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THE WORD PLACE: WINTER 2011 POETRY ISSUE

Posted by Salvatore Buttaci Jan 11th 2011

Category: THE WORD PLACE News

Tags: Buttaci winter 2011 issue

"Winter in Garfield, NJ" Watercolor by Salvatore Buttaci

ANTHONY BUCCINO

Grammar School Teachers

Our grammar school teachers smelled like soap

And they never sweated

Not even on the playground

On hot summer days

When they lined us up

Two by two by thirty deep

To march perfectly, silently

Through the sterile halls

Into our perfect rows of desks

As the glaze-eyed statues watch

Their vacant stare in to space

We think in prayer sinners like us and

For our teachers who never sweated.

Black beads clattering in decades

Five times around – a pocket hidden

In the folds of black pleats

With a tissue if suddenly needed,

No, our grammar school teachers

Never seemed to sweat in our rooms

Though they were experts

At making us perspire.

Owed to the Bank

That sterile building on the corner of main street

Where Mr. Potter runs his bank

Has always been a cold and scary place

And it’s not just the thick doors

With the tumblers that leads to the vault

Everything about that place always made me

Want to run in the other direction.

The women behind the counter looked like

They’d just as soon take your blood as your money

And the executives couldn’t wait to laugh in your face

When you asked for a loan on your good word.

But our town led the way for that famous movie

One or two good hearted men at the savings and loan

Were always there to help out the town folks

and when my dad dragged me to the savings and loan

to pay his monthly bill, the fellows behind the counter

always gave a cheery hello, while the women in cages

proffered a cookie or a piece of hard candy.

The good old savings and loan, bless its heart, is

Where half the towns folk got their first mortgages

And Mr. Potter’s bank isn’t owed anything anymore.

ANTHONY BUCCINO has published seven poetry collections. His poems appear in Caduceus; Florida English; Sweet Lemons 2; The Paterson Review; Rattlesnake Review; Edison Literary Review; Journal of NJ Poets; and Voices in Italian Americana. Visit Anthony at http://www.anthonybuccino.com/

CAROL LOUISE MOON

Wind Songs

When the piccolo bird song rises my hair

seems to grow a little faster, a little stronger.

My eyes and ear lobes seem to vibrate gently

with the inhalation of flute breath.

There is a deep river in my ear that hears

the song of the bassoon, its haunting melody.

My feet feel securely anchored to the floor

when receiving clarinet news.

But it's the French horn greeting that wraps

affectionately around my heart.

Black Orchid

She recalled to me the night her father died

upstairs in the old two-story house

and how three men came to take his body

and dropped it midway in the stairwell,

and how she always resented the memory--

the clumsiness of the men;

resented her own ears for having heard the thud.

I've been published on Medusa's Kitchen, Convergence and in Joyce Odam's “Brevities,“ Rattle Snake Review, “Song of the San Joaquin.” I was Ohio Poetry buttn's "Poet of the Month of August 2009." I am editor of Dad’s Desk-Parge Print Poetry Journal.

CAROLYN DEVONSHIRE

Ghost Ship Omen

Scientists say it’s just a mirage

But sailors claim the ghost ship floats

In air, with stormy seas below

Again he tries to round Cape Hope

Captain van der Decken angered God

One savage 18th Century night

Vowed he’d sail till “Judgment Day”

To cross the Table Bay, he’d fight

The Flying Dutchman disappeared

Sank deep in foggy, wind-swept sea

But the captain’s doomed to walk the deck

Each night in perpetuity

King George the Fifth, the Prince of Wales

Are two who saw the Dutchman

And though these royal heirs survived

Most meet death, the captain’s omen

So many sailors and their ships

Still meet demise on starless nights

When demons steer the Dutchman

And a vengeful God reads last rites

Till this day the Flying Dutchman

Looms threatening on a ravaged sea

For Judgment Day the captain waits

Luring crews to their destiny

From New Jersey and now living in Florida, Carolyn Devonshire has two books: Visions of Devonshire, a collection of poetry, and Colonizing Atlantis, the New Earth, a science fiction/adventure novel with an environmental message. Carolyn's poems can be viewed at PoetrySoup.com and have been featured in several international poetry magazines.

CYNDI GROVE

Snowflakes

Lightly falling to the ground,

Nature’s own reflections

Drifting, swirling all around

Heavenly connections.

Like matins in the morning prayed,

Or vespers in the night

As voices caught in vibrant song,

They are rhapsodies in flight.

