Over My Shoulder
—Photo by Carol Eve Ford, Kenai, AK
—Poetry by Carol Eve Ford and Carol Louise Moon
—Photos Courtesy of Carol Eve Ford and
Carol Louise Moon
SHE WAS ANGEL; SHE WAS WAXED WING
—Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA
I did not know this elder.
She looked like my deceased
grandmother with her gray-blonde
hair piled on top her head—
her grosgrain brown dress suit, her
support hose and chunk-heel shoes,
her rosy rouge, her aged face—
her angel presence as we
passed each other near
the department store turnstile—
her response to my teary eyes
as I stared at her.
The diminishment of my grief
as she held me tight
was as profound as her vanishing.
(prev. pub. in Poppy Road Review)
—Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA
I did not know this elder.
She looked like my deceased
grandmother with her gray-blonde
hair piled on top her head—
her grosgrain brown dress suit, her
support hose and chunk-heel shoes,
her rosy rouge, her aged face—
her angel presence as we
passed each other near
the department store turnstile—
her response to my teary eyes
as I stared at her.
The diminishment of my grief
as she held me tight
was as profound as her vanishing.
(prev. pub. in Poppy Road Review)
—Photo by Alden Ford
LOVED SO MUCH
—Carol Louise Moon
The old Victorian located downtown
was made up of six studios, #6 occupied
by a lady and her dog. The trick was to
keep the dog from barking every time
someone entered the house.
People-noise would come and go
and warp any sense of memory for the
lady, always bringing in new words,
until her own words were dismissed,
her brain was on hold; her frail figure
a mere shadow on the bedroom wall,
Her aged image appeared and disappeared
as the dog barked again and again. The
lady grew to love the sound. The sound
grew its own meaning in her half-open
heart—a pitted apricot desiring the return
of its pit—like wanting the dog to remain
with her always.
One day the barking stopped altogether…
he had figured it out: Don’t let anyone
know she is here. Don’t let anyone knock
on the door. Don’t let anyone take her
away… the lady the dog loved so much.
—Carol Louise Moon
The old Victorian located downtown
was made up of six studios, #6 occupied
by a lady and her dog. The trick was to
keep the dog from barking every time
someone entered the house.
People-noise would come and go
and warp any sense of memory for the
lady, always bringing in new words,
until her own words were dismissed,
her brain was on hold; her frail figure
a mere shadow on the bedroom wall,
Her aged image appeared and disappeared
as the dog barked again and again. The
lady grew to love the sound. The sound
grew its own meaning in her half-open
heart—a pitted apricot desiring the return
of its pit—like wanting the dog to remain
with her always.
One day the barking stopped altogether…
he had figured it out: Don’t let anyone
know she is here. Don’t let anyone knock
on the door. Don’t let anyone take her
away… the lady the dog loved so much.
Weaving Sorrow
—Public Domain Photo
—Public Domain Photo
MOURNING HAIR WREATHS
(A Paradigm)
What is grief to me?
She is gone, but she’ll return.
Was this her black hair?
Fingers run through strands of reed;
the basket weaver’s busy.
It was pneumonia
took her. We gathered ‘round her.
Gray hair was her pride—
said she’d earned every gray strand.
Now, what to do with
her pride, her hair, her mem’ry.
Our den wall stands cold
begging a photo of her.
Let’s run our fingers
through her long hair that we might
know her still, though she has passed.
Grief wreaths are fashioned
using hair of the deceased.
Instructions are clear:
Weave while you are grieving. This
helps in fashioning your grief.
small wren makes nest—twigs
woven, cradling wren eggs—
new bonds are forming
—Carol Louise Moon
(A Paradigm)
What is grief to me?
She is gone, but she’ll return.
Was this her black hair?
Fingers run through strands of reed;
the basket weaver’s busy.
It was pneumonia
took her. We gathered ‘round her.
Gray hair was her pride—
said she’d earned every gray strand.
Now, what to do with
her pride, her hair, her mem’ry.
Our den wall stands cold
begging a photo of her.
Let’s run our fingers
through her long hair that we might
know her still, though she has passed.
Grief wreaths are fashioned
using hair of the deceased.
Instructions are clear:
Weave while you are grieving. This
helps in fashioning your grief.
small wren makes nest—twigs
woven, cradling wren eggs—
new bonds are forming
—Carol Louise Moon
My Great Aunt Ethel
—Carol Eve Ford Family Photo
—Carol Eve Ford Family Photo
EMBROIDERY
—Carol Eve Ford
“G.”
She remembered her fingers, clumsy,
always heading the wrong direction,
Mama’s silver thimble, borrowed, spinning,
wobbling on the tip of her right ring finger,
falling into her lap.
