Snowdrift

Logs
—Poems and Photos by Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA
 

SNOWDRIFT

Snowy weather always brings
snowbirds, like juncos. The new
snowfall here in Truckee, with
snowplows on the highway, brings
snow-white winter wonderland.
Snowcapped mountains call for our
snowsuits, snowboards and snow chains.

 Compound Stump

POETRY IN A WINTER RAVINE

Noir poet brings me to this place.
She takes me down deeper into
this ravine, where rocks soak in cold
shadow. Withered grass blades have
given up hope of warmth, waiting
in non-listening.

Birds don’t come here, preferring
the sunny tops of trees up on the
frosty ridge.

But I am here today, down under
and alone, dark book in hand. 
My cool fingers flip the pages
where fearful eyes fixed on
dark words move slowly across.

The cold boulder on which I sit
hides a snake hole. And there,
even deeper underground are
coiled fangs in hibernation,
dreaming of those tiny tender
skittering tidbits of spring.

 Firewood

JOGGING IN WINTER

Winter returns to me
from around the corner.
Ropes of wind whip my ankles.
My crystal eyes blur.
Clouds form in absence of speech.
I quicken my pace through town. 

Lichenwood Pile

SAYS ADAMEUS

What do I see in the light of these
candles that you have always seen?
The rocking chair, the crib, the
broom, pots and kettle on the old
black stove. Our life is here in this
cabin, our joy fulfilled in this room.

What do I smell in the cool night
air that I’ve never smelled before?
You lie with long hair dripping
sweat, breasts full of milk, sheets
in disarray. You are a new creature
whose eyes hold firm, whose limbs
relax.

I am here for only a while, and you
have shut the door. What do I
hear that I have not heard before?
The wind has carried the birds away,
only silence remains in the pines.

He is strong—the babe—his cries
in the morning. What dream?
What pang? I‘ve endured a winter
once before and have heard the
cry of a rabbit.


(prev. pub. in Poetry Now)

Small Stump

STATE OF OUR UNION

Do you know that the state of our
nation is like a ship foundering in
stormy seas? Looks to be headed for
the rocks. Even those nesting birds
know to cling to cypress bent in the
wind. Consider the roots in soil and
the winds of change.

The breaking waves erode the cliffs.
Tiny seashells lie in blackened sand
in times like these. The Osprey drops
a great fish, his talons losing grip.
Her eggs are scattered on the ground
in these high winds.

Search the Captain’s logs for clues.
Look through his spyglass and scan
the great waves. Hold fast to our
democracy that we do not lose it
by way of those who slept and
did not trim their sails.

Tree Stump
 

Today’s LittleNip:

SNOWBALL
—Carol Louise Moon

Scurrying home from downtown
shopping I’ve made time for some
seasonal fun. Get out the
shiny top hat and bow tie!
Some say I take my man too
seriously. He’s just a
snowman and slush, for Pete’s sake!

______________________

Thank you, Carol Louise Moon, for reminding us of the many moods of winter! Tonight in Sacramento, Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar meets at 8pm, 1414 16th Street, with featured readers and open mic. Free, but please partake of Art Luna’s fine food and libations. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about this and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa, celebrating snowsuits, snowboards, snowshoes and snowshoe hares ~ (but snow chains? not so much…)

 “…have heard the cry of a rabbit.”

—Anonymous Photo

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.

$1400 a month for this?

—Poems by John Grochalski, Brooklyn, NY

—Anonymous Photos of Brooklyn in Winter
 

drunk on wine

drunk on wine
going to buy more wine

i watch the people along third avenue
gussied up for a saturday night

sober grotesque clowns
strangled on their cheap perfume and cologne

cascading in the hopeless hope
of their carnal civility

i suddenly wish that i didn’t need another
bottle of red wine

and that i never had to come out
amongst these glamorous
stinking swine

in the first place.

