Bearing Witness
—Photo by Carol Eve Ford
—Poetry and Photos by Carol Eve Ford (Kenai, AK)
and Carol Louise Moon (Placerville, CA)
ENTERING WINTER
—Carol Eve Ford
Out my dawn-lit window,
at water’s edge,
ice has silenced the dance
that has greeted me every morning since late May.
There is no breath of wind,
yet the still-open lake
is crosshatched with contemplative agitation —
a shimmering dance of intersecting lines so subtle
that their lively commotion still accurately reflects
nuances of white and gray clouds
against the bright
cold blue
October sky.
Beyond this strip of clarity,
as the angle of my perspective narrows,
the surface hum sparkles and sends up wistful tendrils of fog,
obscuring its reflective properties,
until distance obliterates the delicate animation,
allowing crystalized birch,
frosted cottonwood
and snow-laden spruce ghosts
to reach back across the misty mirror
toward me,
bearing witness.
(prev. pub. in Ostin’s Desk)
—Carol Eve Ford
Out my dawn-lit window,
at water’s edge,
ice has silenced the dance
that has greeted me every morning since late May.
There is no breath of wind,
yet the still-open lake
is crosshatched with contemplative agitation —
a shimmering dance of intersecting lines so subtle
that their lively commotion still accurately reflects
nuances of white and gray clouds
against the bright
cold blue
October sky.
Beyond this strip of clarity,
as the angle of my perspective narrows,
the surface hum sparkles and sends up wistful tendrils of fog,
obscuring its reflective properties,
until distance obliterates the delicate animation,
allowing crystalized birch,
frosted cottonwood
and snow-laden spruce ghosts
to reach back across the misty mirror
toward me,
bearing witness.
(prev. pub. in Ostin’s Desk)
Intrepid Provider
—Drawing by Lillian
—Drawing by Lillian
DOXOLOGY
—Carol Eve Ford
Free-spirited bird, he’s the best:
humble, sincere, rust-ruddy vest,
white pantaloons, black head and throat,
sparkling eyes, gray overcoat.
Work or play, he’s suitably dressed.
Blue-collar bird, follows his quest,
seven wide mouths wait in his nest,
each wobbly fluff opens its throat,
his life to their lives he’ll devote—
intrepid provider—life’s test.
When work is done, he sings with zest,
now facing east, north south or west,
his industry keeps all afloat,
and then he opens up his throat,
prays liquid praise, Robin-red-breast.
A Gulp of Cormorants
—Photo by Carol Eve Ford
—Photo by Carol Eve Ford
REUNIONS
—Carol Eve Ford
Larks are called an exaltation,
Eagles form a convocation,
Plovers meet in congregation,
Starlings are a murmuration,
Peacocks, certainly, ostentation,
Each its own united nation
All in constant celebration!
Reaching For Heaven
—Photo by Carol Eve Ford
—Photo by Carol Eve Ford
STRAIGHT GRAIN
—Carol Eve Ford
I seek straight grain
at the center,
rising up from the roots of my being,
reaching for heaven.
But from the clean column of my life,
fisted here, bent into fetal position there,
gnarled burls tangle in endless mazes.
No symmetry.
Gnarled burls tangle in endless mazes.
Fisted here, bent into fetal position there.
But from the clean column of my life,
reaching for heaven,
rising up from the roots of my being,
at the center,
I seek straight grain.
Quince
—Photo by Carol Louise Moon
—Photo by Carol Louise Moon
AN APRON-FULL OF QUINCE
—Carol Louise Moon
I gathered as much
upon my return,
November fruition of quince,
an apron-full.
Knowing the leaves would fall
I left in September
for a far-off shore.
I left in September
knowing the leaves would fall
an apron-full.
November fruition of quince—
upon my return
I gathered as much.
About quince: Membrillo, quince
jelly, is still the national dish in
Spain when served with Manchego
cheese. Outer skin is rough and
woolly, while the flesh is pulpy
and astringent. Cook quince slowly
in low temperature. Enjoy
poached, roasted or stewed.
