Four Poems by Cleo Griffith

For You Who Remember

 

I am massive, old, oldest apple tree in the orchard,

still I bear red fruit of an old-fashioned style,

too delicate to be marketed, thin-skinned

but full of juice and taste and texture.

 

Younger trees have been grafted to bear more sturdy orbs,

tough-skinned that they may not bruise through life’s journey,

giving up a bit of lightness, moistness, --final sacrifice:

fragrance that still emanates from my solitary harvest.

 

There is a ladder here against the roughness of my old bark,

it is for you who remember what this fruit used to be,

that you may climb and pick a sample once again

of what we were when I was young, and what I continue,

me alone, among the orchard, you will know me,

I am massive, old, largest tree in the orchard of my father.

Gifts

 

I count the clouds as friends

because they draw my attention and admiration,

sometimes bring me gifts of rain, or show me

lightning against their blackness,

their sudden changes.

 

I have friends who show me the clouds within,

the lightning heartaches and tears that rain down,

their darkness and their sunshine surprises.

 

I count the birds as friends

because they show off for me in their dizzy flights,

explain patterns to me with their nesting,

take for granted their duties,

their generations.

 

I have friends who favour me with fancies of imagination,

such treats of special artistry quite take my breath,

I am humbled by such gifts.

 

Nature and mankind.

I keep them safe, these precious needs.

Glow From Old Lanterns

 

Somewhere in the darkness

we call everyday,

even when not looking

we see a distant glow

from an open field,

the backward glance

at memories we didn’t mean

to conjure,

but there they are,

faces, incidents,

almost touchable,

mostly benign,

a few we shunt aside with

quick hard hand movements,

I will not dwell

on that difficulty,

that disappointment,

and we let the smooth

memories surround

our hearts for a split second

of our routine,

because without those shafts

of light from old lanterns,

who would we be?

White Chevy Silverados

 

I used to worry that I had a fixation

on these certain trucks, a strange adoration,

I’d see them around me where-ever I’d drive

it quite freaked me out, they swarmed like a hive

of giant wheeled bees in all kinds of styles,

some raised to the sky, some in low profiles,

this one had tools, several more sported canines,

some dusty and old, and some still with new shines,

there were others in colours like red, blue and green

but they didn’t gather, didn’t convene

the way the white ones would hover around,

toward me, behind me, in front would astound,

‘til I finally resolved to my satisfaction

an answer to my seemingly mad attraction:

it wasn’t the trucks I was longing to see –

those white Silverados are obsessed about me! 

 

3^rd Place, Humor, Ina Coolbrith Poet’s Dinner Contest, 2019 but was not printed.

Cleo Griffith has been on the Editorial Board of Song of the San Joaquin for twenty years. Widely-published, she lives in Salida, California. Her poems have recently appeared in Wild Roof Journal, Straylight and Poet’s Corner, Modesto, California 2023.