—Anonymous Photo Courtesy of Sue Crisp,
Shingle Springs, CA
—Poems by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
PATCHES
for Sue
No sense getting mad at a gift
from grandfather—family inheritance
of a sort. Humungous piebald,
handsome hunk of horse, way too tall
for you kids. Good enough
on the ground—but on her back, an eight-
second ride and you’d be rodeo queen.
Did you ever stay up that long?
Just mounting was a feat—flashing teeth
and storming hooves.
Once astride, it was whirlaway
to the far end of pasture, Patches trying
every move known to horsedom
to throw you.
Remember that big loud guy
who swore he could ride her? Patches
did a crazy trick with the girth,
he was hanging
upside down headed full tilt
for the gate. But you rode her,
for moments at a time,
like a duty, a quest.
Somehow you survived. After Patches,
all the other stuff fate has thrown
at you—husbands, predatory bosses,
health going south—is just stuff.
Maybe it was Patches who made you
such a tough lady.
NISENAN MEADOW
Sky’s low this morning,
chill wind instead of birdsong
in catkin willow.
Cedar-bark tepees heavy
with silent echo of drums.
WHAT DID I SEE?
Hundreds of tiny wet stars
on the rainy deck this morning?—no,
that’s birdseed scattered by titmouse,
finch, junco at the feeder. Imagine
birds are actually stars flitting in and out
of constellation. That nuthatch,
clinging upside-down to a post, waiting
its turn at the feeder—maybe when it flicks
its quicker-than-blink bright wings
into motion, it’s the newest
heavenly body. Do the dying stars
wish they had wings?
MUSE OF RAINSTORM
Colossal storm in our little canyon. Muse hit the roof like inspiration, sliding down the pitch, singing in the gutters, the whole choir directed by a husky gale. This county doesn’t lie flat or predictable. Were we flooded? Our culverts, meant to transfer Stone Mountain runoff downstream toward the delta—that’s the ideal scheme. Muse has different ideas. Swirls of muddy water with small branches, dead leaves, punctured beach ball, hunter’s decoy (blue-wing teal) from up the hill. All caught at our culverts. Whirlpool rising over driveway. The Muse of Rainstorm makes a mess of a poem, love-hate ode to water in a dry land.
mallard floats on pond—
feathers bright as the morning
after all that rain
TRAMPING SONG
That old Hebrides folk song for walking
our dogs at bedtime, tramping come-along song;
feet keeping the rhythm going—
not a song of parting. Dogs scenting mist
from the pond, as man and frogs sing the tang
of bog and peat; the call of sea and shore
in these foothills so far from ocean.
Call of rain that makes our creek run wild,
singing the chanty of ocean calling its waters.
Tonight it’s raining. After evening’s walk
I’m toweling Loki dry in old russet terrycloth
favored by generations of dogs.
She pushes her face into fabric,
in anticipation of her bedtime biscuit,
and joy of tramping dog-feet on wet soil.
DON’T GET MAD, GET THINKING
for Latches
So, you unplugged my bread-machine as the loaf was in its final rise. You disconnected my external drive in the midst of a backup. Who do you think you are, stealing a wallet off the table? You, who’d get back in my good graces by tickling my hand with your whiskers. Your seductive purr. Getting mad at you is useless. You just curl up in what was my favorite chair. I take precautions: fortify the bread-maker, do backups behind closed doors. Last night, the last straw. You stole the pen I keep beside the bed for catching scraps of dreams and poems. Yes, I got mad. Then I leashed a new pen to the bedstead by a chain.
inscrutable cat
eyes peer through almost closed lids
innocent cat-nap
Today’s LittleNip:
WATER SONG
—Taylor Graham
Rain carols with rain
as it clears out the gutters,
rushes the dry creek.
Voice of rain is song of praise
where creek becomes the river.
_____________________
Our thanks to Taylor Graham this morning for her fine poems and photos, and to Sue Crisp for hunting up the photo of the horse similar to her Patches! Sign up now for Observing Spring at Wakamatsu Farm: exploring the first Japanese colony in N. America, then writing a poem (and taking photos if you wish) a week from Sunday, March 24, led by Taylor Graham and Katy Brown. Info: www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry/photos/a.1238391289535096/2818564331517776/?type=3&theater/.