$1400 a month for this?
 
a shower that dribbles
like warm piss

cracks in the linoleum
cracks in the blinds

black mold on the ceiling
plaster in cracks on the floor

clogged drains
and faucets that need a screwdriver
to shut off

barking dogs
and bitching kids

outside of ripped, screen windows
propped up by books

lights that flicker
for no reason at all

thunder neighbors rolling across the landscape
in the middle of the humid night

cockroaches that got the blues

and the landlord’s phone
that just keeps ringing and ringing

its siren call
for next month’s rent check

paid in full
by the first of the month.

the pirate

the little girl
is so obvious

she could be president
when she gets older

she says to me
you have long hair and an earring

i tell her i’m a pirate

she sticks out her tongue
and says,

you’re nothing but an ugly girl

before leaving

taking the shreds
of my dignity with her

like dog shit smeared
on the heel of her boot. 

                               

 red meat

america separates
families at the border

america puts kids in cages
and leaves them there for years

america eats too much red meat
red meat for breakfast, lunch and dinner

it eats red meat shaped like bombs
while it kills itself at thankless jobs

and watches too much television

america watches kids
living in cages on television

in between commercials
for big cars and more red meat

gets drunk and jerks off to torture porn

then it gets on its knees
and prays for freedom and the love of god

before america
wraps itself up snug in the american flag

and puts its bloated body
full of red meat

to bed.

____________________

today’s littlenip:

godot
—john grochalski

the world continues
to go to hell
while i wait on packed buses
for genius to climb on board
and ask me
for the time.

___________________

Thank you, John Grochalski, for coming back to the Kitchen with your red-hot poems from that ice-cold borough (burrow?) of Brooklyn in January. And don’t wait so long next time!

For up-coming poetry events in our area, scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa, with gratitude for prodigal poets who return ~

  

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.

A Gracefulness of Lines

Hope, Springing Eternal

—Poems and Original Art by Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

TRUST

Hope comes to me in the guise of a weeping maiden,
stumbling toward me, face bent into her hands,
having lost her way again.

She pretends not to see me,
looking at her through my compassionate mirror,
how I guide her with my eyes : this way… this way…

_________________

DISEMBODIMENT
After Back Cover Art: “Ascension” by Monty Wanamaker
in Spoon River Poetry Review, Summer 2003


Gray body, caught in gray swirl of dark light
flaming outwards from evolving center,

how lyrical you become : a gracefulness of lines
flowing in the same directional source—

the rim at the edge holding its form, as if
to control what you are to yourself : a burst

of energy—duplicating—until you are entire :
a fusion of life-force, death-force, mind-force.

 Straw to Gold

This wound of man,

made of sand,
I need to re-write him,
make him real—

not an ocean man
edging toward land,
but a real sea-man with sad human eyes.

The tides erode him,
taking years—
taking a life-time.

His heart is open to love,
to despair,
to every reason to care—

more or less,
as the tides
decree.

Essentially,
he is free to become,
or return, to his beginning.

 Worry Stones

WORRY STONE

I am the worry stone,
sent to worry you,
to fit your hand
and pocket—
not your shoe;
I would not have you limp
or toss me free—
I would have you
remember…    remember…
ever remember me.

___________________

TO A CROW, OH

The crow is a cynic now. The Field Guide
of Decent Humans has caused him to worry.
How is he to know and trust a human who
might not be safe for him to share this life
of human and crow—crow and human?

I worry for his worry. Oh, poor crow.
What a heavy concern to inflict upon
his sensitivity and trust in the Literature
Guides' Directives of our existence, and what
does a Field Guide know of decent humans?

 A Jug of Wine and Thou

TO CLAIM THIS FLOWER
             “Little Flower In Crannied Wall”
                       —Alfred Lord Tennyson 


Leave it there ! Why pick it, root and all, when it has
just struggled so to grow, even here, in this tight space,
between rock and rock, taking the sun as we take sun…

of what use to you to take this flower from such earned
survival and feel the right to do so—do you not equate
anything by this?

 Pathway to Back and Forth

TODAY THAT IS MUCH LIKE THE OTHERS

There is a tear in the world that fits you—
like a mind-rip made of cynical regret

that you stir like bitter coffee, as though you
forgot the sugar, or refused the sweetness.

