
which carries
death like Boot Hill
is no less on
the page, that last leaf of tree
fallen one late morning.
Any dull morning,
like now seems right.
This ancient and dark tree,
and this thought which carries
its own lesson,
sits here on this hill
along with you, on this hill.
The morning
is wasting! Lesson
Number One: write—
then keep writing. It carries
through like wind in a tree.
The sound of “tree”
or the word “hill”—
a sound which carries
weight like mourning
or joy—the right
blend which lessens
definitions of “tree.” This morning
atop this warming hill you’ll write
what carries the day,
until this light lessens.
Today’s LittleNip:
COUNTING BLESSINGS
—Carol Louise Moon
We count our blessings
day by day
making sure to say
a prayer in between.
Day by day
we listen and hear
a prayer in between
conversations with friends.
We listen and hear
their sorrows, their joys.
Conversations with friends
reveal much in the spirit.
Their sorrows, their joys
echo much of our own—
revealing much in my spirit.
We are truly blessed.
Echoing much of our own
makes us sure to say
we are truly blessed.
We count our blessings.
_______________________
—Medusa, with Thanksgiving blessings and thanks to Carol Louise Moon for these wonderful poems (three sestinas and a pantoum, by the way) and photos to go with them. And Happy Thanksgiving from my pod to yours!
"We are all pilgrims and strangers in the world." —Wm. Bradford, Jamestown, 1620
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.
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