I Can't Not Write At the Beach

Recent beach musings. For Evisceral I used essentially the same prompts I used for this post. Wildly different poems, huh? Today a friend told me the only thing new under the sun is the infinite possibility of metaphor. I love that.

Evisceral

It was raining the night I awoke.
The night I knelt and sucked the silver-painted brine
stirred by shifting claws.
The night I stood naked
and opened my arms and body to the sharp cutting needles,
welcoming the evisceration to come -
the tearing open.
The night I heard the whispers of the ancestors
rise to a shrieking roar amidst the raging storm
imploring me to fling the heavy, suffocating blanket
protecting my womb-box of dried, shriveled memories
hidden away as the undead, cringing from sun.
The night I felt the terror of exposure -
scurrying, crab-like, for shelter that was no longer there.
Eventually stilling in hopeless exhaustion
and surrender to the pour.
And in the stilling,
began to swell with life again.

Ode To A Seagull

I don’t know how long the bird shit had been on the window.

Months.

Long enough to not see it anymore.

I looked around it and through it;

Over it and under it;

I had stopped seeing it.

Was oblivious to how it colored everything I saw.

Colored with bird shit.

Everything.

But yesterday I saw it.

I don’t know why.

Suddenly it was just there.

In the way.

I couldn’t see what I needed to see.

It was the work of sixty seconds,

A paper towel and some Windex.

And suddenly everything was clear.

No shit.

Addendum: The photo for Evisceral is one I found on Google.  The seagull photo I took myself while sharing a bagel with some very hungry seagulls. I will confess that while I was thrilled to have such contact with the gulls, Hitchcock's 'The Birds' was definitely in the back of my mind.

No Place For Sissies

I know the ocean is unforgiving. From day one of this blog I've contemplated and written about the evidence of the cycle of life and death that continually revolves in this place I love so much. But today I didn't just stumble on the sterile, bleached bones of it. I participated in the blood and guts of it.  I wish I had done better.

Reggie and I were out for an afternoon walk. He was doing his best mighty dog impersonation and I was occupied collecting trash. I looked up to see Reggie bouncing playfully around a small, dark duck. He'd jump towards it then dash away, only to circle back and downward-dog with his little butt raised in the air, begging the duck to play with him. It was clear the duck was injured.  His little wings splayed oddly and flying wasn't an option. It looked like he would be easy to catch. I debated about whether I should interfere or just let nature take its course.  At a minimum, I called Reggie off and carried him back to the house. 

I couldn't get the duck off my mind. I knew of the Wildlife Center of the North Coast in Astoria and called. They encouraged me to catch him if I could and bring him in. I grabbed a beach towel, prepared a holding box and headed back to the beach.  I couldn't have been gone more than ten minutes.

I looked where I had last seen the duck . . . no sign. I wandered in broadening circles, thinking to myself he couldn't possibly have gotten far. That's when I noticed two large crows occupied with something among the rocks about fifty feet away. With a sinking heart I walked over, knowing what I was going to find before I got there.  In the ten minutes it had taken me to make up my mind and act, the crows had killed the duck and ravaged his tiny carcass.

I know . . . It's nature. It’s the cycle. Survival of the fittest. Perhaps he’d been too injured for rehabilitation. It was undoubtedly a quick death.  I tell myself all those things. And I know there are many more pressing issues.

Still, tonight my heart is sad for that sweet little duck. For the record, his bones are resting in the earth. I hope peacefully.  Brachia matris revertaris in benevolum, little one.  

Addendum: April 5, 2014.  While walking the beach with a friend and Reggie, we spied another injured duck. This time I didn't hesitate.  I pulled off my raincoat and quickly threw it over the duck and captured him. We called the Wildlife Rescue hotline and discovered the Seaside Aquarium will hold injured animals until some one can retrieve them and we delivered him safely to their care.  I don't know the final outcome, but the crows didn't get this one for dinner!

A Pledge of My Own

The great 10-1-13 Government Shutdown. I am militantly apolitical but even I can’t avoid this news. So I did the most sensible thing I could think of and hopped on my bike to seek out community and fine coffee at the Seaside Coffee House.

I love my bike.

It is teal and rust (the real stuff, not the color) and, in spite of its gear shifters, only goes one speed. No spandex required with this baby. Hell, most of the time I don’t even wear a helmet. Its best feature is the iridescent purple and pink streamers with the flower pinwheels that really spin. I always smile when I ride my bike. Even when the government has shut down. Maybe even especially when the government has shut down.

So, I’m cruisin’ down the prom on my pimped out bike, feelin’ groovy, when I see him in the window of a yellow cottage I've rented in the past.  The 3-second clip as I ride by turns into a movie in my brain. I know the set. There's grungy, yellow-brown shag carpet, a ratty recliner and an antique lamp that no longer has it's expensive glass shade.  He’s maybe sixty, salt and pepper beard, blue bathrobe and he’s standing with his right hand over his heart as he looks out the ocean-front window.  My first thought is to hope he’s not having chest pain (will that nursing instinct ever leave?).  I’m pretty sure that’s not the case. I’m also pretty sure he’s not reciting the Pledge of Allegiance – at least not in the usual way. My guess is his heart can’t contain the magnificence of the beauty he’s beholding. He needs his right hand to help hold it in.

What would the world be like if we pledged allegiance, daily, to look at something beautiful every morning, find some small good to do, look someone in the eyes to the point of discomfort, say “Thank you” to whatever it is we are grateful for, strike up a conversation we might not have had?  Because in the end, government or not, apocalypse or not, those are the things that will be left standing. On my death bed, will I even think about the 10-1-13 government shutdown? Nope. Will I remember your eyes, Deanna-from-Palm-Springs-In-Seaside-For-The-Bridge-Tournament? Yep. That’s my pledge.