OPTIONAL POETRY

And at Land’s End, a pelican fell.
Bird of my childhood,

I watched them skim
the Gulf each night,

I wore the smoke
of my Granddad’s stogie

as we walked down
towards Bon Secour,

never arriving,
never meaning to.

Maybe it’s for the best
I won’t go back

before the house
is sold;

memories have
undertows

and I’ve never
been good

at holding
my breath.

(And in our bones are arches:)

Cathedral spaces, relics
of our own, aqueducts–

canaliculus, lacuna–

at our core we are
more antique Roman

than Danish modern.
That belongs to the birds;

we’re built on living stone,
they are sleek yet filigree,

architectural marvels,
impossible to tell that

they’re hollow until
holding one in hand.

(Continuing on this theme of breakage:)

Bones heal but one still
can feel a fracture, years

after, when the weather
shifts.  I carry rain like

a heaviness, really,
it’s fluid mechanics:

even in our hardest
places, there’s room

for expansion.

Hot tea on a warm morning;
the morning breaks, slowly.

This mug is chipped, some
rustic clay, hand-painted

in Mexico.  A cartoon
humpback hovers over

an azure ocean, laid down
cleanly in one brush-stroke.

Beside El Arco de Cabo
San Lucas, thin thoughts

of birds fly in front of
a lacquered orange sun.

If drawn with beaks they
might intone truth is beauty,

but out of the mouth of these
birds more likely a complaint:

the heavy glaze has glued
their wings to the rock

formation, forever denies
the curling white wave

the relief of finally
breaking.

There’s more than one
way to start a fire,

and more than one way
for it not to take. You say,

oh, you never know… but
I’ve spent, cumulatively, days

out in the cold warming soggy
twigs and burning birch

paper to get a spark to grow.
Remember that house we

found in Manzanita, right
out of the 70s, all driftwood

and macrame, with a wood
-burning stove? You read

while I fiddled with the
damper, opened the draw.

It’s true we had a fire then;
but what I’m saying is

it requires some skill
and a fair bit of luck:

A fire breathes. It needs,
and although needs must

when the devil drives,
if there’s no kindling

the damn thing
will not start.

Already the fires have started
out East: an acre in Monitor,

at least a thousand near Malaga.
You could see the smoke for miles

apparently, a bruise developing.
Burn piles and dry brush,

unheard of on this side where
we live in practically a floating city;

can’t go a mile without crossing
a bridge, the peril here being

that everything is built on filled
land, layered on top of small

personal histories, but at least
when it gives way, eventually,

we’ll all have been expecting it
to some degree.  

This month does go on.

Outside children scream
at their mother, whatever

it is they won’t do it. No,
such an easy position

to take, just digging into
the ground. I should go

to the garden today, see
what new weeds have sprung

from bare soil, if the blighted
peas have finally flowered, if

morning glory has overpowered
all– that stealthy vine, it seems

to grow in double-time relative
to the leisurely pace of vegetables.

I too know a little about mis-paced
expectations, mostly around who

I might feed the tomatoes I’d harvest,
still only yellow stars now among too

much foliage. I’ll have to cut them
back. Thems the breaks,

but don’t I wish these days
that things broke cleaner.

[Doing a cross-post here — Have a more gardening-focused blog here: agardenstory.wordpress.com , check it out if you’re into that sort of thing!]

Summer is child-like here;
I want to please it.

There’s still a chill
as the sun pulls back,

and somewhere in this
house a fly is trapped;

every thing drones on.

I fall asleep on the couch
and wake in sadness;

a problem with leaving
windows open–

who knows what might
get in?

This week, this heat has brought
out little spiders; strange because

they usually come in from the cold,
and living near a lake in winter

things do come: the rats that
nested in the wall for months,

growing complacent as
my landlord. These spiders

aren’t much for huddling,
are zebra-striped acrobats

abseiling from the ceiling,
ready to jump, to hunt.

Maybe it’s a subtle predatory
bias that led me to trap

the rats but let these
spiders run free,

appreciating their
bold gestures,

their willingness
to move out into

the open.