—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
SWEET LOVE
A woman sets the supper table
with one place empty.
It may be years before her husband—
her children’s father—crosses the border,
sits down with them to supper.
Some of the kids at school make fun
of her little boy; draw imaginary borders
like lines separating figures in a coloring book.
Dr. King’s dream:
little children will one day live in a nation
where they will not be judged by the color of
their skin but by the content of their character.
For now, her babes’ father can’t
come home. It’s very complicated, a legal maze.
Shifting pathways, sudden dead-ends.
She works two jobs, she makes do; keeps
a healthy table. Fresh peaches, tempting as hope.
A woman sets the supper table
with one place empty.
It may be years before her husband—
her children’s father—crosses the border,
sits down with them to supper.
Some of the kids at school make fun
of her little boy; draw imaginary borders
like lines separating figures in a coloring book.
Dr. King’s dream:
little children will one day live in a nation
where they will not be judged by the color of
their skin but by the content of their character.
For now, her babes’ father can’t
come home. It’s very complicated, a legal maze.
Shifting pathways, sudden dead-ends.
She works two jobs, she makes do; keeps
a healthy table. Fresh peaches, tempting as hope.
DOOR TO THE CASTLE
They didn’t get here by whim but on foot,
shadows moving under star-light, maybe ducking
out of sight at the growl of approaching vehicles.
They carry what they can—a child
too young to walk; water for crossing a saline
desert, its sand hot enough to cauterize
their soles. No vouchers, no passports, only
their reasons for traveling. The trip unravels
at the border. Can they hear marching
bands on the 4th, grand speeches exhorting
“let Freedom ring”?
JANUARY ALLEY
Cold hands in pockets,
I’m walking Main Street’s back-door
cut into bedrock.
So cold! but miner’s lettuce
greens among stone; and—poppies?
MADRIGAL (NO PARKING)
Scant traces those Gold Rush ghosts might leave—
our Downtown still remembering its Past
in this Present that’s moving way too fast.
Traffic on Main Street you wouldn’t believe,
parking spots exhausted, spirits aghast—
scant traces those Gold Rush ghosts might leave
our downtown, still remembering its past
but bound in the Now. No moment’s reprieve.
My dog sniffs crevices for scents amassed
out of time, yesterdays grown dim and vast.
Scant traces those Gold Rush ghosts might leave
our downtown, still remembering its past
in this present that’s moving way too fast.
BACK DOOR
On TV news, crowds gathered
at the courthouse steps. Jostling and noise.
But I was headed for a hill. Incense cedar,
red-bark madrone. Wild vines buttressing oaks
in a ravine; fallen trees creating natural
bridges. A searcher leaves the common path.
The hill wholly silent but for skitter
of spotted towhee in the brush. At the heights,
what a view! Somewhere, crowds were
dispersing into city-loud.
Blue sky absorbed the sound.
Today’s LittleNip:
SUN’S GOLD-RUSH
—Taylor Graham
Historic hotel
is haunted, its old brick walls
webbed by leafless vines
deader than ghosts, you’d say—soon
springing back to their green lives.
_____________________
Thank you, Taylor Graham, for Friday’s fine poems and photos, come of which have to do with our recent Seed of the Week: Through the Back Door of the Castle. Castles and back doors and all that mysterious stuff…
Taylor says she “read ‘Sweet Love’ at the MLK commemoration at Town Hall on the 20th; [Placerville poets] Irene Lipshin and Lara Gularte read poems also. Nice for poetry to have a voice there.”
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.
_____________________
FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!
It’s time for more contributions from Form Fiddlers! Each Friday for awhile, there will be poems posted here from some of our readers using forms—either ones which were mentioned on Medusa during the previous week, or whatever else floats through the Kitchen and the perpetually stoned mind of Medusa. If these instructions are vague, it's because they're meant to be. Just fiddle around with some forms and get them posted in the Kitchen.
How’s your Welsh? About her poetry forms today, Taylor Graham says that “Close and Far” is a Tawddgyrch Cadwynog (supposedly pronounced TOWD-girch ca-DOY-nog)—another of those tricky Welsh forms with alternate versions; see www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/tawddgyrch-cadwynog-poetic-forms/. Also today is “Madrigal” in Madrigal form (which also has various versions). See www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/madrigal-poetic-form/.
For her "Madrigal" Madrigal, see the post above. Below is a Tawddgyrch Cadwynog:
CLOSE AND FAR
—Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
A small boy’s lost
not far from here.
Come searchers near
and tramping far,
dead oak leaves tossed
to make things clear.
Our winter fear.
A dying star.
Last week we talked about the Boketto form, and it lit a fire under Carl Schwartz (Caschwa). He sent us two of them, plus a double one, plus a triple one! Check these out:
BOUNTY
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
party boat leaving harbor
brisk wind, crisp air, happiness
heading out to fishing spot
seagulls flying
at exact same pace
this will be a lucky day
for humans and birds alike
lots of fish
* * *
SHINING IN VEGAS
—Caschwa
was playing the slot machines
coin in, crank handle, watch spin
the numbers came up for me
Wow! three sevens
a winning combo
real loud bells started ringing
an attendant came over…..
paid ten bucks
* * *
THE CRASH
—Caschwa
was on my way home from work
right-turn-ready in curb lane
suddenly another car
made a right turn
from suicide lane
across three lanes of traffic
until right across my path
I hit it
other car rolled to its side
driver removed to gurney
complaining of pain in back
the police said
it was not my fault
across three lanes of traffic
until right across my path
I hit it
[In double and triple Bokettos (Boketti?), the second stanza often becomes a refrain.]
* * *
HUNTING LICENSE
—Caschwa
(response to “For Your Safety” by EG Ted Davis, Boise, ID,
Medusa’s Kitchen, 01/27/2020)
The Democratic Experiment
allowed us guns to keep our
slaves in line
then they took the slaves away
to experiment whether
that was fine
the experiment continues
something different
every day
now talk has spawned more talk
about taking our guns
clear away
we are having another election
for Experimenter
In Chief
maybe we’ll find good answers
under the next
turned leaf
And Joseph Nolan has sent us a jaunty rhyming poem about our current Seed of the Week: Peach. (Taylor Graham worked peaches into her Madrigal, too, clever girl.)
THE PEACH EATERS
—Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
The happy gnome,
Felt well at home,
In the garden
Of sweet-tree peaches.
Sweet they were,
And covered with fur,
Their juices
Ran in trenches.
From out the mouth,
And further south,
Drenching waiting chins,
With sweet sublime,
No word could rhyme,
The sweetness of their drenches!
Happy-oh, the eaters of peaches!
Whose splendor is beyond all reaches!
The sweet dribble down,
Where one’s joy is found,
Underneath the peach tree’s embraces.
______________________
Thanks to today’s Form Fiddlers; there’s always more room at the Kitchen table for fiddlers of all sorts!
—Medusa, also known as Peaches ~
—Mysterious Photo by Taylor Graham
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