—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
HOLY NIGHT WITH BELLS
Remember when we were stuck in a snow-
bank on the 4W road to the cow-camp.
We couldn’t muscle the truck out—
arms, shovel, boot-stomping the shoulder
of the blade.
So we camped right there.
Like the time the VW Kombi broke down
on Christmas Eve. Second nature,
to travel with camping gear, when you
go adventuring.
Our dogs set off exploring, finding
new paths as we made camp. Memory
plays with our stories, mixes them together,
makes them legend.
Mountain nights are cold as onyx;
dizzy with stars; wind-harps and angel-
scarves in flickering red and green, every
color of Northern Lights.
Our dogs kept us warm as shepherds’
sheep as we crossed the invisible line
to sleep, to another holy day:
bells not meant to be heard out loud.
And all those stars!
CHRISTMAS SHIFT
Typewriter Improv Poetry at the Artists Co-op
Ten more shopping days. My Royal has
a blank sheet waiting for a word, a sentence,
poem on-request of a stranger. It all starts
when someone walks in the gallery door, out
of Main Street’s bright garlands hung like
unrung bells. Here, Art is the illumination,
vibrant flow of line, color, words. Oh where’s
a lone seeker among the crowd? just one
traveler of Imagination… Everyone’s heading
head-down preoccupied elsewhere, not into
this gallery, with its watercolor of Waxwings,
its photograph of wild Mustangs in a blizzard;
my unwritten ode to an old moon-eye Dog
at wakeful watch for Master at midnight.
WALK ON THE RIDGE TRAIL
Smudge of storm’s gone behind Baltic Peak.
Breeze sends a fallen leaf skating
on frozen puddle. Silence.
No. Birdsong. Wings bustle in bare limbs
of the great black oak festooned in mistletoe.
Bluebird and titmouse, one after another
plucking snippets of cheer,
berries a Christmas gift for wintering birds.
CHRISTMAS TREE BELLS
at the tree preserve
As I walked among the giant Christmas trees,
a bell rang in my head. Something
out of place. Familiar leaf-feather grace of—
eucalyptus? glimpsed through boughs
of ponderosa pine and white fir. I skirted
the ravine, climbed up the ridge and there—one
eucalyptus among conifers. Its leafy
greenery, its bell-shaped pods.
Back at the station, I asked “what’s
with the eucalyptus?” The keepers insisted,
“Not in our plantation. A fire hazard.
Impossible.” I showed them my iPad photo.
“We never planted it,” they averred.
A bird must have dropped its seed right
where I found it. My pantlegs starred with stick-
tights. Christmas-tree bells in my head.
As I walked among the giant Christmas trees,
a bell rang in my head. Something
out of place. Familiar leaf-feather grace of—
eucalyptus? glimpsed through boughs
of ponderosa pine and white fir. I skirted
the ravine, climbed up the ridge and there—one
eucalyptus among conifers. Its leafy
greenery, its bell-shaped pods.
Back at the station, I asked “what’s
with the eucalyptus?” The keepers insisted,
“Not in our plantation. A fire hazard.
Impossible.” I showed them my iPad photo.
“We never planted it,” they averred.
A bird must have dropped its seed right
where I found it. My pantlegs starred with stick-
tights. Christmas-tree bells in my head.
BACH IN THE FOREST
Chiming in the trees
louder with wind—a pause
then we’re stepping carefully
over fallen leaves and needles step
by step as if each indelible
caught in mud or crystal frost—
a crow overhead—no, the tilt-wing
sweep that brushes clear
the sky, an old year on this earth
beneath our feet, a distance-
haze, and look! a lake
too far below us to be found
on our map, blue waves scoring
music played by wind
a riffle on the mind passing as
morning afternoon and evening
soft and softer fading away to dark
of forest, its silent night vision.
RAT TRAP BLUES
(a paradelle for year’s end)
The rats hang a-round cause we feed ‘em.
The rats hang a-round cause we feed ‘em…
there’s scuttling in the corners.
There’s scuttling in the corners!
There’s ‘em scuttling round, hangin’
the corners cause-a the rats we feed.
They shred plastic, the important papers.
They shred plastic—the important papers!
They’re gonna take over the world,
they’re gonna take over the world.
They’re over the important plastic world.
Take the papers!—shred they gonna.
They eat the cheese, they trip the trap.
They eat the cheese, they trip the trap,
they get away slick as a rat.
They get away slick as a rat,
they eat the trip-trap,
they slick away the cheese. They rat.
Cause-a the important trap-slick
world, we trip over a rat in the feed.
Eat papers they’re gonna. Hang!
As they take the corners they plastic ‘em.
Away! They the rats scuttling shred
around the cheese. They get!
Today’s LittleNip:
BREATHING SUNSET
—Taylor Graham
Through a reef of oaks on the west hill,
the sky’s a wash of color. Not pink,
not orange, a watercolor mix that wavers
hues between daylight’s bold palette
and night’s black ink. My iPad camera
can never capture sunset. Sky
is ever-tiding ocean above us, changing
shades as we watch. Hold your breath
to see, for just this moment, such color.
__________________
Our thanks to Taylor Graham as her poems move us into the twelve days of Christmas—plus a sassy paradelle for the coming new year! The Paradelle is a modern poetic form invented by Billy Collins as a parody of the villanelle. For more about it, go to www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/paradelle.html/.
—Medusa
—Anony-mouse
Celebrate poetry!
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