Toward Time's Edge

—Photo by Taylor Graham

NOTHING VANISHES

—Taylor Graham, Placerville

At the edge of woods, this weedy field

where Queen Anne's lace goes from flower

to skeleton—birds-nest, candelabra—

I'll find its finger-bones still reaching, dry

into October, fragile-tough as any survivor.

Dust rises of itself, stirred by heat.

Here's a track the wind left. My dog

picks up a scent, leads me into scrub-oak;

willow, cottonwood, a single leaning,

silver snag once struck by lightning.

Can my dog show me who else walked here,

days or months ago, leaving scant sign?

Molecules of scent, syllables of poems.

Shadow of a figure disappearing

in haze. Through woods, my dog brings me

to a clearing, a ring of charred rocks:

the bones of fire, stories told in sparks rising

from the dark toward unfallen stars. Scars

of old histories healing as words that let

yesterday go to silence. One willow glows,

as if it held fire in its arms like desire.

In autumn, leaves will shiver down gold

at its feet. We pass through here

separately, but we never pass unchanged.

_______________

SECRET PLACES

—Taylor Graham

Scrub-oak lives by rooting in

to sunbake hardpan,

thistle by flinging its down

into the hot wind.

Dirt roads arrive by dodging

boulders, jumping swales,

forgetting notions of straight.

Thirst summons water.

_______________

REVISING THE WILD PUPPY

—Taylor Graham

She's all loose

ends and bark—leap to

be let out

the door run-

ning scouting unfenced fringes

sundown thistledown

golden-spiked

foxtails in her fur

dashing speech-

less tales of

beasts out of bounds. Just hold on—

I've got my red pen

in hand. I'll

“sit! stay!” her syntax,

curb her hot

tongue panting;

force her to a pace of strict

metered couplets, five

feet to the

line with classical

allusions

and rhyme. But

what happened to her pulse, her

heart? Wild metaphors…

_______________

HEADSTRONG

—Taylor Graham

She tugs the leash.

Choke-chain doesn't faze her. Pinch-collar fails

without warning. Loose dog!

All this hardware and fitted leather, fidgeting

with snaps and buckles. Metal fatigue. My hands are

blistered and my arms ache.

Loose dog!—

I love to watch her at a flying trot, barely

skimming ground,

nose aloft, pulled by scents

from across the valley. A vista—

maybe something's lost to find.

I'll invent a halter of wild grasses, we'll run past

fences, over the high passes,

to a place we've never been before.

Heart-strong. I'll unclip us—

loose dog, loose handler— 

startling birds who rise from bushes on unleashed

wings and fly—

I'll find her on the wind as she finds me.

—Photo by Taylor Graham

NORCO POEM #25

—Michael Cluff, Corona

Stared at upon entry

into a family resturant

in the hub of town,

the pie place that plays

country/honky tonk

all the live-long day,

Dennis is uncomfortable,

forgetting he has cobra tattoos

cornering not-so-cute rats

on both biceps.

He usually covers them over

with longsleeve plain oxford dress shirts

while at work

at his banking job.

Corey does not receive such a notice

but would

if anyone

knew where he had

a specific pierced ring

placed not so recent ago.

_______________

MOONLIGHT AND LILIES

—Katy Brown, Davis
 
Yours was a heart filled
with moonlight and lilies;
with a little bit of ginger;

—and in a rocky corner,
a warty frog
singing off-key.

Yours was a smile
easy to coax
all the way to your eyes;

but with a wry downturn;
and bit of mischief
that lingered in your beard.

Yours was a thoughtful gaze,
seeing through impasses
to compromise and harmony;

past unpleasant reality
and inconvenient evidence;
a dreamer’s look.

Yours was a mind
that held minutest detail—
recalling all the cousins’ names;

remembering birthdays;
rattling off obscure facts;
waiting for the rest of us to catch up.
 

_______________

TOWARD TIME’S EDGE
—Katy Brown, Davis

Sailors long for baskets of ripe pears
under faded prayer flags.

On this journey, the ancient gods sail
against the memory of war,
remembering when Helen was young.

The sails of their barques billow
like executioners’ capes
in the shadows of an apricot dusk.

They float on a shattered mirror,
listening to the rhythmic creak
of rigging in the evening wind.

In the company of bones and eels
they measure the longitude and latitude
of isolation and howl under a rusty moon.

The purity of song rings across the sea:
the crimson breath of mermen
curling into the dark.

Tonight, there are too many edges to bypass.
Rocks and monsters mark their path.
Tonight, the sea collects secrets.

________________

Today's LittleNip:

TWO IMAGOS

—Michael Cluff

IMAGO I

Roaming through the new ruins

a camper sees spots

of dull sparkle and shimmer

a point of intrigue

to the glucomaed bound eye

equal oscillates

lack of firm shape and insight

rain won't clarify

IMAGO II

 

Wearing the gray three piece suit

Bart will hesitate

the pinstripes a real prison

imposed for profit

never leading back to him

bald bile from the brain

rips opal cufflinks from sleeves

tattoos rubbed rare raw

_______________ 

—Medusa

Katy Brown (left) and Claire J. Baker

—Photo by Annie Menebroker, Sacramento

[For more photos of last Monday's 

Sacramento Poetry Center reading, 

see Medusa's Facebook page.]