—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
SCREAM IN THE NIGHT
Five a.m., what’s that shrilling down the dark?
Five-headed banshee having claws ripped out?
yet none of our home dogs daring to bark.
At half-cocked sliding door, I stand in doubt.
A neighbor’s gatepost lamp across the swale
stands vigilant as lighthouse in a gale.
And still the screaming’s constant, muffled, far,
unchanging as dead-dark before the day.
Down the county road rushes someone’s car
hurrying to somewhere, or just away,
its tires on chip-seal like a fingernail
run down the chalkboard. But look, there’s a pale
line of light along the ridge, while dead-dark
keeps our valley; but now the cries are gone,
shut tight in the hold of an unlit ark.
Silent daylight begins to wash our lawn
and still the question’s hanging like a blade.
What was the beast that all that shrieking made?
MY UNKNOWN LAND
This never-ending chore
of early morning, “eating weed”—
annual grasses turned flammable and dead.
Oh I might pay to have it done, instead.
But it’s a joy, whacking full-speed
through the bull-thistle’s core,
felling wild oats grown taller than my head,
and finding where my new trails lead
through land I’ve known before—
no mystery in store….
Look, this fresh sapling, sprung from seed
dropped by what bird, from what far watershed?
IN THE NEWSPAPER,
a cow-camp meadow under crystal peaks—
the photo’s just a newsprint replica
that haunts, a landscape dulled by window glass.
They say the meadow’s open, can be reached
by anyone with four-wheel-drive on hair-
pin turns, and time to take long hikes. I long
to be there when the meadow’s wild with bloom
or brittling seed-pod at the cusp of fall,
the willow thickets catching at a breeze
that’s shiver-chill. Remember summer dawns
we’d wake to ice on water bucket; fill
the blackened coffee pot and start our day
that ended with a drive back home—too soon.
That ghost that sails the daylight is the moon.
SUMMER CIRCUIT
I take my walk in reverse from old-dog graveyard where live critters undermine the dead; under oak trees posted as if waiting out summer for rain. The land silent. Spring grasses sunburned brittle, stickery brown. One sapling live-oak has pushed through, one spot of vibrant green; it survives on its own. I climb the hill, the slope creating its small breeze, a blessing of July. At the top, I dismantle this year’s house-wren nest—a jumble of twigs, whitewashed to suggest chicks safely fledged. The nest-cup, hidden all nesting season in that labyrinth of twigs, is a marvel; strings of disintegrated turquoise tarp woven in a careful bowl with down-feathers to cushion the babes.
from somewhere above
comes calling a scold—House Wren
still guarding her own
CLEARCUT
What does distance say?
Smoke is what’s left of fire.
Why does Raven fly?
A cedar snag hums its life
long after the loggers leave.
Think myself to tree
split and hollowed by lightning,
held in place by stone.
If I step inside, who could
find me, the tree’s eyes
set in a landscape so changed?
The lost boy wandered
mazes of thorny hillside.
He peeled translucent
globes of gooseberry and drank
prickly-sweet cups of crimson.
How does the earth spin?
Does the mountain rise so high
thin air can’t hold it?
Our packs have grown too heavy
to contain a wander-trail.
Dust keeps our footprints
a moment then wipes them out—
we follow the wind.
LADY LUCK BE YOUR GUIDE
Night is marked by gibbous moon-gleam
that drones the alley behind Main—combo music
punctured by jitter-chilling shriek—
bragging rights of that sneaky old Tom
atop the propane tank, a tawny cougar
to pounce on journeyers gone astray.
*
To pounce on journeyers gone astray
atop the propane tank, a tawny cougar
night is marked by gibbous moon-gleam
punctured by jitter-chilling shriek
that drones the alley behind Main, combo music
(bragging rights of that sneaky old Tom).
*
Bragging rights of that sneaky old Tom
punctured by jitter-chilling shriek
atop the propane tank, a tawny cougar
that drones the alley behind Main. Combo music
night is marked by gibbous moon-gleam
to pounce on journeyers gone astray.
Today’s LittleNip:
SPECTATING
—Taylor Graham
How intricate is Spider’s web
suspended silken in so fine
a gauze for air to flow and ebb.
The window’s open like a sign
of “welcome, Fly.” Spider’s design
is sleight-of-eye, silk string to pluck.
What chance? Fate is crystalline,
opaque as is the face of Luck.
__________________
Many thanks to Taylor Graham for today’s fine poems and pix! Placerville’s Tuesday at Two workshop has done a form-a-day throughout July, and TG has posted some of hers here. Can you identify the forms? “In the Newspaper,” for example, is a Smith sonnet.
Two choices tonight for poetry readings: Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento, 8pm, with featured readers and open mic; or The Love Jones “Best Love Poem” Competition at Laughs Unlimited in Old Sac, 8:30pm. 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
… to pounce on journeyers gone astray…
—Anonymous Photo
Celebrate the poetry of the wild!
—Anonymous Photo
Celebrate the poetry of the wild!
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then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
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