Dark Fungus
—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
THE LATEST HITS
O music of the shredder playing tunes
of yesteryear, the not-so-golden oldies, how
they repeat repeat like a stuck record. Tax returns
of the ‘90s and before, when you were young
and full of future hope. Why can’t you get those
old songs out of your head? Brain-worms
that leave you dizzy with nostalgia for the good-
old days when—remember when your dad
filled out his tax returns by hand, at one sitting?
One easy set….
Turn off the machine. It’s a never ending LP
that skips, you can’t understand the words.
There, you’re done with 1998. Turn off
the shredder. Go outside and listen
for some bird song.
IN AN UPLAND FIELD
I listened… lying flat on my back while my eyes hunted out the little palpitating mote of music among the netted sunbeams.
—Elihu Burritt, A Walk from London to Land’s End
The skylark—does it rise on song or wings?
this small brown, short-tailed bird a-light with praise.
You’d swear a spirit of the heavens sings
and soars, and such a glad heart upward flings
until it disappears beyond your gaze.
The skylark rises on its song-like wings,
this passerine that halts your travel, brings
you to your knees. Can simple birds amaze?
You’d swear a spirit of the heavens sings
you to the ground. And here you lie. Courts, kings,
and congresses are but a human craze.
The skylark—does it rise on song or wings
to bear you far beyond your reckonings
of time and progress, fields where cattle graze?
You’d swear a spirit of the heavens sings
your journey’s footsore miles. The rapture clings,
suffuses firmament with joy ablaze.
You’d swear a spirit of the heavens sings
as skylark rises on its song like wings.
NO LION IN A CAGE
It’s a cougar in the kitchen. Home-
owner, you wonder how it found its way
running from direction mountain—that night-
dark area of pines—past the residence just
opposite your own rural yard; levered your door,
dead-bolt locked or not, on its hinges to discover
if it might be time for human dinner. Wild
disturbance! Frightening. Predator feline
pushing the civilized envelope right into
your nail- and lumber-studded cage.
January Dog Romp
SONG OF THE GLASS BORDER
Outside the sliding glass door
a ground-squirrel’s gorged on seed
scattered by finches at the feeder.
Inside sliding glass, the dog
is going shattering-insane.
No use bidding him be quiet.
He’ll capture that creature!
smash the glass door,
dominate the redwood deck.
He leaps against unyielding glass,
7-league swashbuckler on stilts
invisible as air.
War’s peace at home
held harmless at the border,
the sliding glass door.
Natoman
RIVER CHORUS
Prospector squats at current’s edge, swirling
water in his pan with its till of bedrock
from far upstream. Rock Creek or Traverse,
maybe farther yet upcountry, Silver Creek or
Silver Fork, through Chili Bar to Coloma—
Culluma in the native tongue. River with its own
language accented by weather, mountain uplift
and erosion, human diggings and diversions
to its flow. So many channels join this water,
river that’s borne so many names: Natoman,
Kum Mayo, Río de las Llagas, the American.
The man is busy with his gold pan. Can he hear
the water’s music? He’s stopped in its eddy,
hoping it’s glimmer heavier than fool’s gold
that he’ll see, weighted down where he squats
as the old river improvises its song
from snowmelt down to sea.
PASSWORD
Each day he walked on quiet feet to see—
to stalk—some insight in the canopy
of oaks, their foliage in a slant of light
opening, floating up beyond his sight.
Was there an answer in that old gnarled tree?
There ought to be an open-sesame;
a combination absolute; a key
unlocking secrets thus-far locked up tight.
Each day he walked
and searched a code beyond his scrutiny,
a cipher dodging O-just-let-it-be!—
a wordless password shadowed and yet bright
ascending then diminishing to night
whose darkness seemed determined to set free
each day he walked.
Today’s LittleNip:
FROM THE OLD LANGUAGE
—Taylor Graham
Man heard, giving axe to dark, what fire
gave to wood, fat on the spit. Did he hear,
in that spit of fire to ashes, the flow of black,
the pull of the old worm? his own voice crying,
o thou mother, who art thou and what are we?
____________________
Many Medusa-thanks to Taylor Graham for poems today, about tax season starting, some music riffs (our recent Seed of the Week: Music), and a skylark poem from her book of poetry (Walking with Elihu: Poems on Elihu Burrit, The Learned Blacksmith), a poem which she sent us because of Claire J. Baker’s recent skylark poem and post on Medusa (1/10/18).
Today at noon, Third Thursdays at the Central Library read-around focuses on poetry (preferably by someone other than yourself) about beginnings and endings and time, celebrating the new year. Then tonight, Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe presents Kae Sable, Todd Boyd and open mic in Sacramento, 8pm. And also tonight, Poetry in Davis presents Angela James, Laura Rosenthal and open mic at John Natsoulas Gallery in Davis, also at 8pm. 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
—Anonymous Photo
For more about pumas, go to justfunfacts.com/interesting-facts-about-pumas/.
And celebrate poetry!
And celebrate poetry!
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