Taylor Graham lives between Placerville and Rescue in the Sierra foothills. A volunteer search-and-rescue dog handler for many years, she served as El Dorado County’s first poet laureate. Her poems appear in the anthologies Villanelles; California Poetry: From the Gold Rush to the Present; and California Fire & Water: A Climate Crisis Anthology. Her latest book is Windows of Time and Place (Cold River Press).
The following work is Copyright © 2021, and owned by Taylor Graham and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Finding Indian Diggins
Almost the county seat in gold-rush days.
Now its name is off the map.
I came to find its bookends: death and birth.
A place without a town. Fire station,
general store a-ways beyond the one-lane.
One-room school (1856) still alive
in Covid-time – backpack trips & out-of-class
discoverings. Learning leaks from forest
all around. Pioneer graveyard I couldn’t find –
fire crew declared the cemetery road
too extreme for my AWD. But
could I take a photo of the 4 of them &
their tractor? Of course I could.
We laughed on account of the sky’s blue.
Isn’t that what small towns are for?
Pat Hull is a songwriter (Dutch Records) and poet. His first book of haiku called Field Notes on Love (A Collection of 99 Haiku) was independently published this month (February 2021). He teaches non-violent communication and speech communication at CSU, Chico and Butte College. Visit Pat on the web here.
The following work is Copyright © 2021, and owned by Pat Hull and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Letter to my brothers
We shared a room
For a longer time than most brothers
At night, feet fitting squarely
between the wooden slats,
I leg pressed your mattress
from the bottom bunk to keep you
awake whenever a lull
in our incoherent ramblings
We took the tops
Of garbage cans down the slope
Behind the church
and we needed to say
what we knew
Of course, we’re quiet now.
What words are left after bearing
the misshapen truth together?
A good song is always ready
To die, like a hand reaching out
Into empty space