Some days you like the gray air that
surrounds you. You linger against the tide

of going through it—turning cold where
every gray thought gets through, and nothing

gets sewn back together. Life is raw
today. The tear widens and you must not

add to the tearing which is bloodless.
You accept the wound as you always do

as part of its condition—and you shudder
like a knife-rip that goes through you.

Go, Caution, Stop

TORN TOWARD LIGHT

You utter scream after scream into the vast silence
and watch the sound waves travel
distance after distance—

how still everything becomes now
as if everything has ended,
even the light waves.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

TO PREVAIL :

Just as joy
is the result of real effort,
a difficulty overcome,
a height reached—

something as simple
as forgiving lethargy
its hold on you—

One effort at a time :
rise…     walk…     do…


—Joyce Odam

___________________

Good morning and thank you to Joyce Odam, who has been remembering her worry stone for our Seed of the Week: Worry. Our new Seed of the Week is Through the Back Door of the Castle. Let your imagination run wild—the castle doesn’t have to be a literal one, of course; or maybe Harry and Meghan come to mind—and send your poems, photos & artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from.

For up-coming poetry events in our area, scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

—Medusa, celebrating poetry and poets everywhere!

Castle - The Hidden Door In The Back 

—Poster by Mike Savad

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.

Hiding the False Heart

The Dismal

—Artwork by Douglas Polk, Nebraska
 

LONESOME
—Douglas Polk

fields of snow,
far as the eye can see,
lovely but lonesome,
in the wind and the cold,
childhood memories,
duck, duck, goose,
snowball fights,
snow men,
and snow forts,
defended at all costs,
makes the loneliness grow,
yet warms the soul,
fields of snow,
far as the eye can see.

_______________________

ASHER, A GRANDSON
—Douglas Polk

a new life,
blood of my blood,
a grandson,
in God's image,
still pure and holy,
feeling unfit to hold this miracle,
this creation of love,
I am humbled,
praying, praying, praying,
to be worthy,
of such a glorious gift,
a grandson,
Asher Camuy.

Palm Tree
 

TRIVIA
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

The 17th-century Poet John Milton was
born on Bread Street in London and died
on Bunhill Row in London, which brings
the question whether there was some
connection with Sandwich

it was common at that time to travel via
horse drawn carriage, at the rate of 30
miles a day, which means the roughly 65
mile journey between London and Sandwich
would have taken over 2 days to complete

In California that same measure would be
the distance between Disneyland and Magic
Mountain, which in the best of worlds are
about 2 hours apart, taking the freeway when
traffic is light

__________________

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE XVI
—Caschwa

when confronting
the smyler with the
knyf under the cloke

away and mock
the time with fairest
show;

false face must hide
what the false heart
doth know

to show an unfelt
sorrow is an office

which the false man
does easily

farewell, remorse!
all good to me is lost;
Evil, be thou my good

 The Attractive

LOW-BUDGET MOVIE
—Caschwa

Bought a large-bore tenor trombone
for a cheap price from an aging
Salvation Army band member who
had gotten too feeble to march with it

the mouthpiece was chipped and
gave an unpleasant sting and taste
touching the lips, so I replaced it with
a new one, which I chose to help
enable reaching high notes

those more in the know told me that
I should get a mouthpiece to enable
low notes, what the horn was really
designed for

but their pleas just couldn’t quite
overcome the molasses stasis of a
penniless creature of habit
maybe some day

_________________

TOSS IT OUT
—Caschwa

Sometimes people
get very, very told
that they violated a law
that was very, very old

we see that today, during
congressional hearings
giving no honor or respect
to men wearing earrings

that special stone tablet
now aged thousands of years
harnesses timeless passions
of experience and fears

and that paper from the outset
of the democratic experiment
as amended here and there
will continue to make its dent

but if age is the demon we must
rid from consideration,
that tosses out all those moldy rules
from our parents’ generation

 Praise or Punishment

IN THE NIGHT
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA

When we are naked
We should
Turn out the lights.
Subtle feelings
Burn more brightly
In the night.

Colors,
Come dawn,
Will be born again,
But we can wait ‘til then
For the benefits of sight

And let caresses’
Kind inflections
Inform us,
In the night.

