poems & photos
Come morning, we slid
tippy kayaks into the Sound,
Poulsbo-bound for breakfast
Fearless oars separated
families of jellyfish, we mean
no harm, just passing through
And geoducks – what strange
creations, sand-fountains that
could dance to Mozart
Comfort of land, sun-drenched
streets of shops, families,
Norwegian oddities, pastries
the size of frisbees.
Together, we forgive the rind
with a sharpened knife
You split with force
the egg-shaped squash
Whose entrails I spoon
onto the butcher’s block
Spreading like an orange
net, loaded with teardrop seeds
The belly of our oven is
amber-glowing, ready
Posing as a coastal surprise
Blooms in abundance in summertime
Sweet pink roses climb on green branches
Tender pale buds that yearn for vases
And the unsuspecting other-surprise
Left by a canine, who just had to go
Where I would plant my sandal
When reaching for a few blooms of my own
Urban climbing up
concrete hills, what
season is it anyway?
Four straight days
of light-flooded windows
spark new leaves
on the basil plant.
I said it many times:
I need a bigger sky,
larger moon-stage,
vast and brooding.
On that shallow shore
just north of here: why
are the boats left
floating free all night?
What small city sparkles
to the east? Why can’t
I keep the ocean’s west
location ever straight?
And can I keep this
golden fondness with
me past autumn?
(I wrote this poem about two years ago, when I was unemployed after college. Now I’m about to be voluntarily unemployed. How much life can change in so little time. I am learning now what is essential to my happiness, my wholeness. And it absolutely means simplicity.)
Our fruit baskets are not empty.
My shelf is filled (so is hers).
Our tiny fridge is clumsy with
tissue-thin bags of produce.
After breakfast, I’ll cover my
body in lavender suds.
And comb my thick, soft hair.
Some things can’t be measured.
I’m like a housewife without a
husband, when I only want
to be fitted for an office chair.
Today, I’ll hang the lace curtains,
write four cover letters,
make three square meals,
sweep the hall,
brush the rectangular edge of my
nightstand with mustard paint.
No paycheck, but my diploma is
in the mail. I’m good for it.
