Moon Over Placerville
—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
—And scroll down to Form Fiddlers' Friday!!
TWELVE-WINTERS’ TIME
We’ve lived on these acres for twelve-winters’
time and more—cutting and splitting for winter’s
fires in the woodstove, and watching winters
haze the fields with frost. During those winters,
our garden plotted harvest summers. Winters
held the secret of lupine springing from winter’s
keep. We reminisce, surviving the frigid winters
and the summer droughts, how many winters’
time before time buries us still counting winters?
We’ve lived on these acres for twelve-winters’
time and more—cutting and splitting for winter’s
fires in the woodstove, and watching winters
haze the fields with frost. During those winters,
our garden plotted harvest summers. Winters
held the secret of lupine springing from winter’s
keep. We reminisce, surviving the frigid winters
and the summer droughts, how many winters’
time before time buries us still counting winters?
GATHER ‘ROUND THE TREE
What shall we do for Christmas? Remember the mad tearing thru gift-wrap and ribbons, kids craving something soon tossed aside. Remember farther back: Christmas was a candle in December dark; carolers singing gifts beyond our sight. Our best Christmas, car broke-down, impromptu camping. Lonely? exploring the desert with our dogs; watching holiday lights on a distant mountain; the wind’s angel choir. No neon, no ads or promos. A fixit shop would open with day-after-Xmas dawn. // I’ll dig out the old Dollar store tree I bought for workshop years ago: the Words Tree, surprise of where words can lead:
trimmed with paper rings—
words of poems to compose
from what is given.
PIZZA PLACE XMAS
Brighter than the trimmed tree,
the neon vending machine blinked its
revolving lights while the pizza man
would make my iced tea—
he didn’t store it in the refrigerator,
but made it fresh on the spot, authentic
and satisfying as “the-works”
pizza-house combo. But that neon vending
machine aimed at making cheap
merchandise shine as bright as sequins,
as damselfly above the creek—
I wondered how the man, with his
impeccable taste for iced tea and pizza,
could tolerate such a contraption.
Brighter than the trimmed tree,
the neon vending machine blinked its
revolving lights while the pizza man
would make my iced tea—
he didn’t store it in the refrigerator,
but made it fresh on the spot, authentic
and satisfying as “the-works”
pizza-house combo. But that neon vending
machine aimed at making cheap
merchandise shine as bright as sequins,
as damselfly above the creek—
I wondered how the man, with his
impeccable taste for iced tea and pizza,
could tolerate such a contraption.
HORSE AS WHITE AS WINTER
A brave white horse named Galahad
has come when things were looking bad.
He has no rider, no white knight—
as if created by the dark of night.
In fact, he near outshines the moon,
which will be round and full quite soon.
How did he find this empty field?
what legendary powers wield?
Or is he just a plain white horse
for us to dream—and feed, of course?
A brave white horse named Galahad
has come when things were looking bad.
He has no rider, no white knight—
as if created by the dark of night.
In fact, he near outshines the moon,
which will be round and full quite soon.
How did he find this empty field?
what legendary powers wield?
Or is he just a plain white horse
for us to dream—and feed, of course?
WET CHILL
What’s
that human
figure crouched outside
our field fence where creek crosses
road?
Two
figures, one
with gold pan, swirling
water from our creek. I say
“Hi!
“Have
any luck?”
They’re city folk come
to pan our country. No gold
yet.
LONG-TERM
comforted by snow
leafless aspen keep secrets
engraved in their skin
sheepherders passed thru
leaving arbor-diaries
for wildfire to read
carved high in the tree
owl stares down upon what’s spared
of his rooted grove
Cold Moon slips over
us wordless, not asking nor
needing an answer
night: all our connections are
silenced—news is history
comforted by snow
leafless aspen keep secrets
engraved in their skin
sheepherders passed thru
leaving arbor-diaries
for wildfire to read
carved high in the tree
owl stares down upon what’s spared
of his rooted grove
Cold Moon slips over
us wordless, not asking nor
needing an answer
night: all our connections are
silenced—news is history
Today’s LittleNip:
NIGHT SNOW, WOOD STOVE
—Taylor Graham
Flames consume old news this morning,
warming while our land’s snow-skinned,
igniting, bright embers flaring
in feign of December’s wind.
