Galahad: White Horse in Green Pastures
—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
APRIL 6
This morning warrants a warning.
Don’t try to define it, it’s changeable
as cloud over an unmown field
bent over with wind through grasses
and nameless forbs. Some bird calls
like a phone you can never answer.
A puff of breeze might carry every
white petal away. Wait for the next
arrival of blessing you can’t name.
Don’t say you’re allergic.
It’s not in the word-list of morning.
This morning warrants a warning.
Don’t try to define it, it’s changeable
as cloud over an unmown field
bent over with wind through grasses
and nameless forbs. Some bird calls
like a phone you can never answer.
A puff of breeze might carry every
white petal away. Wait for the next
arrival of blessing you can’t name.
Don’t say you’re allergic.
It’s not in the word-list of morning.
HOMELORN
The old homestead was texture-natural,
hefty—oak, pine, cedar, rhyolite,
granite, slate. He had to leave all that
behind for this room, antiseptic
& chrome scrubbed cleaner than memory.
He chews his breakfast bite by bite as
if to swallow what’s not swept away.
His beard could still catch crumbs for a dog
he used to hunt with. His old boots held
miles of dust. None here. Do they say he’ll
never walk into that old kitchen
again? Jars on a shelf hold secrets
of years—potent potions. He recalls
the woodstove heats just so far—dreams will
draw it nearer like a comforter.
The old homestead was texture-natural,
hefty—oak, pine, cedar, rhyolite,
granite, slate. He had to leave all that
behind for this room, antiseptic
& chrome scrubbed cleaner than memory.
He chews his breakfast bite by bite as
if to swallow what’s not swept away.
His beard could still catch crumbs for a dog
he used to hunt with. His old boots held
miles of dust. None here. Do they say he’ll
never walk into that old kitchen
again? Jars on a shelf hold secrets
of years—potent potions. He recalls
the woodstove heats just so far—dreams will
draw it nearer like a comforter.
DETAIL OF WOODSTOVE KITCHEN
One last exhibit was
fuzzy with memory’s revisings—
zings in sharper light.
Sight comes from inward now,
how she’d stir and season the stew,
few grains of bitter sweet,
meat for muscle of shoulder and arm.
Farm people, all of them
embracing the land,
standing solid as oak and stone.
One last exhibit was
fuzzy with memory’s revisings—
zings in sharper light.
Sight comes from inward now,
how she’d stir and season the stew,
few grains of bitter sweet,
meat for muscle of shoulder and arm.
Farm people, all of them
embracing the land,
standing solid as oak and stone.
FROM A DREAM
All these old oils, each portrait of dead
head and shoulders without a name:
game of guessing or just admire
fire in once-bright eyes,
guise of face under mask—
task we know too well now—still
will the eyes tell stories if you look,
hook you with a question unsaid.
Bread on the table unbroken, unsipped wine.
Line of sight, perspective? The eyes call.
All these old oils, each portrait of dead
head and shoulders without a name:
game of guessing or just admire
fire in once-bright eyes,
guise of face under mask—
task we know too well now—still
will the eyes tell stories if you look,
hook you with a question unsaid.
Bread on the table unbroken, unsipped wine.
Line of sight, perspective? The eyes call.
BLUEBLOOD GRASS
So fine and green-crowned,
it bows to my mower but
will never submit—
I swing my power-scepter
onward, it pops right back up.
So fine and green-crowned,
it bows to my mower but
will never submit—
I swing my power-scepter
onward, it pops right back up.
GRACE OF A TRAINING DAY—VETERANS MEMORIAL
We meet at the flagpole, you sit on marble meant for the great who were.
The plaques convict us of complicity in all that we’ve lost at war.
It’s a race to find, over grass and concrete, step-flights and a hill to climb.
My dog knows the way by grace of her senses, devotion, and effortless stride.
No matter the grief of earth, wind plays through oaks, fills the memorial flag.
2 lizards, jaws locked to the other’s tail—Ourobos, the season’s endless return?
And the voice of wind off the summit hymns without words.
Today’s LittleNip:
POEM OF THE DAY
—Taylor Graham
Happy red flounces
jacket tied around her waist—
she’s schoolgirl-brightly
stepping along the dam road
on a brisk April morning.
