Da Capo

Below are some previously published poems from the Rufous Salon archive. These brilliant poems share a theme, in one way or another, namely the elements.

Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

The Yellow Hills

Let’s meet in the yellow hills

near the sea.  Let’s picnic in

the yellow hills.  We could

look up to the sky and make

small talk.  We could tell each

other our hopes and dreams.

Stretched out on a blanket

under the warm sun.   We

could pretend we’re dead

or like some immovable

force.  Under a leafy tree

in the yellow hills we’ll rest.

In these hills black ants eat

the crumbs we leave behind.

Their tiny shadows could only

be observed under a microscope.

In the yellow hills we leave

our troubles behind.  Not far

from shore we feel the breeze

that comes from the sea.   We rest

here where the leafy tree’s shadow

seems to swallow us whole.

The yellow hills protect us from

the dark times of the world.

Philip Byron Oakes

                                    Sure Wood

A forest stumped for an answer

as to where to sit. From whom

to seek shelter, in houses gutted

by old flames, coming back to

haunt the furnace for the hearth.

Culling the herds of the listless

for the brightest of those eyes

lost in sleep. To separate the

wood from the wooden, when

asked to loosen a grip, on a

hand in the making it what it

is. Confounding the unmitigated

with alloys of discretion, in

fending off the queries from

those who might do some good.

Anchor the garden to the ground.

Meet the qualifications in the alley.

An one for all intents serving

as a purpose, for what might

have been, as well as for what

narrowly is. As good a reason

as any to plant a tree.

Joe Massingham

Terns

Terns climb and wheel incessantly

mewing a lament for lost chicks,

painting patterns on the cliff face

that artistic periwinkles

can study from their seashore studios

and copy in the sculptured shelters

in which they enclose themselves.

Each night the wind wields

nature’s scouring pad

and scrubs the cliff face clean

so that in the morning the terns

must undertake their task again.

Gerry Boyd




murmurs from a perfect afternoon

i. drifting into that hermetic seal

the picket fence stands proudly unwashed

in the three trunk hemlock afternoon:

it is all held together by wispy cables

and the dreamy embroidery of soapy eyelets-

those painted threads of yellow, green, and rust

that are all inside a glassed-washed afternoon:

the clearing fog of then and now and when.

a tempting little drip will propel the suspect elders

to wander into the white promise of the warping slats.

ii. the trifurcation is an amusement that briefly matters

she dances in the chartreuse lemon spring,

is the green summer of our frothing joy-

she flutters again in orange leaves,

that, saintly, burst and burn in autumn:

ironic words of appreciation always seem to fail

in a way that is pervasive and, oddly, geometric

on the tear-stained Appian Way of patio pavers:

there are many things that cease to matter

in the Euclidian formulae of wind-swept leaves.

yet, we try, and try again, to simply find the point.

iii. back to the idle rust of dropping cones

each shadowy dot of near and distant leaves

is bartered by the tricky once-washed slats,

traded for a moment that waves good-bye, well met:

saplings proudly foil the coniferous quivering-

the compost can, always, existentially blue,

a calming retreat from the obscenity of now

that is telegraphed by this obstinate relic-

boasting of a clarity almost reached

if, indeed, it was reachable at all.

the rest just freezes,

impotent in the set of choices and meanings-

what is the course beyond the fence?

through the unwashed slats there is only:

the soothing green of the distance mown,

the windy rhythm of dappled seed,

the promise of pale berries, lush and sown.

Isaac Levitan