_____________________
Season’s greetings to Taylor Graham, and thanks for her wonderful poems and photos today! The poetry forms she has sent this week include an End-of-the-Line poem (“Twelve-Winters' Time”); a Haibun (“Gather 'Round the Tree”); a Word-Can Poem (“Pizza Place Xmas”); a Seadna (“Night Snow, Wood Stove”); a Haiku Sonnet (“Long-Term”); a children's poem which is also a response to last week’s Ekphrastic challenge (“Horse as White as Winter”); and an Oddquain sequence, a response to Medusa’s Fiddlers’ Challenge from last week, the Oddquain (“Wet Chill”).
And now it’s time for . . .
FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY!
It’s time for more contributions from Form Fiddlers, in addition to those sent to us by Taylor Graham! Each Friday, there will be poems posted here from our readers using forms—either ones which were sent to 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, by golly! (See Medusa’s Form Finder at the end of this post for resources and for links to poetry terms used today.)
Some of Carol Eve Ford’s form poems were posted in the Kitchen last Wednesday, all the way from Alaska! Today we have some more of them, including her wonderful photographs. Here are three Couplet Sonnets from her:
Some of Carol Eve Ford’s form poems were posted in the Kitchen last Wednesday, all the way from Alaska! Today we have some more of them, including her wonderful photographs. Here are three Couplet Sonnets from her:
My Beloved Grandmother
(family photo circa 1910)
BURGUNDY AND ROSE
—Carol Eve Ford, Kenai, AK
The comforter was burgundy and rose —
as light and soft and warm from head to toes
as Grandmother, who cuddled us and read —
as velvet where we lay our sleepy head.
When flu or sniffles, chicken pox or croup
demanded isolation, chicken soup,
our Grandmother was always standing by,
to take us in and tuck us in, to lie
in cozy bed, in quiet house and room
as if we headed back into the womb
to calm and heal and ground ourselves once more
in all the love and warmth she had in store.
Oh what lovely yesterdays were those!
The comforter was burgundy and rose.
—Carol Eve Ford, Kenai, AK
The comforter was burgundy and rose —
as light and soft and warm from head to toes
as Grandmother, who cuddled us and read —
as velvet where we lay our sleepy head.
When flu or sniffles, chicken pox or croup
demanded isolation, chicken soup,
our Grandmother was always standing by,
to take us in and tuck us in, to lie
in cozy bed, in quiet house and room
as if we headed back into the womb
to calm and heal and ground ourselves once more
in all the love and warmth she had in store.
Oh what lovely yesterdays were those!
The comforter was burgundy and rose.
My Great-Great-Grandfather
(family photo circle 1687)
TINTYPE
—Carol Eve Ford
I know his face; his image eyes meet mine
so calm and clear —direct — across that line
of time and space, of history, of blood,
of love and war, of famine, fire and flood.
Though chipped and broken, shattered pieces gone,
his tintype countenance and grace live on.
In velvet frame, in tissued wrap he waits,
defying death, and shrugging off the fates,
to hold me with his kind, compelling eyes—
so full of sorrow, memory—so wise—
Although he lived not long beyond this age—
just thirty-one—and never turned this page,
my great great grandfather, so full of grace,
who gave us life, then left; I know his face.
Abundance
—Photo by Carol Eve Ford
SEA GRACES
—Carol Eve Ford
They swell and rise and roll across the deep,
and I can hear them calling in my sleep.
They crest and crash and splash against the shore;
my heart resounds and echoes to their roar.
Like wild stallions running in the wind,
again, again, again, and yet again,
their flying manes, their arching necks they bend,
then plunge and shatter only to ascend —
explode in celebration, all delight.
They never tire of joy, all day, all night.
They foam and lace and linger at my feet,
then silently and flirting, they retreat.
They toss their hidden treasures on the sand,
I stoop to cup abundance in my hand.
Galahad
Last Week’s Ekphrastic Challenge
—Photo by Taylor Graham
Last Week’s Ekphrastic Challenge
—Photo by Taylor Graham
Taylor Graham sent a response to last week’s Ekphrastic Challenge, which was her horse-pal, Galahad (see above). Stephen Kingsnorth had a different take, recalling the Westbury White Horse in his homeland of England (see en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Westbury_White_Horse):
Westbury White Horse
—Public Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth
THROUGH THE VALE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales, UK
As kid, bored, long-drawn on the tracks,
the steam, soot grit, treat corridor,
and hoot from loco—other sound—
greaseproof as evidence of lunch,
it was a sign of halfway there,
the white horse, cut in hillside chalk.
