—Poetry by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
—And scroll down to Form Fiddlers’ Friday!!
REMEMBERING SHEEP
organically fertilized fields
Our ewes are gone, but how they linger still,
the pasturage they browsed now overgrown
with knee-high green concealing every stone,
stout grasses laced by vetch’s purple frill.
Our tricky ewes could never get their fill
but longed for greener fields beyond our own,
Our ewes are gone, but how they linger still,
the pasturage they browsed now overgrown.
Foxtail, bunch-grass, thistle—an iron will,
dense and tough, soon brown—a red-flag zone
just waiting for a spark by north-wind sown.
All summer I’ll mow what ghost-sheep distill.
Our ewes are gone, but how they linger still.
organically fertilized fields
Our ewes are gone, but how they linger still,
the pasturage they browsed now overgrown
with knee-high green concealing every stone,
stout grasses laced by vetch’s purple frill.
Our tricky ewes could never get their fill
but longed for greener fields beyond our own,
Our ewes are gone, but how they linger still,
the pasturage they browsed now overgrown.
Foxtail, bunch-grass, thistle—an iron will,
dense and tough, soon brown—a red-flag zone
just waiting for a spark by north-wind sown.
All summer I’ll mow what ghost-sheep distill.
Our ewes are gone, but how they linger still.
OUT OF TOWN
Country roads and 4-lane thoroughfares named for old-time ranches. Subdivided now, asphalt fields. Keep moving. Condos without cease, gray roofs climbing a hill topped by McMansion maybe bigger than the town of Latrobe. A part of our county I’ve never driven or, if years ago, how could I know? so changed! Farther out from suburbs, remains of an old rock wall. Three horses in a field under tremendous billowy dark-bottom clouds. We’re arriving at spring. Willows in pale-bright catkin. No place to stop, no shoulder on this winding 2-lane with traffic bound for business. I’m not driving fast enough, looking for the first or last daffodil.
Do ghosts of cattle care?
The hills go on greening
in hope or desperation.
Country roads and 4-lane thoroughfares named for old-time ranches. Subdivided now, asphalt fields. Keep moving. Condos without cease, gray roofs climbing a hill topped by McMansion maybe bigger than the town of Latrobe. A part of our county I’ve never driven or, if years ago, how could I know? so changed! Farther out from suburbs, remains of an old rock wall. Three horses in a field under tremendous billowy dark-bottom clouds. We’re arriving at spring. Willows in pale-bright catkin. No place to stop, no shoulder on this winding 2-lane with traffic bound for business. I’m not driving fast enough, looking for the first or last daffodil.
Do ghosts of cattle care?
The hills go on greening
in hope or desperation.
POND FLIGHT
Cattails split open—
dark cocoons transforming to
so many white wings
Cattails split open—
dark cocoons transforming to
so many white wings
GHAZAL OF GRASS
Spring equinox—all about growing green
thru deadfall leaves, sun’s slant light sowing green.
In pasture, milk cows were ruminating
and the boss-lady Jersey lowing green.
Between rains the old secret manifests
in new leaves tinting sky, wind blowing green.
Last year’s machine started right up running—
I balance on slick rocks, I’m mowing green.
Trampling on miner’s lettuce as I go,
brandishing my Stihl—oh, I’m rowing green.
Unnamed shoots and sprouts soon turning red-flag
flammable—when shall I be knowing green?
Spring equinox—all about growing green
thru deadfall leaves, sun’s slant light sowing green.
In pasture, milk cows were ruminating
and the boss-lady Jersey lowing green.
Between rains the old secret manifests
in new leaves tinting sky, wind blowing green.
Last year’s machine started right up running—
I balance on slick rocks, I’m mowing green.
Trampling on miner’s lettuce as I go,
brandishing my Stihl—oh, I’m rowing green.
Unnamed shoots and sprouts soon turning red-flag
flammable—when shall I be knowing green?
BLOOMING
The first daffodil
already faded—others
in yellow blooming
there, on the hill across from
graves of old dogs passed away.
The first daffodil
already faded—others
in yellow blooming
there, on the hill across from
graves of old dogs passed away.
LET’S FLY THE WIND
We met at the complex closed for business
on a bright chill Saturday, its sky and clouds.
Wind sweeps white blossoms off pavement—
so much bright-fall we miss in the dark.
Our dogs lift noses to scents gone wild;
we stayed masked in the wind’s Unknown.
So much we haven’t heard in North wind’s
news, invisible merchandise, its song.
We have no kites, just legs for keeping up
with our dogs pursuing flyaway scent.
You call your mask a sail, for faraway,
safe journeying on a fresh Spring wind.
We met at the complex closed for business
on a bright chill Saturday, its sky and clouds.
Wind sweeps white blossoms off pavement—
so much bright-fall we miss in the dark.
Our dogs lift noses to scents gone wild;
we stayed masked in the wind’s Unknown.
So much we haven’t heard in North wind’s
news, invisible merchandise, its song.
We have no kites, just legs for keeping up
with our dogs pursuing flyaway scent.
You call your mask a sail, for faraway,
safe journeying on a fresh Spring wind.
Today’s LittleNip:
STILL GREEN?!
—Taylor Graham
Between
journal pages,
keeping last Spring pressed—one
green bud.
_______________________
It’s Friday, and as with every Friday, we’re privileged with poetry and photos of the Sierra foothills from Poet Extraordinaire Taylor Graham, who also has a knack with and an interest in forms. The forms she sends us today are a Rondel (“Remembering Sheep”); Aquarian (“Still Green?!”); Ghazal (1 traditional & 1 variation: “Ghazal of Green” & “Let's Fly the Wind”) plus Haiku, Haibun & Tanka. (My spellchecker said the Haibun was a Halibut, but I’m betting that’s not true.)