__________________

COMES TIME FOR DIAMONDS
—Joseph Nolan

But when it comes
Time for diamonds,
We find the carbon
Crumbles.
It’s only coal
And soft
And will not
Hold.

It’s disappointment,
Cold.

We find it lacking.
We have no backing.
We are out here,
Alone. 

 The Blind Leading The Blind

OUR OLD CAR’S DECLINE
—Joseph Nolan

Our old car collapsed slowly,
One bolt at-a-time.
It gave us many warnings
Of its sharp decline.

We didn’t want to hear it.
We hoped it would be fine,
But we couldn’t fail to notice
When it finally died.

I guess we need a new one?
It’s time to look around.
Nothing lasts forever.
Old cars
Aren’t like old wine.

 Hills by the Dismal

AN ORIGINAL BARD?
—Joseph Nolan

Mouth,
Full of sunshine,
Ass,
Full of lard.
Tell me when
We’ll listen to
An original bard?

Open up your
Majesty
To plagiarism’s charge:
Are you
An original bard?

Or did you
Dig around,
In somebody’s pockets,
For greasy bits
And sounds?

Are you
An original bard?

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

WHAT IT FEELS LIKE XVII
—Caschwa

when an elderly widow lives just one
house and one small street from the
neighborhood park where the popular
President is going to appear in person,
a distance she commonly walks daily

but in order to attend this event, she
has to first get a ride to a shopping mall
a few miles away, and then get on a
special bus to take her to the park

and the reverse of all that to go home

____________________

Welcome to the Kitchen on this day in which we celebrate the life and work of Martin Luther King Jr. And thanks to Douglas Polk, Carl Schwarz (Caschwa), and Joseph Nolan for their fine work!

Tonight at the Sac. Poetry Center on 25th & R Sts. in Sacramento, there will be a reading to honor Martin Luther King, beginning at 7:30pm, and featuring several area poets.

Then next Saturday, four events: Writers on the Air features Michele Drier plus open mic, 9:30am-1pm at Sac. Poetry Center. Or, from 9:30-11am, Frank Graham will host The Beats: A Group Discussion at Identity Coffees on 28th St. in Sacramento. Then at 2pm that afternoon, Creative Minds meets at GOS Art Gallery on Del Paso Blvd. in Sacramento, with open mic, door prizes, refreshments. Also at 2pm in Placerville, Poetic License poetry read-around meets at the Placerville Sr. Center on Spring St. in Placerville. The suggested topic for this month is "excite" but other subjects also welcome. Bring your own poems to share; read from your favorite poets; or just come to listen.

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.

Interested in workshops? Check the green box at the right for a listing of local ones which will be held this week and/or later.

—Medusa, reminding you to hang on to that dream ~

Enough!! 

—Artwork by Douglas Polk

Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Looking the Other Way

Martin Luther King, Jr. (1929-1968)

GOODBYE TO TOLERANCE
—Denis Levertov (1923-1997)
 
Genial poets, pink-faced  
earnest wits—
you have given the world  
some choice morsels,
gobbets of language presented
as one presents T-bone steak
and Cherries Jubilee.  
Goodbye, goodbye,
                            I don’t care
if I never taste your fine food again,  
neutral fellows, seers of every side.  
Tolerance, what crimes
are committed in your name.

And you, good women, bakers of nicest bread,  
blood donors. Your crumbs
choke me, I would not want
a drop of your blood in me, it is pumped  
by weak hearts, perfect pulses that never  
falter: irresponsive
to nightmare reality.

It is my brothers, my sisters,
whose blood spurts out and stops
forever
because you choose to believe it is not your business.

Goodbye, goodbye,
your poems
shut their little mouths,  
your loaves grow moldy,  
a gulf has split
                     the ground between us,
and you won’t wave, you’re looking
another way.
We shan’t meet again—
unless you leap it, leaving  
behind you the cherished  
worms of your dispassion,  
your pallid ironies,
your jovial, murderous,  
wry-humored balanced judgment,
leap over, un-
balanced? ... then
how our fanatic tears
would flow and mingle  
for joy ...

