Mural by Joan Rainey Day, Photo by Mike Baird
A WAY OF LIFE
My friend pointed to a peculiar man approaching us,
Must be the legendary guy who lives on a houseboat.
Sure enough, anchored nearby, a pile of green junk.
His wispy, marbled beard that reached his waist
flowed in the freezing wind. He approached barefoot,
in shorts with a black vest and carried a gallon bottle.
Hi, I’m the Bay Keeper. Rowed in for water.
Welcome to my museum and bird preserve.
Just found two Chumash arrowheads. Take a look.
My eyes darted between the rock fragments
and the sparse distribution of teeth in his smile.
Thirty-five years now. Raised my son out there.
From a zip-lock bag of photos I glimpsed his life
of sunsets, egrets, avocets, and mystical fog,
God made me ugly. So he gave me this.
His arm rose toward his beloved bay.
Downtown Baywood, one block square,
met all his needs for civilization.
People help me with the cost of film.
I gave him ten dollars.
He gave me fresh horizons.
*His name was Sandal Makara; his boat the Monastery. Met him in 2001. He died 2004.
ME AND THEM
I thank the fifty trillion cells
of my body. Each an engine
of its own—they cooperate,
run the factory of me.
With their own agendas they
communicate, absorb nutrients,
heal wounds, send commands
that I scratch, blink, cough.
Sometimes they do as I ask,
breathe me on demand,
walk me about, allow me
to think I’m in charge.
As magical as elves when
all systems flow and
frightening as demons
with an operations failure.
I know so little about them
with their nuclei and cytoplasm.
So savvy in their small universe,
do they know about me?
TRANSFORMATIONS
Behind the wheel of a car
some people remain themselves,
but in my Prius phone booth
I forgo my Clark Kent persona.
From meek and mild to assertive and bold,
I become a Don’t mess with me driver.
Anonymous, my Prius and I troll the streets,
face off at intersections with SUVs and Lexi,
swivel for U turns, and
parallel park with panache.
Returned to the walking world,
once again shy and ready to defer,
I keep a firm grasp on my keys.
|
Jeanie Greensfelder
|
WONDERLAND
Six rabbits, a road runner, and bob-cat dart by
during my drive through Montana de Oro
as I seek to fill my soul in solitude with nature.
The guard signs me in at the new ocean trail
near the Diablo nuclear plant owned by PG&E, says,
From Windy Point you can see the reactor domes.
Mystical fog protects me from that sight
and I walk along the golden grass road
of California poppies and cow patties.
A herd of cattle near, two lying down,
hills dotted with white stones, a backdrop.
The crashing Pacific laps huge rock arches,
and stacks with meandering, sedimentary layers.
With every curve an ooh, an aah, a surprise of otters,
pelicans, turkey vultures, pigeon guillemots, and gulls.
I slip into timelessness,
gratefully aware,
I am full.
ALTERNATE REALITY
Perched on a cliff over the Pacific
sit Esalen’s hot tubs. Steamy sulfur rises
as I approach one brisk, bright morning.
Visible below, bare bodies,
several in a round, stone basin,
a couple share a single porcelain tub,
and a man suns on a massage table.
At this historical holdover from the sixties
a swimsuit violates the sybaritic mores
so I go down the steps past the fountain,
choose between the silent and quiet sides,
enter a changing room with benches and hooks,
and hang inhibitions with my clothing.
Warmed slate feels friendly to my feet,
the shower with sliding glass doors
overlooks surf smashing on rocks
making momentary, swirling eddies.
People rinse before and after their soaks.
A flurry of passing body parts,
many flawed and few flawless,
and the unusual becomes the usual.
Watching for otters and whale spouts
in the primordial Pacific wins over
my awkward feelings with strangers.
Warmed inside and out I dress,
gather my inhibitions at the door,
and return refreshed to regular reality. |