____________________
Thanks to Taylor Graham for her poems and photos this morning, writing about the old kitchen in last week’s Ekphrastic Seed of the Week—a photo of a down-home kitchen. Love seeing Galahad, and the foothill wildflowers that celebrate spring!
POEM OF THE DAY
—Taylor Graham
Happy red flounces
jacket tied around her waist—
she’s schoolgirl-brightly
stepping along the dam road
on a brisk April morning.
____________________
Thanks to Taylor Graham for her poems and photos this morning, writing about the old kitchen in last week’s Ekphrastic Seed of the Week—a photo of a down-home kitchen. Love seeing Galahad, and the foothill wildflowers that celebrate spring!
Some of Taylor’s poetry here is in forms: Normative Syllabics (“Homelorn”); a Word-Can Poem (“April 6”); a Link Rhyme (“From a Dream” & “Detail of Woodstove Kitchen”); and a Monostich Poem (“Grace of a Training Day”); plus a Waka and a Tanka. “Homelorn” and “Detail” are Ekphrastic.
Tonight (Friday, 4/16), 7:30pm, Sac. Poetry Alliance presents Jennifer and Chad Sweeney reading online from Foxlogic, Fireweed and other books at csus.zoom.us/j/87183068168/. Facebook info: www.facebook.com/events/1616183911906112/. Host: Josh McKinney.
And now it’s time for …
FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!
Tonight (Friday, 4/16), 7:30pm, Sac. Poetry Alliance presents Jennifer and Chad Sweeney reading online from Foxlogic, Fireweed and other books at csus.zoom.us/j/87183068168/. Facebook info: www.facebook.com/events/1616183911906112/. Host: Josh McKinney.
And now it’s time for …
FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!
I stumbled upon a couple of resources that might be useful: Poetry at Harvard (poetry.harvard.edu/key-to-poetic-forms/) and Writing Forward (www.writingforward.com/poetry-writing/types-of-rhymes/). Check ‘em out.
Nancy Haskett sends us a Golden Shovel this week:
MEMORY
—Nancy Haskett, Fresno, CA
With thanks for the last line of “Undivided Attention” by Taylor Mali
Once, in Oregon December, you let
notes fly from a silver trumpet, with me
watching from a window, wishing I could teach
the song to linger in the trees like
wind in the branches, like the
way love feels at the very first,
pure and nourishing like snow,
like music rising and falling.
(prev. pub. in The Pen Woman, 2020)
Claire Baker has sent us a charming Cinquain. She says she just finished it:
SPOTLIGHT ANGLE
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
Gary
strums a guitar
of heightened patina—
look, a rippling mahogany
sunset.
SPOTLIGHT ANGLE
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
Gary
strums a guitar
of heightened patina—
look, a rippling mahogany
sunset.
Carl Schwartz sends us an Amanda’s Pinch, our Fiddlers’ Challenge of last Friday:
LOST AND FOUND
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
it is so fun to dress up smart, go out and shop
piles and piles and piles of nice fabrics to burrow
take them from their order, put in a heap
shopping cart heavy like a rock
gravity hits top of your sock
not sure you’ve gotten enough of your sleep?
all aisles covered, the shopping trip was thorough
maybe now, at last, would be the right time to stop
LOST AND FOUND
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
it is so fun to dress up smart, go out and shop
piles and piles and piles of nice fabrics to burrow
take them from their order, put in a heap
shopping cart heavy like a rock
gravity hits top of your sock
not sure you’ve gotten enough of your sleep?