Pirouetting to the ground

In frantic dance they swirl!

To blanket and bedeck earth’s floor

With satin, diamonds, pearl.

Like tranquil dreams bestowed on us

By fairies in the twilight,

They cast a spell of silent awe,

And beckon us to a wonder that is childlike.

Ephemeral beings in the air,

Singing, dancing, playing

Snowflakes, waltzing to their destiny

Shhh! Be silent. Nature’s praying.

Cynthia Rodeawald-Grove, former freelance reporter for North Jersey Media. Several publications on e-zines, including Whispers of the Muse and Enchanted Forest Magazine. Writer of poems, short stories, and news articles.

DAN CAPRIOTTI

August

They speak of certain winds

That can make people crazy

Hesse wrote of the Fohn

In his adopted Switzerland

A wind that could kill

Saharan nomads hunker down

When the blue sirocco blows

Across the molten sands

The hot, dry Santa Ana of California

Have driven whole cities insane

And made it rain frogs.

But I think the August doldrums are worst

The dead calm

That just sits on your sweltering soul

And dares you to do something

Anything!

To make a choice: to act or die

Dan Capriotti lives, works and writes in New Jersey. His short fiction has been published in Barrelhouse Magazine, Storyglossia Magazine, and Ascent Aspirations Magazine. He is currently working on a non-fiction book related to the history of quarantine and immigration in New York City.

DANIEL P. QUINN

The Societal "We"

We talk of security

We think of the past as a generation

That ancient was the nineteenth century

That history began when we were born.

Rather than 1900, 900, 90, or 9A.D.

Other generations left us art

What will we leave

Atomic waste ?

In-thirds

Thinking of the space

between

the haves

and the have nots.

Watching

the announcers

snicker through a newscast.

Editorializing the notion of

revolution

as if a joke or an in-joke

to be dismissed and laughed at.

The world in the studio,

the world from the studio

and my world.

Irish Institute Award, Short Plays to Long Remember (TNT Classics) 2010;

Exits & Entrances, 25 years Off-Broadway (2007-8) and Organized Labor (AuthorHouse) 2005.

DAVID FISHER

Words

Take care

what you say

Words

are weapons

you

have yet to

master

Tuesday Morning

sitting still

in the morning

silence

preparing thoughts

and countless schemes

it suddenly dawns

that days

are crafted

the previous night

in endless

dreams

Profound Revelation

Sometimes

we have

to give up

what matters

most

to receive

of what

truly matters

David Fisher’s poems have appeared in the New Jersey Poetry Society, Inc.’s annual anthology; their newsletter, Poetidings; The Poem Factory; and PoetryMagazine.com. He has three chapbooks: One With Karma and Confessions, and The Short End of the Stick: Poems Under 15 Lines. He lives in Kansas with his wife Karma and daughters, Olivia and LeAnna.

DEBORAH R. MALEC

Kooky Boots

Kicking up leaves in late fall, Kelly gives

the organic plants a boot with her kooky shoes,

scattering them everywhere while the

bowing trees dangle forth a new day.

And tiny Karl spinning on the grass, giggling,

and keeled over in sheer joy, grasping that

crazy fun means kicking up leaves.

Katydid eyes gazing, from under the kitchen screen,

as a Kookaburra chuckles in the wind,

while I am sipping sweet country lemonade

in the cool Kentucky breeze

just kicking up leaves.

There’s a family legend here,

loving kinfolk and our neighbors kindly while

kicking up leaves in late fall.

Deborah R Malec (Goldie Ruth Hall), Author, Artist, and Storyteller (member of WV Writers).

http://singing-writer.blogspot.com EMAIL: debmalec@gmail.com. Christian Cozy Mystery: "Cut In Two" (2011) & Fantasy/Comedy: "Castle Fire: People in the Woods" (2011)

ED SMITH

Here at Morristown

Coming through the Watchung Mountains

On my way to work riding Route 287.

Here at Morristown the road bends, where

General George Washington hid from

The Hard Winter of 1779-80 from

The British forces in New York .

Today the sun and snow fall on my car

Going to work with the truckers and

The soccer moms. Here soldiers ate bark.

I drive on this superhighway

Seeing Patriot ghosts as a

New Tea Party heads towards

Our capitol and around our nation.

Wake up Poem for George Harrison

I wake up to George Harrison’s

Bangladesh song from my brain’s

Information retrieval system.

