—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
THE COYOTE AND THE RABBIT
Listen to Coyote, howling
at the Moon, his song reverberating
through canyon, haze-lit tonight.
Cold Moon of December between storms,
its rabbit-face misty as myth. Rabbit
that Coyote chased till it jumped so high
it landed on the Moon, and there
it stays. Mocking? They say, Coyote
howls at Moon because he loves
that Rabbit he chased so fervently.
Could it be frustration, not love,
makes Coyote howl? No more rabbits
on this land. Does Coyote howl
for love of the chase
that is no more? I step outside
into cold damp December,
gaze upward. Inscrutable, the misty-
myth face of Moon. Even after
lunar landings, and Man walking
on Moon—Coyote and I
stop in our earthly tracks and howl.
It’s natural.
STRESS OF THE HOUR
1 line/60 minutes of waking morning
A sock for each foot by light of the wireless box—
the flibbertigibbet of wifi on a dark weekday.
TV news is bad as yesterday, turn it down/off.
On Bedford I’m perpendicular to rush hour,
sadly joining the downstream flow into gray.
Dried apricots in their bin like soft sweet gems.
The cat plays keyboard making sx7y typos.
Measure de-stressing in strokes of a dog’s ear,
poems read by lanternlight in a blackout.
STRESS RELIEF
“Just lie down,” she said. You did, wide awake in afternoon with slant-December light slicing the window, stress ticking the resting pulse bidding it run faster. You got up, walked out the door. A chilly breeze set bare branches waving. Oak cloaked with green-velvet moss. One step and then the next, a new image opens with every footfall. Where did all this come from and what is it for? Scrub-Jay swinging from the feeder; Flicker lifting off the grass, flashing white against red wing-feathers.
what brought you out here?
pulse keeping easy rhythm
with slow-dancing heart
PUBLIC ART?
I drove downtown to photograph Snowshoe Thompson painted in mural-immortality on a shop wall just off Main Street. But Snowshoe, legendary mail-carrier over snowbound Sierra, was gone—all but the tips of his skis —covered not by snow but a gigantic SALE sign. It’s December. Everything Must Go!
So public art yields
to holiday shopping which,
like mail, must go through!
WHERE’S SNOWSHOE THOMPSON?
mural of historic ski-carrier of U.S. Mail, Genoa, NV to Placerville, CA
ALL SALES FINAL! precisely
over public art:
a fine mural concisely
showing our town’s heart.
Snowshoe’s wintery Sierra
by White Sale’s been bleached?
But our timeless Ski-era
his mail long-since reached.
ALL SALES FINAL! precisely
over public art:
a fine mural concisely
showing our town’s heart.
Snowshoe’s wintery Sierra
by White Sale’s been bleached?
But our timeless Ski-era
his mail long-since reached.
NEW-YEAR HERON
In the fenced garden and fields, in hollows
underneath, ground-squirrels ripen
like cabbages. While we’re not watching,
they scuttle and feed, sleep and multiply.
So many, they fall through the talons
of hawks. Every summer
we curse their daylight dashes, watch
our tended rows vanish, tooth by tooth;
almost give up on harvest.
Is it worth planting a garden
for the new year?
But look, in the field: patient as time,
as if stopped
in its evolution; prehistoric silhouette
of blue heron, hunting
as Time does, as if motionless,
moving without seeming
its yellow eye, its sun.
Today’s LittleNip:
AN OLD YEAR DYING
—Taylor Graham
If all else fails we’ll
get a brand-new Seed of the
Week, come next Tuesday.
_____________________
Indeed you will, Taylor Graham; our Seed of the Week is definitely a fixture for the next year! About her poetry today, she says, “New-Year Heron” is from my most recent book, Windows of Time and Place (Cold River Press) and “Public Art?” and “Where's Snowshoe Thompson” are (of course) two versions of the same subject, and examples of how different forms have their very different ways with the same subject (no surprise, but the ‘cro cumaisc etir casbairdne ocus lethrannaigecht’—one of those tricky Irish forms—really took over!)”. Medusa says, don’t bust your brain over “those tricky Irish forms”, but if you, too, get swept up by the cro cumaisc etir casbairdne ocus lethrannaigecht (always a danger in life!), go to www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/cro-cumaisc-etir-casbairdni-ocus-lethrannaigecht-poetic-forms/.
For up-coming poetry events in our area, scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info—and note that more may be added at the last minute.
—Medusa, celebrating the Cold Moon of December, and the Rabbit it carries ~
—Anonymous
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.
