Latches
—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
—And scroll down for Form Fiddlers’ Friday!!
SMELLING THE END OF SUMMER
Imagine perfume of stubble fields before first rain.
People are packing up their lives and leaving.
We wear pollution masks, reconsider our essentials.
Fire-maps of places I knew by scent of bear clover.
Kids sniffed pine’s vanilla bark where woods were.
Imagine when fires weren’t intensely close to home.
Imagine when inspiration won’t smell like smoke.
QUALITY OF AIR
This morning’s cool as if a misty veil
over dry stubble and half-buried stones,
the field and, farther where horizons fail,
the high peaks lost in smoky after-tones.
So distant the fire and so close the thirst,
I gather shower water in a pail
to toss on any green—a bright brief burst.
The outer balance has become so frail
we hold fast to an ever-swinging scale.
This morning’s cool as if a misty veil
over dry stubble and half-buried stones,
the field and, farther where horizons fail,
the high peaks lost in smoky after-tones.
So distant the fire and so close the thirst,
I gather shower water in a pail
to toss on any green—a bright brief burst.
The outer balance has become so frail
we hold fast to an ever-swinging scale.
NO ANCIENT HISTORY
For days we’ve been mummies
wrapped in smoke, watching the stations
of the fire on TV, afraid to tread
out-of-doors; watching the game
of InfernoCloud building its towers,
spewing live sparks as it goes—
the flare of spot fires radiant
among skeletons of pine;
an evacuee sitting on his tailgate
waiting to learn if he still has a house.
For days we’ve been mummies
wrapped in smoke, watching the stations
of the fire on TV, afraid to tread
out-of-doors; watching the game
of InfernoCloud building its towers,
spewing live sparks as it goes—
the flare of spot fires radiant
among skeletons of pine;
an evacuee sitting on his tailgate
waiting to learn if he still has a house.
BREATHING FIRE
Pyrocumulus swallows living embers, spits them out.
A chain dragged on pavement builds smoke-towers.
My AQ apps don’t agree, but air isn’t safe to breathe.
Weatherman shows smoke-waves overflowing peaks.
No perfume sweetens the air that fuels our poems.
No appetite for barbecue, I’ve had my fill of smoke.
TRANSFER STATION
The line of pickups, SUVs pulling
trailers, hatchbacks jam-packed—the waiting line
extends beyond flammable fields of weeds.
Every vehicle must declare its waste
at the window, take its ticket. I’ve brought
recycling; I get through quicker. It seems
the whole town is dumping disposables,
clearing space. Smoke hangs heavy but the fire’s
not headed this way, not yet. Maybe not
today. Wind is such a fickle mistress.
The line of pickups, SUVs pulling
trailers, hatchbacks jam-packed—the waiting line
extends beyond flammable fields of weeds.
Every vehicle must declare its waste
at the window, take its ticket. I’ve brought
recycling; I get through quicker. It seems
the whole town is dumping disposables,
clearing space. Smoke hangs heavy but the fire’s
not headed this way, not yet. Maybe not
today. Wind is such a fickle mistress.
FLAG UNFURLED IN WIND
The firehouse flag’s at half staff.
I wonder which public tragedy it mourns;
there are so many now.
Our burning forest comes to mind, but
it’s not dead, just undergoing
extreme housecleaning.
I’ll visit next year to witness its rebirth.
In my lifetime, surely not the same
as I’ve known and loved it. But growing
in its way, our world’s evolving
process. That’s the thing about forests.
The firehouse flag’s at half staff.
I wonder which public tragedy it mourns;
there are so many now.
Our burning forest comes to mind, but
it’s not dead, just undergoing
extreme housecleaning.
I’ll visit next year to witness its rebirth.
In my lifetime, surely not the same
as I’ve known and loved it. But growing
in its way, our world’s evolving
process. That’s the thing about forests.
Today’s LittleNip:
A DAY IN THE WILDERNESS
—Taylor Graham
Way up on the mountain old Moke
was wrapped in a blanket of smoke.
The ache in his bones
was just shifting stones.
May he shrug the smoke off like a cloak.
____________________
A DAY IN THE WILDERNESS
—Taylor Graham
Way up on the mountain old Moke
was wrapped in a blanket of smoke.
The ache in his bones
was just shifting stones.
May he shrug the smoke off like a cloak.
____________________
Hearty Friday thanks to Taylor Graham for her timely poems and photos this morning! She sends us forms: Blank Verse (“Transfer Station”); a Word-Can Poem (“No Ancient History”); a Monostich (“Breathing Fire” & “Smelling the End of Summer”); a Limerick (“A Day in the Wilderness”); and a Rainis Sonnet (“Quality of Air”).
About her photos, she says, “Except for 2 out-the-window pix (we're so in-doors these days!), I'm sending more before-the-fire shots of places that may be burned or threatened now."
And now it’s time for . . .
FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!
Jennifer Fenn sent us a Villanelle this week:
TO ELDERLY HOLOCAUST SURVIVORS
IN THE FORMER SOVIET UNION
—Jennifer Fenn, Fresno, CA
You worked so hard but just exist.
Your high school grad dates you just missed,
evacuated from Ukraine.
With Russia’s army to resist,
you fought the tyrant Hitler’s reign.
You worked so hard but just exist
on meager pensions. You subsist
by choosing food or meds. That’s plain.