Then I drink some brewed coffee.

I turn on the radio with Don Imus

Playing “my guitar gently weeps”

Which Imus states frankly is one of

Critic Frank Rich’s favorite songs

What a coincidence----oh, songs!

Ed Smith is author of I Am That Hero (Gaede’s Pond Press) and Greatest Hits 1980-2002 (Pudding House Press). His poem “morning cracks” is on permanent display in NYC’s Penn Station, 7th Avenue Concourse. Currently, he is the Manville Library Director, Manville , NJ.

ELISSA GORDON

Vasco

On my first full day in Pátzcuaro,

I sat down on the worn stone bench

in the plaza grande

and began to sketch the statue

of the hero of the small town.

I drew his head, his downcast eyes,

the folds of his robe,

the details of the base of the fountain,

the brick walkways,

the arches of the arcade beyond.

Children settled themselves in front of him

for an outdoor history lesson,

I tried to imitate the effect I had seen

at the Americans in Paris exhibit,

dashes of color and motion,

youth at play.

When the heat drove me inside

I showed the work

to my favorite hotel clerk.

A frown crossed her sweet round face,

Quatro horas, realmente?

Four hours, really?

Elissa Gordon's poetry mines a childhood spent between New York and New England, interwoven with her New Jersey life and passion for travel. A frequent open mic reader, she has been published in The Rutherford Red Wheelbarrow Anthology Vol 2 and 3, Offline, the South Mountain Poets biannual anthology, and online at Short, Fast and Deadly.

ELIZABETH MARCHITTI

The Player

I dreamed about that redhead Jack last night.

He’d aged of course since last I saw his face.

I dreamed he was my husband; it seemed right.

I dreamed about that redhead Jack last night.

It seemed so real; we had a noisy fight.

He’d been untrue; I put him in his place.

I dreamed about that redhead Jack last night.

He hadn’t changed since last I saw his face.

Shadorma About Ed

Son's skateboard--

sixteen, part of him.

Fell three times

On his head.

Yet now his brain still functions.

Ed's an Engineer.

Elizabeth Marchitti is the wife of John, her personal Patron of the Artist, the mother of four grown children and eight grandchildren. She has won Honorable Mentions in the Allen Ginsberg Contest three times, Editor's Choice several times, first place in St. Catherine's annual Art and Poetry Exhibit, and recently won second place in Lucidity's "clarity" Contest.

ERIKA KELLEY

Extroverted to a Fault

She possesses

an insatiable want

to be surrounded

by a populace

drunk with life

doused with energy

besieged by auras

the thought of

isolation

cripples her

like a crow bar to both knees.

At Odds

I’m scared

scared that

the past three decades

will turn into an eternity

words never spoken

hearts left shattered, broken

too many hurdles

I’m tired of jumping

my legs are dead

my heart still beats

longing for

an antiquated, simple life

enveloped with sincerity

sealed with a kiss

absent of “he said,” “you lied”

written or recorded

at this point it’s pointless

why point fingers?

chipping at the paint

the canvas, never bare

you, me

on opposite sides

wishing

you’d meet me halfway.

Erika Kelley works for the state of New Jersey as an Early Childhood Education Program Specialist. Erika, pseudonym Sage, also writes freelance. She enjoys fitness training and spending time with her husband and early elementary school-aged twin boys.

GERALD E. MONAGHAN JR.

I Am the Rose

The rose stood tall,

In the field of dandelions.

The rose in that patch out of place.

Can a rose in that field be considered a weed?

Yes - the metaphor dully executed.

I am the poet and culprit.

I exist in a bed of dandelions.

My fragrance

wafts the lilt of my poems.

Jerry Monaghan grew up in a family of twelve, which has given him plenty material for his poems. An active participant in the Geraldine R. Dodge Poetry programs, he has used several references from the Dodge in his teaching. A member of the New Jersey Poetry Society, Monaghan relies on the poet /mystic Gibran to inspire his poems.

