Miss Blue

 

Miss Blue

The blue plank like a body
at the beach, half-buried in sand.
A woman’s body.
Her color is a noon-day shade of blue,
gift of the Pacific, surf’s daughter
bleached blond by sun and water
with feminine whorls of grain,
sea grass atop the head,
starfish for modesty where the moss grows,
shark teeth for toes.

Every driftwood has its destiny.
My job is to help it along,
to bring grain to life
with sandpaper and knife
beginning at my workshop
where I sandpaper my blue board selectively,
respecting privacy
with varying pressure to make smooth
the forehead, cheek and breast,
maintaining mottled freckles
across the chest.

The next step, while
rubbing linseed oil with a rag,
the wood seems to quicken.
I feel a twitching at my fingertips.
A cough, a trickle of seawater
from the crack of two lips
and she sits up! A blue lady,
blinking knothole eyes.

Sweet Jesus, she says, I almost
drowned. Where’s Paul?
“Who is Paul?” I ask.

Mr. Gauguin, of course,
she says, the painter. In Tahiti.
It’s his blue dye.
His colors could vivify.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, “but Paul Gauguin
died a hundred years ago.”
Just like him, says Miss Blue,
not to tell me the news.
I’ve been jumped by dolphins,
nudged by whales, nibbled by sharks
and nobody says a word.
Never a human touch until yours.
Thank you, by the way.
You have magic hands.
Better than Paul’s.
A pinkish hue comes to her blue.
Our eyes meet. There is heat.
“If you will lie down on your front,”
I say, “I could finish rubbing your backside.”
She giggles, but she settles on my worktable
with a few moans of pleasure
for the oil beneath my fingers.
Weathered beauty to my sight,
woven fibers glow with light.

I bring a mirror.
She examines, front and rear,
and mutters, Oh my Lord.
Look at my ass, flat as a board.
With her coloration
she’s worth a small fortune,
but all I say is, “I think you’re gorgeous.
And I’m falling in love.”
She smiles and says,
You’re sweet, but I must retreat.
I have a mind of the drifting kind.

Look, I could do anything.
She’s captive in my wood shop,
she is my windfall, my life-size doll
but in conscience beyond my reach
as I lash her to my truck
for the trip to the beach.
“You’re going home,” I say, “you blue tart.
And you’re breaking my heart.”

Each driftwood has its destiny.
With my hand on her belly,
I paddle beyond the surf.
We say goodbye
with a grainy kiss.
My summer romance,
brief bliss.

…..

From my book Foggy Dog
Painting by Katie Col

Farmhouse, 1969

 

Farmhouse, 1969

That summer in Missouri
a barn cat had kittens.
We set out milk in saucers.
Diarrhea. Vet called us city kids,
said you can’t give milk to barn cats.

That summer in Missouri
busy owls left pellets of fur, tiny bones
each morning by the outhouse
saying this could happen
to who, to you.

Summer sunup in Missouri
cows poked heads in the open window
and drooled on the sheets.
Called us city kids, too.

That summer in Missouri
we skinny-dipped in the muddy Meramec,
washed ourselves under the pump
taking turns with the handle
and then saw a fuzzy screen, Neil Armstrong
bouncing on the moon,
almost as far away.

That summer friends went to Woodstock,
said we shoulda been there.
We said, you shoulda been here.

That summer in Missouri
a neighbor invited us to chapel.
And by God, he advised, Pick those tomatoes!
Next day we heard mid-sermon
a hailstorm clobbering the roof
of our flower-power microbus
packed with tomatoes safely picked.
Dumb luck? Providence? In appreciation
we joined that little congregation
and nobody called us city kids.

…..

From my book Random Saints
First published in Your Daily Poem. Thank you editor Jayne Jaudon Ferrer

Note: Summer of 1969 my wife and I, newly married, lived as caretakers of a farm near Eureka, Missouri. You could not make up a better name. Or a better summer respite from the madness of the decade.

Going South

 

Going South

She asks, “You going south?”
“Only ten miles.”
“I’ll take it.”

Her face undamaged, suburban.
Blue eyes with spark but older, not a teen.
Her duffle and backpack look brand new.

Before starting the motor I say,
“Seatbelt, please.”
“Oh.” An indulgent smile, dimpled. Click.
In this truck I ferried kids to school every day.
By golly you strap in or I won’t start
because I’m an old fart with rules.

A ratty nylon jacket, blue jeans torn at the knee.
“Where’d you start from?” I ask.
“Montana.”
She’s freshly scrubbed, no road dirt.
“What part of Montana?” I ask.
“My last home was Hawaii.”

From islands to Montana to  
California seems a bent path.
“You running away?” I ask.
“Sort of.”
“Where you going?”
“Santa Cruz. Or maybe San Luis.”

I tell her how I used to hitch all over the USA
until I gave up bad habits. I ask
“What’s the best ride you ever got?”
“I dunno” She fidgets. “I’ve had lots.”
She’s lying, I realize. But why?
Her and her spotless backpack. A paperback
peeking from a pocket, Gary Snyder.

“You don’t know how bad it can go
on the road,” I say.
“Yes I do,” she says.
“I don’t believe you.”
She says nothing.

