Morning Question

Morning Question Mark

The fog persists,
weeping over newly pink phlox,
blanketing the morning commute
of nearby birds, and their pond.

Squawking of ducks and geese
breaks the silence
the fog has laid down.

They are not brave enough
to test the cold dawn water,
kill what lies beneath.

Only the heron,
its long silhouette forming
 a question mark
wades steady on his pointed feet
then pokes his beak through
water’s mirror
undaunted by what he might see,
going after only what he must
to stay alive.

The geese gaggle,
clucking in off beat tones,
chiding the heron for such an act.
The ducks sit ringside,
marveling at such brashness,
reticent to move.

Moments later,
the geese carry on, find
elsewhere to gather.
A dozen ducks cluster
move further around
the bank’s tangled muck.

Only the heron understands
how we all fly alone.

AJW 4/30/13

Symmes Park, while pondering the heart
of one young man who attempted to take his own life.

Everyone Knows a Coelacanth

With apologies to Davis for bringing back some childhood memories, I was reminded of this poem by the latest round of news featuring the coelacanth.

Some things, like coelacanth, and your love for your children, never change.

Lessons for Me

The way he reminds me that the ancient fish

called coelacanth, is not spelled as it sounds,

while we snuggle on the couch

and debate his dream of playing baseball

or discovering a new rock or fish.

How he celebrates in the end zone

by letting the football roll down his fingers

as if he’d always known what to do.

And says he is different from other kids,

but can’t say why, only that he can run fast,

yet doesn’t have a trophy or ribbon to prove it.

The way he sleeps so assuredly on his back,

arms splayed wide, sheets kicked off,

face calmed as if kissed by the sun,

while the ceiling fan blows a breeze through his dreams

and Mickey Mouse nestles against his chin.

How his brown hair sometimes forms a nest

and on school mornings he shyly asks for me to fix it.

But other times, as he sprints down the street,

his strands of hair appear to be

feathers on wings that make him soar.

The way he swings his legs during piano practice,

sticking out his tongue as he attempts

to reach a full octave with his small smooth hands

while playing Carol of the Bells allegretto

because he likes to feel his fingers fly.

How he asks me, What was the best moment in your life,

and despite all that I have come to know,

he quickly interrupts, I know-  it’s me, right?

And he tells me, You’re my best thing to happen mommy.

I protest and say, What about hitting a grand slam?

Or doing 45 math problems in a minute?

What about taking on the killer wave in the ocean,

riding boogey boards with cousin Zach?

And he says, But you bought the boogey board, Mommy,

and showed me how to ride.

Oceanside: In Long Form

4/6/2012

This is where…you want to know the tales of timber that wash up on shore, their battered trunks, the bumps of severed limbs, and the whiff of scotch broom and wild strawberry before fruit and bloom, as they smother pine and sand.  You want to remember that smell, and when you are old, that someone has bottled it so you can awaken over and again. and as you trudge through the dunes and examine each speck you wonder what part of you will you leave behind…

You watch the starfish hang on and you want to join the starfish in clinging, and then letting go and letting the sea take you deep. And you want to say here was the place that defined you, shaped your soul, though others have softened your heart, but very few times in life can a place define you, rarely do you allow a place to say who you are.

And you wonder why you came years ago with a life inside of you, screaming to get out, and you heard nothing but the echoes of the waves and when that life came out you prayed that he too would have a day when his voice was screaming to get out which might be today and you wonder what is he looking for now what new life can he make close to here with his memories, without me

When you are here at night, the place lights up like Positano and you imagine the fishing boat that old man Dave has been fixin’ up for 17 years, waiting for the salmon to run and you just wish you could carry this feeling, all these feelings home though this is the only place that’s home, even though your companions say this is your trip, its not a trip if you are already home.

And the years have rolled the tides, and the only constants those three rocks you have written odes to. The rocks here are different - made of something “other than” It's how you know you've left, no other place can be even close. You watch the son – little then big - pick up jaspers and agates, moonstone, carnelian, and you want to tell him that you can’t carry the sea home with you – those rocks will only weigh you down over time. You must leave them here, as sacrifice to the sea gods.

In the morning, if you stare long enough at the ocean you'll miss the sunrise behind you and the words of your mom when you moved here, where will your son play, and the words of your mom when you left here, bloom where you planted, bounce off the inside of your head and the sight of your dad who walked beside you on the beach baby in arms now hovers above as you stroll.

But if you spend too much time here you are not living. It is only a place to be born. You must live out in the world you know this but you still need this baptismal font over and again to dip in your toes. Because every new part you play in this long running act requires such.

And out on the porch in the mist, you say aloud you don't remember him - did he really exist - and the only proof you have after time has sped up is the boy who looks like the man, and the town that reminds you a little bit - kind of - like Italy - but it is not, because Italy steals your heart and only one place can hold your soul.

And you want to tell the beachcombers if they need a grabber to hunt agates they should go home you cannot hunt agates anyhow you just know them - know they are there they guide you when they sparkle it is the angels winking at you.

You watch the old man get caught by a sneaker wave, he too in an “other” world, walking with two pink not rose flowers and how he must have been trying to say goodbye to someone and the sea soddened his shoes and refused his so long.

This is how you feel whenever you depart, and you cry on the plane, and people wonder why you are crying, you tell them, you are sad to leave and they don’t understand that each time you fly off you leave behind a piece you never get back. And the only way you will be whole again will be to give yourself over to the sea.

And you tell the kid sitting next to you, when you lean on his shoulders and he says they’re not big enough, you agree but you know they will be someday.