—Photo by Carol Louise Moon
PARADIGM BY A STREAM
—Carol Louise Moon
Are dreams from water?
A man counts four river rocks.
Where is a young wife?
Four cats sleeping in a barn;
newly washed rags for bedding.
His hands are burl wood;
whittling tools are by his side.
His hair is graying;
old coveralls of denim.
She sings him her heart
as wind blows through cabin cracks.
Where do her thoughts go
that she should search through thistle?
Her apron is snug,
her hair black wrapped in a bun.
The woman is hard to please.
Walnut wood is shaped,
honed—gut strings attached.
The gift of music?
A right-handed instrument
might be played using both hands.
Who needs weeds, or love—
star-thistle, or a young wife?
The man strives with both.
(prev. pub. in Poppy Road Review, 2019)
—Carol Louise Moon
Are dreams from water?
A man counts four river rocks.
Where is a young wife?
Four cats sleeping in a barn;
newly washed rags for bedding.
His hands are burl wood;
whittling tools are by his side.
His hair is graying;
old coveralls of denim.
She sings him her heart
as wind blows through cabin cracks.
Where do her thoughts go
that she should search through thistle?
Her apron is snug,
her hair black wrapped in a bun.
The woman is hard to please.
Walnut wood is shaped,
honed—gut strings attached.
The gift of music?
A right-handed instrument
might be played using both hands.
Who needs weeds, or love—
star-thistle, or a young wife?
The man strives with both.
(prev. pub. in Poppy Road Review, 2019)
—Photo by Carol Louise Moon
DEER QUEST
Autumn eve, the sky is clear.
Her white eyes in my flashlight
shine and stare—she has no fear.
Sounds of rustling brush at night,
her hooves—my dear forest deer.
Morning comes, the tracks appear
where she had been last night.
My hope is that she will come near,
that she’ll not take her flight
with hooves—my dear forest deer.
Lillian
—Photo by Carol Eve Ford
Today’s LittleNIp:
AWAKENING
—Carol Eve Ford
Let wonder fly out of its cage—
catapult or shake me awake—
make me feel all things reconnect.
Music, travel, theory, art, love—
or some combination thereof
make me feel all things reconnect,
catapult or shake me awake—
let wonder fly out of its cage!
____________________
Happy Thanksgiving from myself, LittleSnake, and all our SnakePals here in the Kitchen! Today we have a wonderful collaboration of poems and pix from Carol Louise Moon, who lives here in Placerville, and Carol Eve Ford, all the way up in Kenai, Alaska. Carol Louise has sent us some forms: a Palindromic/Mirror Poem (“An Apron-Full of Quince”]; a Paradigm, which is a collection of Mondo, Katauta, Choka, Waka, Tanka and Haiku in one poem (“Paradigm by a Stream”); and a Double Sicilian Quintain with A-B-A-B-A tetrameter (“Deer Quest”). It’s a day early for Friday Form Fiddlers’, I know, but give these a try while dinner cooks…
___________________
—Medusa
AWAKENING
—Carol Eve Ford
Let wonder fly out of its cage—
catapult or shake me awake—
make me feel all things reconnect.
Music, travel, theory, art, love—
or some combination thereof
make me feel all things reconnect,
catapult or shake me awake—
let wonder fly out of its cage!
____________________
Happy Thanksgiving from myself, LittleSnake, and all our SnakePals here in the Kitchen! Today we have a wonderful collaboration of poems and pix from Carol Louise Moon, who lives here in Placerville, and Carol Eve Ford, all the way up in Kenai, Alaska. Carol Louise has sent us some forms: a Palindromic/Mirror Poem (“An Apron-Full of Quince”]; a Paradigm, which is a collection of Mondo, Katauta, Choka, Waka, Tanka and Haiku in one poem (“Paradigm by a Stream”); and a Double Sicilian Quintain with A-B-A-B-A tetrameter (“Deer Quest”). It’s a day early for Friday Form Fiddlers’, I know, but give these a try while dinner cooks…
___________________
—Medusa
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.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry 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—
for poetry, of course!
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry 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—
for poetry, of course!