Ten miles south at San Gregorio Beach I stop.
As she climbs out, bending forward,
her pants fall half way exposing a pink butt,
no panties. “Oops, loose jeans,” she says,
hitching them up. She peers back at me.
My move.

Oh God. To be young and frisky-risky.
“Good luck,” I say.
She frowns, lifts the duffle,
the unscuffed backpack.
“I hope you get there safely.”
I mean it with all my heart.

…..

First published in Verse-Virtual. Thank you James Lewis, editor.

When Gramma Visits

 

When Gramma Visits

Her love so intense
frightens the kids.
They shrink from her kisses.
“I wuv you, too,” says Lily,
testing the words.

Gramma from the flatlands of Florida
walks our mountain road and is scared
the kids will fall off.
They say “Off what?”
“The road.”
“Why would we fall?”

She watches Crime and Punishment on PBS.
She read it years ago—in Russian.
I want to watch Corvette Summer on ABC.
She agrees to please but it’s so bad,
after ten minutes I’m embarrassed.
We switch to PBS and watch in awe
as Gramma talks back to the characters
in Russian, words she doesn’t want
the kids to understand.

At the airport
she kisses us all
with big noisy smacks that mean
we’ll never see her again.

…..

First published in Verse-Virtual. Thank you James Lewis, editor.

Fossil Beach

 

Fossil Beach

Take off your shoes, walk with me.
We’ll squish our toes.
Miles it goes, the busy beach
brimming with tiny crabs
until we reach—

Here, this outcrop:
from salty pools you can pluck
dead souls reborn as rock,
washed by tides
just as they were bathed so long ago
smacking their lips, happy as clams
wafting a seaside scent
like spilled beer.

We humans still seek contentment.
Here it has lain millions of years.

This fossil, bivalve,  
from time before meadowlarks
before Neanderthal
before waltz
in the shape of a harp roughhewn,
plays a melody murky, out of tune.

Wizened he is.
Surface ribs roll. Feel the deep chuckle.
How dense in your fingers,
how nicely he fits against your palm.
From the sand he shakes your hand!  
Greetings from the Paleozoic tavern,
surfin’ oldies on the jukebox.

Some day, may you and I
jolly in our bones
return as stones.

…..

From my book Foggy Dog
First published in Plum Tree Tavern--Thank you editor Russell Streur
Photo by me of one of my fossil friends.

Note: there’s a cove—it’s a healthy hike to get there—where a vein of fossils is exposed in the bluff just above sea level. A high tide combined with winter storm will dislodge fossils which fall into the surf. At low tide barefoot in shallow water I can gather them. I love this. From the weedy tide pools there’s a smell oddly like beer. Somehow I feel the ancient clams love it, too, greeting me with a sandy handshake. They are are a mix of stone imprints and actual shells. Like my memory: pieces of reality washed, filtered in salty blood, set in stone.

Community Pool

 

Community Pool

Rowena a difficult mom
watches Cleo her difficult daughter
while complaining about the scent of chlorine
the fungus of feet
the persistence of pubic hair
to whoever will listen in this difficult town
when without warning Cleo takes off
for the deep end.
She’s four.

Cleo splashes a rudimentary crawl.
Her legs dangle.
She’s tiny out there, an acorn with arms.
Half across the deep end she flails.
Rowena screams “Cleo!” and runs to the ladder.
Lifeguard is on his feet, ready.
Rowena, poised to jump, shakes him off.
Water games stop. Sunbathers sit up.
Alert, silent, we watch.

Thrashing like a paddlewheel boat
Cleo advances slightly faster than driftwood
to the ladder, and we hear her small voice:
“Mommy, I need to work on that.”
And we exhale as one, all one,
at the community pool.

…..

First published in The Wild Word. Thank you editor Kusi Okamura
Photo by Yannick Lepère

Upward Through Bubbles

 

Upward Through Bubbles

In swimsuits nervous they are
essentially naked
the girls gather at the bridge
gasping giggling
budding bodies bouncing
as they climb over the steel rail
stand at the outside edge
hold hands
scream

and jump
the scary plunge
to cool water, Donner Creek where
toe-touching the sandy bottom
they burst upward through bubbles
to sunlight, to air
whipping hair
with laughter, relief,
stronger now,
sweet courage
with a touch of spice.

Frog-kicking
to shore they smile
at the baggy-legged boys
who dared them
standing hands in pockets
smaller now
feigning indifference
unworthy of their loveliness.

…..

From my book Random Saints
First published in The Literary Nest
photo by Danila Doncov

Conversing with cattle

 

Conversing with cattle

I’m awkward,
never know what to say
to the mouth of a cow
but the dog, born social, likes to stop and chat
on our walks passing Bechwati’s pasture
where mama Hazel
and her gigantic boy Hazelnut
greet us at the fence.

Exchange is mostly silent
neck-lowering with deep huffs of scent,
ear-flick, tail-twitch,
eye-avoidance, front leg crouch
with farts for punctuation.

It is not my world
yet briefly is.

Never a hug,
never a handshake,
never a tip of the hat
until one of us will simply turn
and we all walk away,
richer for the day.

…..

First published in Gyroscope
Photo by ulleo on Pixabay