And now it’s time for . . .
STILL GREEN?!
—Taylor Graham
Between
journal pages,
keeping last Spring pressed—one
green bud.
_______________________
It’s Friday, and as with every Friday, we’re privileged with poetry and photos of the Sierra foothills from Poet Extraordinaire Taylor Graham, who also has a knack with and an interest in forms. The forms she sends us today are a Rondel (“Remembering Sheep”); Aquarian (“Still Green?!”); Ghazal (1 traditional & 1 variation: “Ghazal of Green” & “Let's Fly the Wind”) plus Haiku, Haibun & Tanka. (My spellchecker said the Haibun was a Halibut, but I’m betting that’s not true.)
And now it’s time for . . .
FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!
Our Fiddlers’ Challenge last week was the Aquarian, and we were honored to hear from BritPal Neil Fullwood! Here is his nimble Aquarian:
AQUARIAN
—Neil Fullwood, Nottingham, UK
But why
Aquarian,
the horoscope demands:
why not
Taurean,
Cancerian
or Sagittarian?
A shrug
comes back
as poetry
insists on rules that make
no sense.
Carl Schwartz (Caschwa) also sent us Aquarians, two of them, centered:
WISH LIST
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
be gone
my bad habits
overstayed your welcome
leave now
***
name badge
is required on
all flora and fauna
get one
***
spell out
those acronyms
don’t MSRP me
ever
***
a drone
can show more than
people can understand
like sex
_________________
OK UNTIL
—Caschwa
OK
poking needles
to check my blood sugar
daily
but when
the TV shows
abundant blood splatter
exit
can’t swim
in deep water
that is my own life blood
no thanks
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
be gone
my bad habits
overstayed your welcome
leave now
***
name badge
is required on
all flora and fauna
get one
***
spell out
those acronyms
don’t MSRP me
ever
***
a drone
can show more than
people can understand
like sex
_________________
OK UNTIL
—Caschwa
OK
poking needles
to check my blood sugar
daily
but when
the TV shows
abundant blood splatter
exit
can’t swim
in deep water
that is my own life blood
no thanks
Joyce Odam sent us a Pantoum, using the following definition: "A Malay repeating form in which the second and fourth lines of each stanza become the first and third lines of the next one. (In the last stanza, ideally, the second and fourth lines repeat the opening stanza’s first and third lines, bringing the pantoum full circle.)" Joyce has repeated the gist of the lines, rather than copy them exactly:
THE SMALL WOODS
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
There is a woods that keeps its wilderness,
a fallen tree-log stretched over a stream
where children like to cross. Swift water
glints beneath. Trees fleck golden in the air.
The tree-log settles above the rushing stream.
Nothing sinister here.
Gold trees dapple the air.
The sky is blue. Leaves drift down.
There’s nothing sinister,
the daylight lasting from dawn to dusk
with sky that’s blue forever, leaves drifting down,
and nothing but play to do.
The brimming daylight lasts from dawn to dusk,
the children serious, centered, alone,
with nothing but play to do.
exploring time, and life, themselves.
The brimming daylight lasts from dawn to dusk,
the children serious, centered, alone,
with nothing but play to do—
exploring time, and life, themselves.
Serious children. Centered. Each alone
on the log-bridge, the gurgling water close beneath
as they enter time—and life—themselves—
the small, still woods keeping its wilderness.
THE SMALL WOODS
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA
There is a woods that keeps its wilderness,
a fallen tree-log stretched over a stream
where children like to cross. Swift water
glints beneath. Trees fleck golden in the air.
The tree-log settles above the rushing stream.
Nothing sinister here.
Gold trees dapple the air.
The sky is blue. Leaves drift down.
There’s nothing sinister,
the daylight lasting from dawn to dusk
with sky that’s blue forever, leaves drifting down,
and nothing but play to do.
The brimming daylight lasts from dawn to dusk,
the children serious, centered, alone,
with nothing but play to do.
exploring time, and life, themselves.
The brimming daylight lasts from dawn to dusk,
the children serious, centered, alone,
with nothing but play to do—
exploring time, and life, themselves.
Serious children. Centered. Each alone
on the log-bridge, the gurgling water close beneath
as they enter time—and life—themselves—
the small, still woods keeping its wilderness.
And here is a lovely wee poem that Claire Baker calls “a simple Cinquain”:
PUDDLES ON A SUNNY LANE
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
(for Jannie Dresser)
Hearing
droplets of rain,
that lingered for awhile,
evaporate now back into
the sky
____________________
Many thanks to our SnakePals for their brave fiddling! 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!
____________________
FIDDLERS’ CHALLENGE!
PUDDLES ON A SUNNY LANE
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
(for Jannie Dresser)
Hearing
droplets of rain,
that lingered for awhile,
evaporate now back into
the sky
____________________
Many thanks to our SnakePals for their brave fiddling! 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!
____________________
FIDDLERS’ CHALLENGE!
Ballade: www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/ballade.htm
____________________
MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry forms mentioned today:
•••Aquarian: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/aquarian
•••Ballade: www.baymoon.com/~ariadne/form/ballade.htm
•••Ghazal: poets.org/glossary/ghazal OR poetryschool.com/theblog/whats-a-ghaza OR
www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ghazal OR
www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/ghazal.html
•••Haibun: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form
•••Haiku: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Pantoum: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/pantoum.html
•••Rondel: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/rondel
•••Tanka: poets.org/glossary/tanka
____________________
—Medusa
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joseph Nolan, Stockton, CA
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.
