—Photo by Ann Menebroker, Sacramento
SHADOWS AND MIST
—Taylor Graham, Placerville
From the barricaded dead-end of
pavement, back along the trail, I met two
men in black with stars on their chest.
My “good morning,”
their “what are you doing here?”
Walking. Where do you live? Around
here. Have you seen anything
out of the ordinary?
How to explain the many species/
colors of green in chaparral?
The hooded sun. Abandoned homeless
camps; that small sky-blue tent
below the ridgeline. I thought, that must
be friends, companions of solitude.
Make a riddle out of an answer.
Point those stars up the sundown trail.
_____________________
A DAY’S JOURNEY
—Taylor Graham
I found where they tunneled into the mountain,
mining for something richer than daylight.
A tall pine guarded the entrance; at its foot, owl-
pellets full of tiny bones and hair. As far as I
could see into the adit, its floor was littered
with cigarette butts and bones, shadows as if
crows left their images and flew back to the sun.
My dog, my journey companion, had no interest
here. Inside that tunnel, the air would kill
a canary. My dog ranged farther up, following
game trails in the brush. Where does mystery
give up and history turn sour? A crow told me,
I shouldn’t look for sacred places, they would
find me.
—Taylor Graham, Placerville
From the barricaded dead-end of
pavement, back along the trail, I met two
men in black with stars on their chest.
My “good morning,”
their “what are you doing here?”
Walking. Where do you live? Around
here. Have you seen anything
out of the ordinary?
How to explain the many species/
colors of green in chaparral?
The hooded sun. Abandoned homeless
camps; that small sky-blue tent
below the ridgeline. I thought, that must
be friends, companions of solitude.
Make a riddle out of an answer.
Point those stars up the sundown trail.
_____________________
A DAY’S JOURNEY
—Taylor Graham
I found where they tunneled into the mountain,
mining for something richer than daylight.
A tall pine guarded the entrance; at its foot, owl-
pellets full of tiny bones and hair. As far as I
could see into the adit, its floor was littered
with cigarette butts and bones, shadows as if
crows left their images and flew back to the sun.
My dog, my journey companion, had no interest
here. Inside that tunnel, the air would kill
a canary. My dog ranged farther up, following
game trails in the brush. Where does mystery
give up and history turn sour? A crow told me,
I shouldn’t look for sacred places, they would
find me.
Taylor Graham's Loki in Sprinkler
—Photo by Katy Brown, Davis
ADVENT
—Taylor Graham
I sat and smelled apple crisp
I sat and smelled apple crisp
from the kitchen everywhere
memories
a hallway away
dates and honey
Advent preparation
coming in history into hearts earthy
straw and barnyard
mingled
the tabernacle of ordinary
lives
children’s laughter a choir
the smell of
apple crisp.
the smell of
apple crisp.
(erasure poem from “Advent and apple crisp” by Monica Sawyn)
________________________
SUN STONE
—Taylor Graham
At the top of an unmarked trail,
out of sight of the last paved road, almost
beyond the sounds of children running,
singing, leaping into a new year;
at the top of a straight-up climb—I found
shining stone, shadows melting into
stone making light, and beyond, a green
panorama lit in all directions by quartz-
eyes glittering and gleaming in winter sun
the fire-works of ages.
Taylor Graham's Cowboy
—Photo by Katy Brown
RIME
—Lelania Arlene, Sacramento
Frost attaches to the exposed,
The sky opens too wide to warm them.
It pains and it feels familiar,
But it’s just radiation from source winds.
The letting go of grief, of those
Starbursts of pain, cracking you inward.
The rocking of the discomposed,
The solace of curling into a sliver of moon.
Hoary weeping of the disposed,
Is it meditation, is it forever undisclosed?
____________________
WHAT CREMAINS
—Lelania Arlene
For some people
—Lelania Arlene, Sacramento
Frost attaches to the exposed,
The sky opens too wide to warm them.
It pains and it feels familiar,
But it’s just radiation from source winds.
The letting go of grief, of those
Starbursts of pain, cracking you inward.
The rocking of the discomposed,
The solace of curling into a sliver of moon.
Hoary weeping of the disposed,
Is it meditation, is it forever undisclosed?
____________________
WHAT CREMAINS
—Lelania Arlene
For some people
Small as ash
Putting out your ember
Isn't nearly enough.
They must unnecessarily
Crush you
Twisting with all their might
Cremation Jam.
______________________
OLIVES AND GASLIGHT
—Lelania Arlene
Loving you unbearably,
The unlikeliest bookmark.
I keep time in my heart's library,
Like an unlicked stamp.
Not as a notary of ingenuity,
More an abacus of sanity.
Illegitimate I am accustomed to justifying,
My very name, not my own under the gaslight.
I scribble notes identifying
My very feelings, only my own in stonewall niches.
Am I a haystack target,
A scarecrow in other people's sackcloth?
But as for myself, when my parents were sick
My receiving blanket was goat’s hair.
My pure, I know you exist,
for I have nourished others with the same.
My Motto before YOU appeared,
Nolo Mi Tangere, Touch Me Not via Gethsemane.
Press my oil not, my fingernails are broken
I summoned the weight and pressed, awaiting always to anoint.
_____________________
DRIVING THE BLEEDING
—Lelania Arlene
They drove the ocean with their madness.
It looks blue, the Sea— But it runs with undertones of rust.
Like blood, like sadness.
Sometimes they protest, the sea creatures amass.
We puzzle and ask of why,
______________________
OLIVES AND GASLIGHT
—Lelania Arlene
Loving you unbearably,
The unlikeliest bookmark.
I keep time in my heart's library,
Like an unlicked stamp.
Not as a notary of ingenuity,
More an abacus of sanity.
Illegitimate I am accustomed to justifying,
My very name, not my own under the gaslight.
I scribble notes identifying
My very feelings, only my own in stonewall niches.
Am I a haystack target,
A scarecrow in other people's sackcloth?
But as for myself, when my parents were sick
My receiving blanket was goat’s hair.
My pure, I know you exist,
for I have nourished others with the same.
My Motto before YOU appeared,
Nolo Mi Tangere, Touch Me Not via Gethsemane.
Press my oil not, my fingernails are broken
I summoned the weight and pressed, awaiting always to anoint.
_____________________
DRIVING THE BLEEDING
—Lelania Arlene
They drove the ocean with their madness.
It looks blue, the Sea— But it runs with undertones of rust.
Like blood, like sadness.
Sometimes they protest, the sea creatures amass.
We puzzle and ask of why,
But we know and we drive the ocean with our lies.
—Photo by Robert Lee Hancock, Antioch
Today's LittleNip(s):
DAWN IS BURNING DOWN THE NIGHT
—Robert Lee Haycock
Clouds flame from East to West
Fog smokes up from the river
The wind burns
Our world is a smoldering pyre
Nought but charred bones
Cinders and ashes
_______________________
DAMN, I HATE POEMS
—Robert Lee Haycock
Bridge that ends in mid-air
Left you hanging
Dour buildings
Doors without numbers
Sour smells of cooking
Street that dives into the sea
Left me longing
Friend long dead
Damn, I hate poems
He was fond of saying
______________________
—Medusa
—Photo by Robert Lee Haycock