___________________

For more about Denise Levertov, go to www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/denise-levertov/. The last paragraph of this biography reads, “Discussing Levertov’s social and political consciousness in his review of Light up the Cave, [American Book Review critic Daniel] Berrigan stated: “Our options [in a tremulous world], as they say, are no longer large. … [We] may choose to do nothing; which is to say, to go discreetly or wildly mad, letting fear possess us and frivolity rule our days. Or we may, along with admirable spirits like Denise Levertov, be driven sane; by community, by conscience, by treading the human crucible.” A contributor in Concise Dictionary of American Literary Biography commended Levertov for “the emphasis in her work on uniting cultures and races through an awareness of their common spiritual heritage and their common responsibility to a shared planet.”

A reminder that Poetry of the Sierra Foothills will have a special open mic today from 1-3pm, with poems inspired by Martin Luther King, Jr., or poems that would’ve inspired him if he were alive today. That’s at Caffe Santoro on Pleasant Valley Rd. in Diamond Springs. Also today: Sac. Poetry Center (25th & R Sts., Sacramento) hosts Prose in the Afternoon, 4-5:30m, with Nancy Schoellkopf and Katya Mills, plus Flash Fiction with Kathleen Lynch. 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.

—Medusa

 
 

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in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.

Borrowing Starlight

—Poems by James Lee Jobe, Davis, CA
—Anonymous Photos Courtesy of James Lee Jobe

Holy is the earth, holy is life. Humanity, yes, but also the other creatures, also the forest, sky, sea, soil. The turning of the planet is holy. Our heartbeat and our breath are holy. Our compassion. Embrace the earth, embrace your life.

__________________

From behind these bars I can hear the sound of rain. Locked in this cage I can dream of blue flowers and tall trees.

Let me be a weed in the river, let me be one speck of dust in the desert. A thought that came and went. Let me be the dream that could not be remembered upon awakening. That's for me. Let me be small, the universe is so large. Inhale, exhale. Life is what is happening right now.

Three and sixty years for me on this planet. I walked some paths that were easy, and some of them were hard. Some I couldn't finish. Likewise, I had paths that were lush, and others that were barren. It’s all the same. Sometimes I walked alone, and sometimes with people to love. One day I will walk the final path, we all do, and I will walk alone. Oh, sweet and bless'd emptiness!

Even at night, roses. Roses in starlight, moonlight. Roses standing upright in the dark. We love them, and come morning, we will rise and love them again. Then we will love ourselves.

The years have piled up like autumn leaves. Light a match, time is up. We will rise up with the fragrant smoke.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

If I am to finish this journey, I will need to borrow some starlight. Have you any to spare?

—James Lee Jobe

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to James Lee Jobe for fine poetry and intriguing visuals on this January Saturday morning!

For up-coming poetry events in our area, scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info—and note that more may be added at the last minute.

 Rising Up With "the fragrant smoke"

 —Anonymous

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.

Calling the Cat

—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA

SEDUCTION

for Kitty-Souris

Coyotes weave the ridge with polyphonic
song. They call our cat. She loves the bones
of small night creatures skittering their hunger
dances in the dark. Coyotes sing that song.
They sing any-body’s hunger under an empty
moon. Kitty sharps the chitter of her jaws.
She has no sense of size. Owl talon, cougar claw.
Coyote calling. She’s sweet as salmon from
a tin, safe with humans inside walls. We snap
the latch and listen. Coyotes go on improvising
song that touches a raw hunger. How soft
it sings the moon the dark and just for her. 

(first pub. in The Roanoke Review, 1997)

THE RIDGETOP SINGING TO ITSELF

The old black oak lifted its boughs
in tree-blessing, woodpeckers working its wounds.

Sentinel snag in manzanita thicket;
storm-fallen cedar, bark flaking off, humming
the length of its life

as your chainsaw bit in.
The living woods listening, holding fast.

I’d walk the ridgetop to The Stone.
Lichened granite rooted above canyon
where, years ago, we found bedrock-mortars—

Miwok grinding rocks.
I’d climb The Stone and listen into dark.

I never wondered if it might be catching
messages from boulders miles away,
passing them on down-mountain

where we live now. Those rocks and trees
coming to voice

if I could hear them, still among stone.