all aisles covered, the shopping trip was thorough
maybe now, at last, would be the right time to stop
This poem of his is a Ballade Supreme:
NO PLUMS THIS YEAR
—Caschwa
twelve years ago we bought a house, awesome
fenced back yard which had no trees, it was stark
but we had ideas for things that blossom
some in full sunlight, some more in the dark
we dreamed of the day when we would see bark
and started with a bare root apricot
pretty small then, needed to grow a lot
gave it nurture, its praises we would sing
in time it gave us just what we had sought
the best of all treats come to us in Spring
home grown fruit is fresh, juicy, and wholesome
plus a bit of shade, just like in the park
we filled buckets with fruit, no exact sum
taste buds tingled, it really hit the mark
began as dreams, turned out to be no lark
still room for planting, a plum tree we got
it was also bare root, not from a pot
any questions, we’d give our son a ring
he could solve the problem, untie the knot
the best of all treats come to us in Spring
next tree, you guessed it, ‘twas an aprium
needed help to stand upright, not to arc
hammered struts into the ground to have some
anchor, on wind’s path it would not embark
now stalwart as a Socratic remark
it is bearing fruit that looks really hot
this season is its time, last year was not
ready yet for this to be happening
a happy calendar note we can jot
the best of all treats come to us in Spring
these images my camera has caught
including every last pixel and dot
our trees aren’t large enough to hold a swing
but that was not our original thought
the best of all treats come to us in Spring
NO PLUMS THIS YEAR
—Caschwa
twelve years ago we bought a house, awesome
fenced back yard which had no trees, it was stark
but we had ideas for things that blossom
some in full sunlight, some more in the dark
we dreamed of the day when we would see bark
and started with a bare root apricot
pretty small then, needed to grow a lot
gave it nurture, its praises we would sing
in time it gave us just what we had sought
the best of all treats come to us in Spring
home grown fruit is fresh, juicy, and wholesome
plus a bit of shade, just like in the park
we filled buckets with fruit, no exact sum
taste buds tingled, it really hit the mark
began as dreams, turned out to be no lark
still room for planting, a plum tree we got
it was also bare root, not from a pot
any questions, we’d give our son a ring
he could solve the problem, untie the knot
the best of all treats come to us in Spring
next tree, you guessed it, ‘twas an aprium
needed help to stand upright, not to arc
hammered struts into the ground to have some
anchor, on wind’s path it would not embark
now stalwart as a Socratic remark
it is bearing fruit that looks really hot
this season is its time, last year was not
ready yet for this to be happening
a happy calendar note we can jot
the best of all treats come to us in Spring
these images my camera has caught
including every last pixel and dot
our trees aren’t large enough to hold a swing
but that was not our original thought
the best of all treats come to us in Spring
And a Personification Poem from Carl in response to Medusa’s Seed of the Week: White Horse in Green Pastures:
I SMELL CARROTS
—Caschwa
they might have been
distorted into other shapes
and sizes, but you can call
a white horse a white house
and everyone still knows
what it really is
the maître d’ gave me a
good spot near the fence,
now I will wait peacefully,
gracefully, for my order to
arrive and fulfill me; they
know me here, where I get
“the usual”
__________________
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!
See what you can make of this week’s poetry form, and send it to kathykieth@hotmail.com! (No deadline.) This week's challenge:
Vers Beaucoup: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/versbeaucoup.html
__________________
MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry forms mentioned today:
•••Ballade Supreme: www.poetrybase.info/forms/000/16.shtml
•••Cinquain: poets.org/glossary/cinquain OR www.poewar.com/poetry-in-forms-series-cinquain
•••Ekphrastic: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Golden Shovel: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/golden-shovel-poetic-form
•••Link Rhyme: word at the end of each line rhymes with word at the beginning of the next line
•••Monostich: briefpoems.wordpress.com/2016/01/07/slates-one-line-poems-monostich
•••Normative Syllabics: hellopoetry.com/collection/108/normative-syllabic-free-verse OR lewisturco.typepad.com/poetics/normative-syllabic-verse
•••Tanka: poets.org/glossary/tanka
•••Vers Beaucoup: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/versbeaucoup.html
•••Waka: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/waka
•••Word-can Poem: putting lots of random words on slips of paper into a can, and then drawing out a few and using them in a poem.
___________________
—Medusa
•••Ekphrastic: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Golden Shovel: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/golden-shovel-poetic-form
•••Link Rhyme: word at the end of each line rhymes with word at the beginning of the next line
•••Monostich: briefpoems.wordpress.com/2016/01/07/slates-one-line-poems-monostich
•••Normative Syllabics: hellopoetry.com/collection/108/normative-syllabic-free-verse OR lewisturco.typepad.com/poetics/normative-syllabic-verse
•••Tanka: poets.org/glossary/tanka
•••Vers Beaucoup: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/versbeaucoup.html
•••Waka: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/waka
•••Word-can Poem: putting lots of random words on slips of paper into a can, and then drawing out a few and using them in a poem.
___________________
—Medusa
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