HARRIS TOBIAS

Clocks

There are too many clocks

not to grow old

Biological clocks

that can’t stop ticking

Mechanical clocks

That toll away the years

The clock of our children

The clock of our parents

The clock of our resentment

Atomic clocks

Doomsday clocks

That accursed clock

that wakes from our sleep

That damn clock of the seasons

That says you can’t go back

even a little

On A Digital Photo of Jim

That's Old Jim as he once had been

There sure ain't very much left of him

a bunch of zeros and a bunch of ones

In the flesh he was a tad more fun

Sure he was grouchy when he got old

His eyesight failed and his feet were cold

Still a damn sight warmer than a pile of code

A bunch of zeros and a batch of ones

Don’t say much what a man has done

He lived, he loved and he died in bed

It’s his reward for the life he led

A pile of ones and pack of zeros

He joins the legion of unsung heroes

You ask if he got what he was owed

Harris Tobias of Charlottesville, Virginia, is the author of The Greer Agency, A Felony of Birds and dozens of short stories, appearing in Ray Gun Revival, The Calliope Nerve, Literal Translations, FriedFiction, Down In The Dirt, Eclectic Flash, E Fiction and other publications. His poetry has appeared in Vox Poetica, The Poem Factory and The Poetry Super Highway. Links to his novels at: http://harristobias-fiction.blogspot.com/

IOLANDA SCRIPCA

Homeless San Diego Freeway Five To Heaven

Invasion of tears on a lonely street

I crash spheres of sadness that burst with a sigh

There's no one to tear me apart I can meet?

..a Lexus is lost and the driver is shy...

The freezing orchestra plays in my head

Police sirens as one play with my memory

A voice seems to utter " They will give us bread !!!"

As tearing, lost souls head for the Crematory.

I dream I wake up as pure as a kid

"No More Tears" - a shampoo bottle promises in vain

This time though white traces of a salty skid

Releases my heart, my hopes and my pain...

Ruins in Sandcastlesby

Scared to fall asleep

As tides rip open shelters

Of childhood castles......

Scared to lower bridge

As hopeful heart cries exposed

Under jogger's shoe...

Ephemeral life

Whales eco-locate my soul

Tacit castles in the dusk...

Iolanda Scripca is a graduate of Foreign Languages and Literatures from the University of Bucharest/Romania. Nowadays she enjoys Southern California and possesses a CA Teaching Credential. She publishes in several Romanian-American Newspapers, both in Romanian and English. Her recently released poetry collection, Lava Of My Soul, is available at Amazon.com: http://tinyurl.com/29v2te8 Visit her at www.scripca.com.

JEAN RODENBOUGH

Flash Fiction

I was just thinking about you this morning, he said.

And that’s why I am calling you, she said.

The morning’s birds perch on the summer trees, and

all is well, she continued. It was some kind of code,

But he didn’t know which one. She paused, waiting

for the response that didn’t come. There was a dial tone

from his end of the line. He hung up on me, she thought.

And now to start again. She pressed the redial button. Heard

the buzzy ring. Hello? he answered. The breeze blows

softly through the rosebushes, she replied. That woman

has something loose in her head, he mused, which is

what I was thinking before she called, and he hung up.

Should she dial again? It would be futile. She sat down

in the lawn chair and contemplated the songs of the cicadas.

Elm Street Downtown

Today I’m driving down Elm Street, where life

happens, where sidewalks are full

of poems. I wait for the light

to change, watch nimble haikus

dodge traffic as they cross. A large

plump ode ambles in front of my car

carrying a tray of sandwiches and drinks as the cold

breeze plays with her hair. Two quatrains stop

mid-street to wave to the sonnet headed their way.

A street rhyme jazzes along the crosswalk

all the time singing into the cell phone

at his ear. Romantic strides by couplets

catch my attention, but interrupted by the harsh

poem-out-loud honking behind me, unmetered

and brash. The light has turned green.

I wave a limerick at him, wait till the light

is almost red, and pass through

intersecting stanzas. Behind me

a horn blares in anger. Bad poem.

Jean Rodenbough is a writer and poet, retired Presbyterian minister, grandmother, and dog lover. Her book, Rachel's Children: Surviving the Second World War is available at Amazon.com: http://tinyurl.com/36r9rv2

KAREN O’LEARY

A Writer’s Wings

Creativity whispers

in the wind.

Sometimes it blows

in gusts.

Sometimes it trickles

like sprinkling rain.

Sometimes it dries

up for a season.

Then, it whispers

once again.

One Song

Fingers glide

on black and white keys.