“I’ve been learning to embroider initials,” she wrote in her diary,
1908, “so that I can embroider ‘G.D.C.’
on Gerald’s tennis racket case.”
Meticulously she had stitched, stitched,
ripped out stitches, stitched again, wishing her fingers
to dart like Mama’s, the needle and thread
making quick patterns, seams, tucks, edging, pleats, lace, button
holes, cuffs, bodices, slips, blouses, skirts, dresses, coats,
trousers, shirts, undergarments for six women, two men,
mending, shortening, lengthening, hemming,
reworking, making do, keeping up.
“D.”
“I really don’t like to do any kind of fancy work,”
she confided to her diary. “It hurts my eyes
and makes my head ache. This afternoon I’ve been down to the
beach.” She had worked on it there.
Even her little sister Eloise was more
dextrous
with her tiny thimble than Ethel;
and the other sisters, Edith and Ida, even Linda,
may have teased if they’d seen how many stitches she had done
over. “But of course I like to do this,” she insisted, pluckily,
to the silent diary, contemplating the look on his face
every time he took out his racket
and thought of her and her tiny,
perfect
stitches—took out his racket,
set bowler hat and jacket aside to play Mr. Seigold, each in his
crisp white shirtsleeves and tie,
she and Miss Buck calling points from the sidelines
at Del Mar by the Sea.
“C.”
She recalled snipping the last knot
of the padded little black period
with her silver scissors,
emitting a tiny huff of relief and anticipation,
if not triumph.
She wondered now
if he still played tennis,
if the stitches she’d made back then
had held,
if he ever thought of her
at all.
(Excerpt from "Riding the Fault Line"
—Carol Eve Ford
“G.”
She remembered her fingers, clumsy,
always heading the wrong direction,
Mama’s silver thimble, borrowed, spinning,
wobbling on the tip of her right ring finger,
falling into her lap.
“I’ve been learning to embroider initials,” she wrote in her diary,
1908, “so that I can embroider ‘G.D.C.’
on Gerald’s tennis racket case.”
Meticulously she had stitched, stitched,
ripped out stitches, stitched again, wishing her fingers
to dart like Mama’s, the needle and thread
making quick patterns, seams, tucks, edging, pleats, lace, button
holes, cuffs, bodices, slips, blouses, skirts, dresses, coats,
trousers, shirts, undergarments for six women, two men,
mending, shortening, lengthening, hemming,
reworking, making do, keeping up.
“D.”
“I really don’t like to do any kind of fancy work,”
she confided to her diary. “It hurts my eyes
and makes my head ache. This afternoon I’ve been down to the
beach.” She had worked on it there.
Even her little sister Eloise was more
dextrous
with her tiny thimble than Ethel;
and the other sisters, Edith and Ida, even Linda,
may have teased if they’d seen how many stitches she had done
over. “But of course I like to do this,” she insisted, pluckily,
to the silent diary, contemplating the look on his face
every time he took out his racket
and thought of her and her tiny,
perfect
stitches—took out his racket,
set bowler hat and jacket aside to play Mr. Seigold, each in his
crisp white shirtsleeves and tie,
she and Miss Buck calling points from the sidelines
at Del Mar by the Sea.
“C.”
She recalled snipping the last knot
of the padded little black period
with her silver scissors,
emitting a tiny huff of relief and anticipation,
if not triumph.
She wondered now
if he still played tennis,
if the stitches she’d made back then
had held,
if he ever thought of her
at all.
(Excerpt from "Riding the Fault Line"
by Carol Eve Ford)
Bullish On Committees
—Larry Ford’s trail cam
—Larry Ford’s trail cam
RUMORS*
—Carol Eve Ford
Rumor has it Moose
was created by a committee.
Maybe it’s the nose.
Way too big for the head.
And the head, of course, is maybe
half-again too big for the overall body size.
Which is big, by the way.
Very very big.
Just not big enough for the head.
And what’s with that scrawny derrière?
They put over half a ton into this thing,
and petered out before they got the job done —
scraped together a measly couple dozen pounds
for the gluteus maximus. What?
Did they run out of moose
juice after investing it all in that nose?
The dangling wattle had to be the turkey lobby.
After they lost the national bird competition
they’ve been bitter,
working underground, behind the scenes,
gabbling under their breath among roadside reeds —
shouting and plotting their big move.
Why they chose Moose as their
spokes-species in making this bold statement,
one can only guess.
Moose certainly did not need or ask
for that wattle.
Attention could better have been applied elsewhere.
But what can you do?
The glutes just didn’t have the votes.