(first pub. in Windows of Time and Place 

by Taylor Graham, Cold River Press, 2019)

ART OF LISTENING

inspired by untitled drawing by Kananginak Pootoogook 
 
A child is drawing a dog—
a village dog? Its narrowly focused eyes
exactly mimic the skin of the boy’s hand as he
draws it. A dark dog lowering from its shoulder-
blades as if in play, tail half-flagged, paws
planted wide on a flat white featureless surface—
snow? The boy is filling in the near hind-leg,
making it dark to match the rest of the dog.
What does the dog think of all this?
We can only hear what a child translates
of dog with the point of his pen.
Is he listening to what he draws? 

LISTENING TO THE EERIE
for Latches

I’ve turned out
the lights. And it comes
just outside
the sliding
door. Owl calling, so close it
shivers my fingers

to write it
down. Hu Hooh Hu Hu
repeated
repeating
so close, I reach for black cat
in the dark—what Owl

wants. Its call
so intense, I slip
open the
door a crack
and the call magnifies deep
and hollow, echo

of itself,
so close I could fall
into its
abyss. It’s
the shiver
up my spine to
my fingers writing. 

Today’s LittleNip:

LISTEN TO THE LIGHT
—Taylor Graham

Sun-sparkle morning
cold January—blinded,
possessed by sunlight—
oops there’s a traffic signal
dull-red reminder of earth—

Put on the brakes, you
fool! You’re never going to learn
the high art of flight. 

_______________________

Friday it is, and we’ve made the switch from Taylor-Thursday to Taylor-Friday in order to reap the benefits of Taylor Graham's knowledge and love of forms. Today she has sent us a plethora of them, talking about listening (our recent Seed of the Week) to the owl who visited her last week, and listening to the woods around us—to the stones and the trees and all the mysterious sounds that the countryside brings.

More about forms below, but first I need to remind you that tonight at 8pm, SacUnified Slam presents New Works Only Slam at Luna’s Cafe on 16th St. in Sacramento. And at 7:30pm in Davis, The Other Voice Poetry Series features Len Germinara and Linda Jackson Collins plus open mic at the Unitarian Universalist Church 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. 


Here are some of the forms from Taylor Graham that we’ve already posted today:

Boketto (“Listen to the Light”): poeticbloomings2.wordpress.com/2016/05/11/inform-poets-boketto
Shadorma (“Eerie”): poetscollective.org/poetryforms/shadorma

This is Taylor’s One-vowel Poem about that pesky owl; we talked about that form last week:


OH NO
(a one-vowel poem)
—Taylor Graham

Owl hoots who-do voodoo
hoo-hoooh - hoo - hoo
oh follow cold woods-
woo, snows of long-go—
know for whom now?
for yoo


And here is an oh-so-smooth sonnet of hers. Check out which type of sonnet it is at blog.prepscholar.com/what-is-a-sonnet-poem-form/:


PRIMARY COLOR
—Taylor Graham

That color-swatch you showed me, classic blue—
an empty bottle left too long to sun,
so vibrant it’s a permutating hue—
blue sea of air where breaker-wave-clouds run—
the i-dot of a landscape, lake’s live eye
blue as the berry of a bramble-thorn,
its globed sheen beckoning as I pass by—
a comfort-denim many ages worn—
the sky embodied between day and night,
a rippled pond that soothes from dream to deep
magnetic as wild geese skein out of sight—
the hover-shade that keeps me in my sleep—
this blue is blessing without need of word—
the neon flash on sun-struck wing of bird.

__________________

Thanks, TG! The Kitchen is always open to poems sent in forms (or NOT in forms!), but stretching your poetic muscles can never hurt. It’s all in the service of The Art of Listening to what you’re writing, yes?

Here’s a chart about poetry that was devised for kids, but I think it’s kind of helpful. Something to bring us back to basics. Click on it to enlarge it, print it out, cut it out, and stick it on your forehead: 

—Medusa, who can’t see because of the chart stuck to her forehead ~

 Stump Full of 'Shrooms

—Photo by Taylor Graham

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.