Tonight at Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento, NSAA will read (plus open mic) 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
for Sue
No sense getting mad at a gift
from grandfather—family inheritance
of a sort. Humungous piebald,
handsome hunk of horse, way too tall
for you kids. Good enough
on the ground—but on her back, an eight-
second ride and you’d be rodeo queen.
Did you ever stay up that long?
Just mounting was a feat—flashing teeth
and storming hooves.
Once astride, it was whirlaway
to the far end of pasture, Patches trying
every move known to horsedom
to throw you.
Remember that big loud guy
who swore he could ride her? Patches
did a crazy trick with the girth,
he was hanging
upside down headed full tilt
for the gate. But you rode her,
for moments at a time,
like a duty, a quest.
Somehow you survived. After Patches,
all the other stuff fate has thrown
at you—husbands, predatory bosses,
health going south—is just stuff.
Maybe it was Patches who made you
such a tough lady.
NISENAN MEADOW
Sky’s low this morning,
chill wind instead of birdsong
in catkin willow.
Cedar-bark tepees heavy
with silent echo of drums.
WHAT DID I SEE?
Hundreds of tiny wet stars
on the rainy deck this morning?—no,
that’s birdseed scattered by titmouse,
finch, junco at the feeder. Imagine
birds are actually stars flitting in and out
of constellation. That nuthatch,
clinging upside-down to a post, waiting
its turn at the feeder—maybe when it flicks
its quicker-than-blink bright wings
into motion, it’s the newest
heavenly body. Do the dying stars
wish they had wings?
MUSE OF RAINSTORM
Colossal storm in our little canyon. Muse hit the roof like inspiration, sliding down the pitch, singing in the gutters, the whole choir directed by a husky gale. This county doesn’t lie flat or predictable. Were we flooded? Our culverts, meant to transfer Stone Mountain runoff downstream toward the delta—that’s the ideal scheme. Muse has different ideas. Swirls of muddy water with small branches, dead leaves, punctured beach ball, hunter’s decoy (blue-wing teal) from up the hill. All caught at our culverts. Whirlpool rising over driveway. The Muse of Rainstorm makes a mess of a poem, love-hate ode to water in a dry land.
mallard floats on pond—
feathers bright as the morning
after all that rain
TRAMPING SONG
That old Hebrides folk song for walking
our dogs at bedtime, tramping come-along song;
feet keeping the rhythm going—
not a song of parting. Dogs scenting mist
from the pond, as man and frogs sing the tang
of bog and peat; the call of sea and shore
in these foothills so far from ocean.
Call of rain that makes our creek run wild,
singing the chanty of ocean calling its waters.
Tonight it’s raining. After evening’s walk
I’m toweling Loki dry in old russet terrycloth
favored by generations of dogs.
She pushes her face into fabric,
in anticipation of her bedtime biscuit,
and joy of tramping dog-feet on wet soil.
Latches
DON’T GET MAD, GET THINKING
for Latches
So, you unplugged my bread-machine as the loaf was in its final rise. You disconnected my external drive in the midst of a backup. Who do you think you are, stealing a wallet off the table? You, who’d get back in my good graces by tickling my hand with your whiskers. Your seductive purr. Getting mad at you is useless. You just curl up in what was my favorite chair. I take precautions: fortify the bread-maker, do backups behind closed doors. Last night, the last straw. You stole the pen I keep beside the bed for catching scraps of dreams and poems. Yes, I got mad. Then I leashed a new pen to the bedstead by a chain.
inscrutable cat
eyes peer through almost closed lids
innocent cat-nap
Today’s LittleNip:
WATER SONG
—Taylor Graham
Rain carols with rain
as it clears out the gutters,
rushes the dry creek.
Voice of rain is song of praise
where creek becomes the river.
_____________________
Our thanks to Taylor Graham this morning for her fine poems and photos, and to Sue Crisp for hunting up the photo of the horse similar to her Patches! Sign up now for Observing Spring at Wakamatsu Farm: exploring the first Japanese colony in N. America, then writing a poem (and taking photos if you wish) a week from Sunday, March 24, led by Taylor Graham and Katy Brown. Info: www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry/photos/a.1238391289535096/2818564331517776/?type=3&theater/.
—Medusa
After all that rain…
—Photo by Taylor Graham
—Photo by Taylor Graham
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.