The Long Way Home

Well, it has happened. 

I will never visit the coast again. 

That's it. I'm done!  

On February 4 I will take 84 west to 5 south, hop on 405 in whichever direction it jogs to 26 and then cruise west to Hwy 101 and north to my beloved Seaside. 

Not as a visitor but as a resident. 

I'll be home!  

It's taken 52 years. 

Talk about the long way home! 

No, there won't be kippers for breakfast, 

but do stop in for a mean scrambled clam hash. 

Any time. 

Please. 

My door will be open.  

The following poems happened on my last visit.  

Thanks for sharing this journey with me. 

Now, I have a garage to clear out. 

See you at the beach!!

Chiffon With a Side of Hail

Today is the kind of day that can't make up her mind. 

Being a total beach

she can be as fickle as she pleases. 

Who is going to argue with her? 

Like an excited teenager before a date, 

this day is flouncing from one frock to the next 

as fast as she can bat her eyelashes. 

Sunny lemon chiffon . . .

Iridescent grey silk with a sheer ribbon of rainbow . . .

Misty grey satin studded with hail rhinestones . . .

She twirls around until she catches a glimpse of herself 

in the mirror of the sea

and in an instant she's on to the next.

When she wearies 
she will wrap herself in black velvet 
and sleep. 

Gullible

Guilty as charged.

I bribed you with a twenty pound bag of

cheap cat food.

It was the only way to get close to you.

You were one among many. 

At a quick glance you and your flock

(yes, that’s what we call you)

all look alike.

But I am getting to know you.

Yes, you with one leg.

Yes, you with a tear 

in the pink webbing of your foot.

And yes, I remember and miss you, Cap’n,

with the hook in your wing.

And yes, you, Mr. Grumpy, who won’t let anyone else near

yet won’t eat from my hand yourself.

I know, when you are dirty and un-preened,

you are having a bad time.

I throw extra food your way then.

I know, when you try to eat my fingers,

you are a first-timer. 

Eventually, when you are less afraid, 

you will nip the food from my hand

with precision.

I stop breathing when you flutter around me,

your wings brushing my back and face.

Like angels, I imagine.

I thrill when you snag bites on the wing.

I go without expectations

and have quit bringing my camera

to just be with you.

So there is no way to capture,

other than with my feeble words,

that moment when the sun

lit your translucent tail feathers

illuminating the impossibly perfect details 

and grey peacock swirls 

as you hovered mid-air

and looked into my eyes.

This is my humble thank you.