Excitement, fourteen days in year,
for boy but half the size of that,
here time and space, bridge, liminal,
from city street to seaside strand,
that I was so transmogrified
from Marmite to mythology.
What hands had measured, wither, hoof,
that cave-painting above the ground,
cut stencil work, crude Wedgewood-type,
a sentinel, guard over train,
as if all eyes lift to the hills
whence help comes when nightmares afflict?
Whatever law or lore obtained,
prescribed, pertained, in misty ware,
they set it there, amongst lines, ley,
without drones, aerial, or flight,
by semaphore or signalled smoke,
those primitives, beyond our scope.
A bucket, spade for castles, sand,
my dig, beach archaeology,
will wash before neap, spring appear;
these horsemen, scrabble in the dirt,
millennia, will make their mark,
the veil, my journey passes through.
—Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth
Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) sent a response to both the Ekphrastic Challenge and the Fiddlers’ Challenge, all in one Double Mirror Oddquain:
EARTH MYTHS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
hark
pure white horse
seeking its old friend
the magical unicorn
can’t
see
likely hiding away from
fire-breathing dragons
as we all
should
it
is written
that rebirth happens
naturally, without help
zap!
there’s
generous heat but no flames
the world’s longest tongue
suddenly
strikes
EARTH MYTHS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
hark
pure white horse
seeking its old friend
the magical unicorn
can’t
see
likely hiding away from
fire-breathing dragons
as we all
should
it
is written
that rebirth happens
naturally, without help
zap!
there’s
generous heat but no flames
the world’s longest tongue
suddenly
strikes
Galahad Over the Fence
—Photo by Taylor Graham
And here below, Carl sends us a good will poem in the form of a first-word Acrostic; read it out loud and let your ear hear loosely:
THE GREATER
—Caschwa
pair your good will with the patience
of Job, fend off the tentacles of greed and
graft, calmly start counting 1,
2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10
a treasure of the ages is yours, that hard-to-reach
pearl of time, back when Dwight was called
Ike, and the entire nation, rich and
poor, volunteered and sacrificed for the greater good
eh? not just a fairy tale? I’d better check my family
tree for heroes
____________________
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:
•••Seadna: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/seadna-poetic-forms
AND/OR (if your brain is exhausted):
•••End-of-the-Line Poem: A poem of any length in which the same word is used at the end of each line
See Taylor Graham’s post today for examples of both of these forms.
And see also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic one!
_____________________
MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:
•••Acrostic Poem: literarydevices.net/acrostic
•••Couplet Sonnet: www.poetrymagnumopus.com/topic/1054-couplet-sonnet-or-clare-sonnet
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••End-of-the-Line Poem: A poem of any length in which the same word is used at the end of each line
•••Haibun: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/haibun-poems-poetic-form
•••Haiku Sonnet (four Haiku followed by two lines of seven syllables each): www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/haiku-sonnet-poetic-form
•••Oddquain (and variations): www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/oddquain.html
•••Seadna: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/seadna-poetic-forms
•••Word-Can Poem: putting random words on slips of paper into a can, then drawing out a few and making a poem out of them.
_____________________
Readers will be saddened to learn that writer Joan Didion, a native Sacramentan, passed away this week at the age of 87. According to The New York Times, “Joan Didion was born on Dec. 5, 1934, in Sacramento to Frank and Eduene (Jerrett) Didion. She was a fifth-generation Californian descended from settlers who left the ill-fated Donner party in 1846 and took the safer route. Her father was a finance officer with the Army, her mother a homemaker, and during World War II the family moved from one posting to the next before returning to Sacramento after the war. The Didion family lived in the North Area for a while, back before it was built up. Joan graduated from McClatchy High School, since there were few high schools in the area.” For more about Joan Didion’s life and career, go to www.nytimes.com/2021/12/23/books/joan-didion-dead.html/.
_____________________
—Medusa, wishing all of our readers/SnakePals a satisfying visit from Santa tonight, including a bagful of ideas for many, many poems ~
Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!
See what you can make of the above photo,
and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)
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.