Antlers won out, as they always do.
A big rack carries the day in any species.
All show. Machismo. Rut, baby, rut!
“Look what I’ve got on my head.
Need I say more?”
“And check out the nose!”
Of course, a thick, powerful neck
was a no-brainer with that rack!
The neck ruff sags when nobody’s paying attention,
but in fine fettle, come fall, it’s a real show stopper
with the ladies.
(Rumor has it the lion contingency pulled that one off
at the last committee meeting held in far-off Africa.
But the zebras rallied SEQQAC,
[South-East Quadrasphere Quadruped
Anti-Circumference sub-committee],
filibustering until the full mane was amended
to neck crest only,
and shortened to hairs no longer than 12 inches,
thus allowing the nose, presumably Moose’s own contribution,
to dominate.
Even though it is way too big for the head.
*These speculations are, of course,
confidential and unconfirmed.
That’s the thing about committees.
And rumors.
—Carol Eve Ford
Rumor has it Moose
was created by a committee.
Maybe it’s the nose.
Way too big for the head.
And the head, of course, is maybe
half-again too big for the overall body size.
Which is big, by the way.
Very very big.
Just not big enough for the head.
And what’s with that scrawny derrière?
They put over half a ton into this thing,
and petered out before they got the job done —
scraped together a measly couple dozen pounds
for the gluteus maximus. What?
Did they run out of moose
juice after investing it all in that nose?
The dangling wattle had to be the turkey lobby.
After they lost the national bird competition
they’ve been bitter,
working underground, behind the scenes,
gabbling under their breath among roadside reeds —
shouting and plotting their big move.
Why they chose Moose as their
spokes-species in making this bold statement,
one can only guess.
Moose certainly did not need or ask
for that wattle.
Attention could better have been applied elsewhere.
But what can you do?
The glutes just didn’t have the votes.
Antlers won out, as they always do.
A big rack carries the day in any species.
All show. Machismo. Rut, baby, rut!
“Look what I’ve got on my head.
Need I say more?”
“And check out the nose!”
Of course, a thick, powerful neck
was a no-brainer with that rack!
The neck ruff sags when nobody’s paying attention,
but in fine fettle, come fall, it’s a real show stopper
with the ladies.
(Rumor has it the lion contingency pulled that one off
at the last committee meeting held in far-off Africa.
But the zebras rallied SEQQAC,
[South-East Quadrasphere Quadruped
Anti-Circumference sub-committee],
filibustering until the full mane was amended
to neck crest only,
and shortened to hairs no longer than 12 inches,
thus allowing the nose, presumably Moose’s own contribution,
to dominate.
Even though it is way too big for the head.
*These speculations are, of course,
confidential and unconfirmed.
That’s the thing about committees.
And rumors.
The Object of His Affections
—Carol Eve Ford
—Carol Eve Ford
MANIFEST DESTINY
(Palindromic Mirror Poem)
From thirty-five thousand feet up,
Earth’s wonders mere puckers and pimples,
zippers, scars, and wandering, wild scribbles
marring miles and miles of plain
etched in rigid rectangular deadpan,
mundane anthropoidal industry
east of the Rockies.
No grandure
east of the Rockies.
Mundane anthropoidal industry
etched in rigid rectangular deadpan
marring miles and miles of plain.
Zippers, scars, and wandering wild scribbles,
Earth’s wonders mere puckers and pimples
from thirty-five thousand feet up.
—Carol Eve Ford
(prev. pub. in Dad’s Desk)
(Palindromic Mirror Poem)
From thirty-five thousand feet up,
Earth’s wonders mere puckers and pimples,
zippers, scars, and wandering, wild scribbles
marring miles and miles of plain
etched in rigid rectangular deadpan,
mundane anthropoidal industry
east of the Rockies.
No grandure
east of the Rockies.
Mundane anthropoidal industry
etched in rigid rectangular deadpan
marring miles and miles of plain.
Zippers, scars, and wandering wild scribbles,
Earth’s wonders mere puckers and pimples
from thirty-five thousand feet up.
—Carol Eve Ford
(prev. pub. in Dad’s Desk)
From Thirty-Five Thousand Feet Up
—Carol Eve Ford
—Carol Eve Ford
Today’s LittleNip:
You don’t have to give birth to someone to have a family.
—Sandra Bullock
_______________________
—Medusa, with hearty thanks to two Carols: Carol Eve Ford and Carol Louise Moon, for today’s poems about moms and mooses and Manifest Destiny, with photos alongside! Collaborations are always welcome in the Kitchen; we’ve had quite a few lately.
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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LittleSnake Ancestry
