—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
—And scroll down for Form Fiddlers’ Friday!
—And scroll down for Form Fiddlers’ Friday!
SHEEP ADRIFT
Old Nissan pickup labored up our drive;
woman and boy jumped out; woman charged
with language, boy silently fluent.
Bed of tiny truck fitted with plywood tunic belted
together by ropes—how could it hold
seven sheep? How to catch and get them loaded?
Worry is an infection.
The son grabbed a rope, launched himself
among stampeding hooves & wool. A bit of luck,
lots of pluck—he noosed one ewe,
then the other. Three ewe lambs, one wether—
lastly, the ram. Driver spoke
with his hands, making everything fit.
Seven sheep packed tight can barely jostle;
slap-deck roof so they wouldn’t
jump ship into speeding traffic, but still
could breathe. All safely snug. Uncertain wooly
sheep-speak. Man’s quieting hands.
They settled to his speechless tales of unknown
journey, distant green pasture.
Small truck drove gently, sheep-fully away.
Old Nissan pickup labored up our drive;
woman and boy jumped out; woman charged
with language, boy silently fluent.
Bed of tiny truck fitted with plywood tunic belted
together by ropes—how could it hold
seven sheep? How to catch and get them loaded?
Worry is an infection.
The son grabbed a rope, launched himself
among stampeding hooves & wool. A bit of luck,
lots of pluck—he noosed one ewe,
then the other. Three ewe lambs, one wether—
lastly, the ram. Driver spoke
with his hands, making everything fit.
Seven sheep packed tight can barely jostle;
slap-deck roof so they wouldn’t
jump ship into speeding traffic, but still
could breathe. All safely snug. Uncertain wooly
sheep-speak. Man’s quieting hands.
They settled to his speechless tales of unknown
journey, distant green pasture.
Small truck drove gently, sheep-fully away.
GHOST FAIRY
In September’s side-
yard garden, two hollyhock
blossoms and these few
remains of seed-pods bursting
with fluff spun silver
in end-of-summer sun. You
say it must be a
garden fairy, small dreamer’s
parachute from here
to where—so delicate, the
slightest wayfarer’s
breeze sets it adrift on air.
AT MERCY OF WEATHER
I’m adrift on Sailor Ridge, following my dog. He’s high on wind that billows grasses and cloud, wind that draws him as a hooked line, then lets him loose, fickle wind that hides in hedges, caught at edges of Brush Bunny Lane. My dog sails green waves of grass, nose scanning as if to horizon and just beyond, Mt Ararat. Could a bluster blow us that far? A lull, wind changes course. My dog’s got the scent; tacks, head-high toward a spot…
nameless on the map:
his quarry a human cast-
away to be found.
AQ INDEX
Sun’s adrift in smoke
that hangs unmoving—our gray
particulate cloak.
Mask or no mask? Are
you asking about covid
or our wildfire air?
Frog on sliding glass
door—might it be safer to
breathe inside or out?
No early runners
only people on leashes—
a dog must be walked.
Can you find the hummer?
ILLUMINATED MANGO
Luminous
times she remembers—
sharing poems in the shade
of liquidambars,
friends vying
to rival Keats or
Whitman, Stevens, Bukowski,
those who came before—
before these
days of sequester,
readings cancelled or else zoomed
or left to fester
unspoken
as undanced tangos,
or silent odes and ballads,
untasted mangos.
Luminous
times she remembers—
sharing poems in the shade
of liquidambars,
friends vying
to rival Keats or
Whitman, Stevens, Bukowski,
those who came before—
before these
days of sequester,
readings cancelled or else zoomed
or left to fester
unspoken
as undanced tangos,
or silent odes and ballads,
untasted mangos.
2020 BOB & WHEEL
Who of
us knows blessing or hurt—
our fingerprints in glove—
what is germ, what’s clean dirt—
reaching for what we love.
Adrift
on our island of earth
among the flood and rift
of time, death vs birth—
each morning’s dawning gift.
Who of
us knows blessing or hurt—
our fingerprints in glove—
what is germ, what’s clean dirt—
reaching for what we love.
Adrift
on our island of earth
among the flood and rift
of time, death vs birth—
each morning’s dawning gift.
Today’s LittleNip:
ADRIFT IN SMOKE
ADRIFT IN SMOKE
—Taylor Graham
Chipper pile—dead limbs
lopped to make us fire-safe—
lined up butt-first waiting
for chipper, blocking our drive.
How to escape the smoke
of California burning?
Must we grab our go-bags,
hope to escape fire?
______________________
Thanks to Taylor Graham this morning for pink-smoky skies, some colorful late-summer flowers, and even a wee hummingbird! As for poetry forms, she’s sending us a Choka (“Adrift”); a Senryu (or maybe Senryu-Haiku?) chain (“AQ Index”); a Naani chain (“Adrift in Smoke”); a Bob and Wheel (“2020 Bob & Wheel”); and a Haibun (“At Mercy of Weather”). And her "Illuminated Mango" is in the form of Carl Schwartz's Illumanago.