Adopted son’s

chocolate brown eyes

lock with my grey-blues.

~~~harmony~~~

two graves--

it rains on the barn

half painted

Karen O'Leary is a wife, mother, nurse, and freelance writer from North Dakota. Her poetry, short stories, and articles have appeared in various venues including Sketchbook, Purpose, The Journal of Christian Nursing, Amaze, SP Quill, Smile, and Poems of the World.

LIDIJA STEFANOSKA

In the Ritual of Art

In the ritual

you hold

between the words

and the cigarette smoke

you sweeten your coffee

with 33 sugar grains

through you centuries

pass

grooving the lines

of the saints' faces in the carvings

as the light

plays through your fingers

With the Embroidered Church of My Mother

Unnoted the night is dying And I don't know what name

to give myself from the palm of destiny: Gracia

or the first Christian name

Am I dreaming or holding in my left hand

the embroidered church of my mother

I stop

To trace the morning with the autumn colour

and with an odour of barn and cows

from the valley

into clean streams

may I flow

But in right hand

a mad demon from the darkness

Yet from my window

I can see

St.Parasceva's cross

While Looking at the Bugs

As you are watching the bugs

how they are burying a rain drop

The lemons are soaking up the sun

from the room And the sickle of the passing

is carrying a wax moon

over the bed

With a rainbow umbrella you wish

to watch the bugs

how they are burying a rain drop

and as if the soul by chance

reached aliveness with the stars

tomorrow

when you are gone

Lydia Stefanovska lives in a beautiful place by Lake Ohrid in Macedonia. Poet and teacher by profession, she has published one book of poems, Illusory Time. Her poems also appeared in various Macedonian literary magazines. Contact her at lydia_stefanovska@yahoo.com

MICHAEL CLUFF

Letting Go

After I got up

from reading Rudyard Kipling

or was it Ford Maddox Ford

Gabriel Garcia Marquez

for about

two hours straight,

I felt my left leg

was not there

from the patella down.

Normally it does

come back from its numb flight

into oblivion

or tingling needleness

but today

it has not returned yet

I do not really mind if it does not

I can live without

as I have done before

in my recent

and not so recent

pasts.

Ramble

Lester said

I hate my body

it won't work

with me

to get to nirvana.

The eyes won't look

deep enough inside

and the heart is

too

close to the surface of

basic days and places

The feet won't cradle

any shoes just right

and the neck can't even support

a decent-sized noose.

And the brain

can't hold tangents

as well as logic

Mike Cluff has been a full-time instructor of English and Creative Writing at Norco College in Southern California since 1996. He is also an actor and on-line reporter covering the fine arts scene for the Riverside Examiner. His latest book of poetry Casino Evil is available on Petrogylph Books.

MICHAEL D. RUSSELL

The Weight

At the news, I collapsed: not on the outside, where everyone could see

But in some dark, private corner of my mind, a place unseen, unknown

Balancing my options and opinions like loaded dice of spent uranium

She weighed my brain: it was, of course, found wanting, and wishing

For a time long elapsed, long ago dilated deep into damp shadows

No escape appears to be left - all the exits are so painfully alarmed

My fingerprints have melted into the creases of worry etched on my face

Perhaps it's not really news, at all ! Just the same tired old song

That I've been singing since I first pulled open my newborn eyes...

Born in the Midwest, orphaned at 12, I grew up in Memphis, TN, leaving there after finishing nursing school, for CA., Marin Co. - "God's Country" - as I called it. Many adventures, both on the job, and off...began to write "songs", which developed into a passion for poetry. Most creative periods were 1997-2000 (after an estrangement from my last flesh and blood - an older brother, who died in 2008),and 2007-2010, after finding out I had a bad case of prostate cancer.

RICHARD GODWIN

Desert Song

What is it about the sea?

and its tempting to the yield of clay

as if this solid world might

slip and disappear

and all the bodies you have ever known

vanish

You held onto them didn’t you?

with darkness

your friend

and the ever-changing face

of the pleasures you offered men

as if you were the mother of all gorgons

You lost the sea and its

wild promise that day

you found me

with your grief

beneath a sky that crackled

like firewood

Hold onto your body, it is very small

it will fade

and your beauty will one day resemble a scar like the tear mark

that trailed along your cheek when you first tasted Death

Or this desert song

Dying in the night air.

The Sea Is an Honest Monster

No, I would prefer to be eaten by sharks

Than chiselled away by the finely twisted dagger of

Man

Or Woman

With all its hatreds

And Veiled Lies

It seems so

deceiving