No other kinfolks to assist
in taking care of you in midst
of tears and shakes of flashback strain.
You worked so hard but just exist!
Although you made your job’s A-list,
you now wear rags, your joints in pain,
no other kinfolks to assist.
Your teeth all gone, in life’s mean twist,
these lines remain your grim refrain:
You worked so hard but just exist,
no other kinfolks to assist.
(prev. posted on poetrysoup.com)
To help elderly Holocaust survivors in the former Soviet Union, visit the website of the International Fellowship of Christians and Jews at ifcj.org.
Today is a day for Rainis Sonnets, such as the one Joyce Odam sent us last week. Jennifer Fenn has sent us two of them. She writes that the first one was inspired by an email from Unicef:
WHERE ARE THE VACCINES?
—Jennifer Fenn, Fresno, CA
So kids fifteen and up can get the shot?
Then why do they still die from Covid flu?
Vaccines are scarce! No kidding that they’re not!
In lands like theirs, just praying’s what they do.
In crowded homes, the virus only spreads,
till family and neighbors all have caught
the Covid, plopping on their earthen beds.
No help, these families are left to die.
So gee! Now must we still all wonder why?
_______________________
Jennifer’s second Rainis Sonnet was inspired by a social club that she belongs to which supports Shriner’s Hospitals for Children:
SURGERY DOLLS
To kids at Shriner’s Hospitals
In surgeon’s closets, special rag dolls wait
for kids approaching operation dates.
The doctors mark them up so kids can know
just where their shots and stitched incisions go.
Their eyes and smiles distract these kids from fear,
as if to tell them, “Don’t be scared. We’re here.
All through this time, we’ll be your special friends,
before, throughout, and at the after-ends.
And when you wake, we’ll be in bed with you.
The same incisions, we’ll be twins, a few
short weeks, till stitches can be cut away.
Then when you go home, we’ll go there to stay.
Some games like “doctor” both of us can play.
So see? It’s true! We’ll be there all the way!”
Carl Schwartz also sent us two Rainis Sonnets this week:
LITTLE BOY BLEW A FUSE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
a little boy sat on the patio
and held his magnifying glass up high
a trail of ants was marching to and fro
he focused sunlight on them till they’d fry
and when white cops shoot blacks for no good reason
authorities fail to question who or why
accepting that it must be open season
they’re all mere boys who capture bits of sun
and kill whatever’s moving just for fun
PUT AWAY
—Caschwa
there used to be a love I knew quite well
whose wardrobe featured nicely pleated skirts
the pep squad girls danced with a talcum smell
while I kept time on tuba with some blurts
that blazer I wore proud is now hung up
too small to fit a frame that grew in spurts
sweet memories now overfill my cup
there’s other things upon which I won’t dwell
time is too short, I hear the tardy bell
—Caschwa
there used to be a love I knew quite well
whose wardrobe featured nicely pleated skirts
the pep squad girls danced with a talcum smell
while I kept time on tuba with some blurts
that blazer I wore proud is now hung up
too small to fit a frame that grew in spurts
sweet memories now overfill my cup
there’s other things upon which I won’t dwell
time is too short, I hear the tardy bell
And here is a List Poem from Carl:
WHY NO MASK
—Caschwa
my body, my choice
my car, my rules of the road
my guns, my targets
my autocracy, my birthright
my apathy, my privilege
my infection, my claim for benefits
my suicide, my collateral damage
my death, my celebration
my Big Lie, my story and I’m sticking to it
__________________
Many thanks to our SnakePals for their brave fiddling! Would you like to be a SnakePal? All you have to do is send poetry—forms or not—and/or photos and artwork to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post work from all over the world, including that which was previously-published. Just remember: the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!
__________________
FIDDLERS’ CHALLENGE!
See what you can make of this week’s poetry form, and send it to kathykieth@hotmail.com! (No deadline.) This week's challenge:
•••Alexandrine: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms?category=209
__________________
MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry forms mentioned today:
•••Alexandrine: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms?category=209
•••Blank Verse: literarydevices.net/blank-verse OR www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-the-difference-between-blank-verse-and-free-verse#quiz-0
•••Limerick: poets.org/glossary/limerick
•••List Poem: clpe.org.uk/poetryline/poeticforms/list-poem
•••Monostich: briefpoems.wordpress.com/2016/01/07/slates-one-line-poems-monostich
•••Sonnet, Rainis: poetscollective.org/everysonnet/rainis-sonnet
•••Villanelle (rhymed; can be done unrhymed): www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/poetic-forms-villanelle
•••Word-Can Poem: putting random words on slips of paper into a can, then drawing out a few and making a poem out of them
___________________
—Medusa
•••Limerick: poets.org/glossary/limerick
•••List Poem: clpe.org.uk/poetryline/poeticforms/list-poem
•••Monostich: briefpoems.wordpress.com/2016/01/07/slates-one-line-poems-monostich
•••Sonnet, Rainis: poetscollective.org/everysonnet/rainis-sonnet
•••Villanelle (rhymed; can be done unrhymed): www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/poetic-forms-villanelle
•••Word-Can Poem: putting random words on slips of paper into a can, then drawing out a few and making a poem out of them
___________________
—Medusa
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.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world, including
that which was previously-published.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
