River-Mountain Talk

American River, Henningsen Lotus Park, Lotus, CA

—Photo by Candace Flint

—Poems by Candace Flint, Diamond Springs, CA

RIVER-MOUNTAIN TALK
     (a Terzanelle)

A fluid exchange; solid earth and wet River.
Echo-Mountain against River: How’ve you been?
River voices her return: Come close, come hither.

A congenial twinning and twining, old friends
at a dance party, promenade; begin again.
Echo-Mountain against River: How’ve you been?

Quiet conversations of “remember just when”
Their coaxing eyes meet in an opposites-embrace
at a dance party, promenade; begin again.

Piercing glance where River-Rain etched Mountain’s smooth face
Mountain’s heart crumbles breaking down, now river-flow
Their coaxing eyes meet in an opposites-embrace

Yin-yang, give-take; elements mix, who’s the giver?
Paper/rock/scissors; neither lose, both are winners,
Mountain’s heart crumbles breaking down, now river-flow

They merge and they moan; float away, mixed together.
A fluid exchange; solid earth and wet River.
Paper/rock/scissors; neither lose, both are winners,
River voices her return: Come close, come hither.
 
____________________

WEATHERING (ON DESCRIBING AN ALLUVIAL FAN)

Field trip in a school-colored bus
Desert drive to apron hem
Disembarked on scorch-baked dirt
And, started walking up the skirt

Dirt that had once started out high
Then, later, spread out wide and low
The culprit being water flow
In desert, moving down and down but
never, never scouring slow. 

How grave the planet’s gravity
Downward depositing silt
Existing landscape, interrupted by rivulets
A wide, fanned-apron to be met
A wrinkled earthy fabric that got wet.

A hike from hem to waist
Stepping back through epoch scree
To fossils now exposed
Eroded soil, cleared debris,
Made viewing most sublime
A field trip sedimented in the mind.

Marine impressions from long dead plants
Suggest not all have started high to low
But traversed low to high
From sea to mountain top
Is it any wonder why
Our species, too, has claimed itself
An oracle in the sky?

Now 50 years have gone since then
Me moving down the hem
I never knew til now
How like-patterned was my fate
To be up high and end up low.
To ultimately, tentatively, take my bow.

 Garage Closed

—Photo by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
 

HOPE METAMORPHOSIS (BASED ON WAKUMATSU HISTORY)

Traveling eastward with their cargo’d hope in tow
Propelling thoughts of planting new Tea made them go
And mentally blew their ship where they could sow.

Immigrants arriving in post-civil war America,
Fleeing their own country’s strife, a disabled rickshaw
of fading shoguns, samurai;  arriving they saw
health: sap rising in the mulberries,
worms pushing silk and singing la-la-la.

If unwanted change was taking place in Japan
Then wanted change the pilgrims would make in new sand
Mulberry trees would house the creatures sure
The tea would thrive, silk would endure.

But an unexpected drought, a greedy rush towards gold
by others, unspun their pilgrim luck, but made them bold
enough to be assimilated into historical stories later sold
like the one you’re reading here.

“Do not feel sorry for us. 
Our hope grew things beyond tea and trees. 
We all end up dust
but sprout a million other occupying dreams,
like you here now,
through the earth’s fragile crust.”

 Boulder

—Photo by Taylor Graham 

PRAIRIE DOG DREAM ORACLE 

The wind breathes across the wide-open plain
A prairie matriarch barks and howls me awake
Says it’s time to make haste
Come back to the mound
Drop down in the cave.

Over the domed rim I go
and below, there are tunnels
and pockets, no hate manifestos
on their prairie town’s dockets.
Underworld tributaries,
Small curled mammals linked
in community, and, unity.

Their breathing rapid, beneath the sand
Hearts going beat-a-beat-beat
Rhyming drummers linking their band
of brothers, heartbeat and respiration
quicker than my own
I’m out of my element
This is their subterranean home.

Up out of the hole, by necessity, I go to
rich grasses on fertile topsoil
where, by day, the dogs renew
their daily exchange with earth’s top, by toil,
Give and take, rightly, in their place.

I brush past the grandmother dog
Who stands guard between her sub-heaven and earth
She harks out advice through my dream fog:
“Take back what you’ve learned
To your own tribal nation
To your lost underground stations.

“Summon your own matriarch, ‘Lucy’
Walk bi-pedally on the ground,
Funnel water, gather wisdom stones
channel her ancient evolving sluice
You, upright being, are not alone.

“Listen to other small mammals
Both alive and those whose bones
Now enrich the place where you have grown,
Remember the prairie dog
And don’t post hate blogs.”

 August Field with Shadows

—Photo by Taylor Graham

DON QUIXOTE AND THE SUMMER SOLSTICE

He tilted at windmills, perceived threatening giants.
If Don had paid attention,
he could have used their guidance
being moved along gently by those
beautiful water pumping machines:  He
Could have learned not to “lean”
Could have observed “the scene”
Could have dropped his “mean”
Could have discovered, for him,
a haunting moment of peace.

The earth also tilts, axis at 23-1/2 degrees,
The world whirls, twirls and tilts causing
a celebration of solstice.  No one flees
or goes Quixote-mad; but stops to pause,
a moment of gated attention, before boarding
the plane bound for the land of mental freedom.

Quiet revelers listen to the slant
gaining wisdom into the designed chance
of sun, and earth; with background chants
of bird chirp, bee buzz, and silvered fish
breaking up, through water like a lance.

Our sun is a giant star; does not stand still
like the story in the old testament.
It is us, the earth, in our aligning bewild-
erment, allowing extra moments of daylight,
on one, special day of the annual dark/bright.

The sun’s design was imaginatively built
Our planet teeters off-kilter, with a tilt.
Therefore, we have summer solstice, and give
thanks while yet we stop and briefly live.
A eulogy is read:  Don Quixote is dead.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Typo of the week:

“…ham and cheddar on a freshly naked croissant.”

—Menu, Buttercup Pantry [or is that Panty?], Placerville, CA

_____________________

Welcome to Candace Flint, who has quite recently moved to Diamond Springs! Born and raised in Southern California, Candace moved to the East Bay (Martinez) in 2004. Recently retired, she now lives in Diamond Springs, enjoying the local rivers, hiking, reading, and finding expression through writing. Don’t be a stranger, Candace!

And thanks also to Taylor Graham for these photos and for introducing Candace to the Kitchen! Small world, poetry is...

—Medusa

 Prairie Dog (Lucy)

(Anonymous Photo)

Celebrate Poetry!

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