And now it’s time for Form Fiddlers’ Friday!
______________________
FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!
Chipper pile—dead limbs
lopped to make us fire-safe—
lined up butt-first waiting
for chipper, blocking our drive.
How to escape the smoke
of California burning?
Must we grab our go-bags,
hope to escape fire?
______________________
Thanks to Taylor Graham this morning for pink-smoky skies, some colorful late-summer flowers, and even a wee hummingbird! As for poetry forms, she’s sending us a Choka (“Adrift”); a Senryu (or maybe Senryu-Haiku?) chain (“AQ Index”); a Naani chain (“Adrift in Smoke”); a Bob and Wheel (“2020 Bob & Wheel”); and a Haibun (“At Mercy of Weather”). And her "Illuminated Mango" is in the form of Carl Schwartz's Illumanago.
And now it’s time for Form Fiddlers’ Friday!
______________________
FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!
Taylor Graham and some other foothill poets meet on Tuesdays (one way or another) and usually draw from a tin-can full of single, unrelated cut-out words, then use those words to write a poem, calling it a “word-can” poem. I don’t know that this is an official form, but it can be a great muse for helping you put a poem together. Here is an example, with thanks from Sue MacMahon; the “muse-words” she drew from the can are in bold:
THE WINDOWSILL
—Sue MacMahon, Cameron Park, CA
I think it is daytime
It is hard to tell with the dim light
outside, everything is a dreary grey
I hear the rustle of the wind
Which has been ferocious
with hurricane force that
blew through three states and
toppled dozens of semi trucks
My mouth is dry and
Breathing easy is a luxury
in these days with no end
Between my mask
The smoke and ash
And unknown COVID germs
And tears that fall
Life is heavy right now,
many more tears won’t fall,
One more life burned in a fire
One more death on a ventilator
Gunshots take even another life and
I stand here wearing red, white and blue
when my eyes froze looking
outside at the darkness
that had rolled in fast because
of the fires surrounding
everything and everyone,
at three in the afternoon
headlights came on, as well
as automatic security lights,
was it day or night
no one could tell in this haze,
nor cared and
the promise of a tomorrow
was lost in the orange sky
as life stood at a standstill
and ash rained down
on my windowsill
The Haiku is very popular in America, and a new way of using it has evolved, with no need for syllable counts or seasonal slants (see www.pe.com/2020/09/12/new-form-of-poetry-offers-american-take-on-the-haiku/). The important thing there is to capture a moment, to be a poet—one who notices. And Carol Louise Moon has done this very well in the following, including an homage to Sacramento’s Joyce Odam:
Joyce Odam poems rock—
boulders thrown to the wind, they
spin and levitate
my single gray hair
without apology
lies across your shoulder
she sits on pink roses
no thorn in her fur—
pink-and-white dog blanket
mustard weed
red-winged blackbird
flag of Belgium
—Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA
Joyce Odam poems rock—
boulders thrown to the wind, they
spin and levitate
my single gray hair
without apology
lies across your shoulder
she sits on pink roses
no thorn in her fur—
pink-and-white dog blanket
mustard weed
red-winged blackbird
flag of Belgium
—Carol Louise Moon, Placerville, CA
Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) has sent us a poem today that he says is a “response to the Seed of the Week (‘Hills to Climb’) and to Joyce Odam’s multiple references to white” in her post of 9/16/20:
LOW GEAR
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
sun has set
lights are off
daywear off
in the hamper
where all of it
assumes out of body
shades of off-white,
off-point, off to sleep
in the garage sits
a mountain bike
that needs repair
gears won’t change;
that small hill might
as well be a tall wall
garage door shut
lights are off
riding apparel off
in the hamper
where all of it
assumes out-of-body
shades of off-white,
off-point, off to sleep
_____________________
Many thanks to our SnakePals for their brave fiddling, and for these nods to Joyce! Would you like to be a SnakePal? All you have to do is send poetry—forms or not—and/or photos and artwork to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post work from all over the world, including that which was previously-published. Just remember: the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!
MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry forms mentioned today:
•••Bob and Wheel: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/bob-and-wheel-poetic-forms
•••Choka: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/choka OR poetscollective.org/poetryforms/choka
•••Haibun: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form
•••Haiku: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••American Haiku: www.pe.com/2020/09/12/new-form-of-poetry-offers-american-take-on-the-haiku
•••Ilumanago: Lune plus Imago in 3 5 7 5, rhymes at each end 5 (Carl Schwartz)
•••Naani: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/naani.html
•••Senryu: www.masterclass.com/articles/how-to-write-senryu-poems#quiz-0
_____________________
—Medusa
•••Senryu: www.masterclass.com/articles/how-to-write-senryu-poems#quiz-0
_____________________
—Medusa
"Uncertain wooly sheep-speak."
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan
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.