Even at this distance from the pain

For she held him in her hand

And said

Dance

But he could not for the wounds had atrophied his muscles

And she had barbed his soul

And he could not find his way home

To himself

And there was only the Road

And the Road was Bleeding Now

I remember my mother’s hand in mine

And I wonder who was holding whose

And the women of my life merge and tangle

Like clots of blood in an open vein

No, I would prefer to be eaten by sharks

For sharks have more honesty than man

Richard Godwin is a crime and horror writer as well as a produced playwright. Many of his stories have appeared in magazines. His novel Apostle Rising is being published in March 2011 and is available for pre-order from Atlas Books: http://www.bookmasters.com/marktplc/03188.htm Visit his website http://richardgodwin.net/ where you can also find a full list of his works.

ROBERT R. CICCOLINI

Rain

We were a sticky love.

From the gap

in your saccharin smile

I was vacuumed in.

Into your private tornado, spinning in your pain,

stirring fast in the hot rage soup;

Your father who was never there,

your complexion,

your weight,

the friends who betrayed,

no one gets you,

your weight.

If I hear about your weight one more time.

I'm dizzy in your weather,

I'm cloudy in your sun,

and your words are all spelled the same now.

Maybe you are too heavy,

maybe you need to rain.

Kindergarten Poets

Some of them like to use

big, shiny, esoteric words that

leave you stuck somewhere-

lost.

But some of them understand,

and coax something out of you

like goosebumps or a tear- or

just plain awe. They understand the

richness in simple things:

a hug hello, honesty, paste.

Like the paste my son used to stick

the sun to the sky in kindergarten.

It's different than the stuff that can hold

a truck in the air. It's more soft

like the running

hug hello and the honest eyes of my son.

There's no cunning there.

So take all your big, shiny words,

all your sophisticated rant-

all your Kant.

Just leave me alone with my son.

His hugs and honest eyes,

his kindergarten sun

will stick to me forever.

Robert Ciccolini is a hair salon owner in Whitehouse Station, NJ. He keeps a blog of some of his writings at: http://verticalpropensity.blogspot.com

SALVATORE BUTTACI

WHAT DO THE DAISIES SAY

ON GRAVEYARD HILLS?

If only the wind would hush

and we could somehow press

our heads against the sod and hear

the language of flowers.

What do the daisies say

on lonely graveyard hills?

They stand in sentry rows

as though to guard the sleeping.

I cannot believe they are silent.

Their yellow petals wave;

they bend on green stems

like supplicants in need of grace.

What do they say in petal talk,

in velvet-smooth vowels,

in the alliterative rush of consonants

that rise and fall and rise again?

If only they could speak to us,

say sweetly how proud to stand

like guardians of the dead

or how they miss summer gardens.

If only this heart of mine,

this true self who speaks wordlessly,

could decipher the tongues of daisies

and I could suddenly grow wise.

Salvatore Buttaci’s work has appeared widely. He was the 2007 recipient of the $500 Cyber-wit Poetry Award. He authored two chapbooks, Boy on a Swing... and What I Learned from the Spaniard… A collection of 164 short-fiction stories, Flashing My Shorts, available from Amazon.com. He lives with the love of his life, Sharon, in West Virginia. Visit him at http://salvatorebuttaci.wordpress.com

TAYLOR GRAHAM

Truck

It broke down in the middle of the road,

on the high hardpan between ruts.

August, halfway between late-spring rains

and early-winter storms.

A truck with one blue door, one red,

primer quarter-panel, tires

that left tread marks in dust all over

the county. Its driver no better, seventy-

four years old. He’s run out of

words. This truck gone and paid for.

This truck and a dog and a piece of land

with fallen-down barn. He couldn’t

fix any of it, or make it into

something it isn’t. He can’t afford

metaphor.

Along the Stream

A small boy stands tip-toe

on a little hill overlooking the canal

that snakes, cool and glittering,

through pines and incense cedar

as it carries snow-melt from upcountry

down a careful grade,

not in angry spills and falls, but

languid; afternoon companion

to backyard barbecues,

collecting scent of hickory smoke

and sausage sizzling, so he doesn’t hear

the muffled churn of water

off low-head dam, a mere six inches of fall

into whirlpool where a drowned

tree-limb spins & bucks in backwash-

boil, a tethered dog that can not

ever break free.

Taylor Graham is a volunteer search-and-rescue dog handler in the Sierra Nevada. She’s a finalist in this year’s Poets & Writers’ California Writers Exchange. Her newest book – Walking with Elihu: poems on Elihu Burritt, the Learned Blacksmith – is available on Amazon at http://tinyurl.com/2784mso

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