Flight: Poem and Flash Prose

We wander along the dune crest,
following meandering sand lines,

wave markers; little holes, once bubbles
speckle the dune’s lake side.

With our bared feet the same size,
we leave almost matching footprints,

dry colored ones on the dark sand,
wet colored ones on the dry.

Further inland the dunes rise up,
a gentle clutter of congregating grass.

Our loose sweatshirts and jeans,
rolled up to mid-calf flap wildly.

The autumn breeze combs our hair,
caresses our faces,

fills our nostrils with the scent
of clean sand, fresh, clear water,

pushes the massed grey-tinged clouds
in streams across the reflected sky.

The great green-blue lake
lashes roaring three-foot waves.

We dodge them easily laughing,
as they lap gently at our ankles.

Stripe-necked sandpipers scatter
on chopstick legs, leaving mazes.

Herring gulls swirl above, glide
through invisible dance patterns,

dip abruptly to light
amidst the foamy waves.

We open our flapping sails to the breeze
to take it all in,

to pour ourselves all out,
to become grains of sand underfoot,

crystal jewels of sparkling foam,
almost imperceptible whirs of gulls’ wings.


OR


We wander along the dune crest, following meandering sand lines; little holes, once bubbles speckle the dune’s lake side. With our bared feet the same size, we leave almost matching footprints, dry colored ones on the dark sand, wet colored ones on the dry. Further inland the dunes rise up, a gentle clutter of congregating grass. Our loose sweatshirts and jeans flap wildly. The autumn breeze combs our hair, caresses our faces, fills our nostrils with the scent of sand and water, pushes the massed grey-tinged clouds across the sky. The great green-blue lake lashes roaring three-foot waves. We dodge them easily laughing. Stripe-necked sandpipers scatter on chopstick legs. Herring gulls swirl above, glide through invisible dance patterns. We open our flapping sails to the breeze, take it all in, pour ourselves all out, become grains of sand underfoot, crystal jewels of sparkling foam, almost imperceptible whirs of gulls’ wings.

[Does one version work better than the other? Each was published in a different literary journal, print and online.]

Simple Acts

A few months ago I was feeling disgruntled. My creative writing wasn’t working well—I was blocked from the poems I knew I had in me. Exasperated, I wished I could write a work that would make something happen. Maybe a letter or an article or an essay.

Then via Facebook, I learned that a poet friend is suffering a disorder whose major symptom is vertigo. This news made me think back to a poem I’d written but not yet published, based on my own experience of a spinning world.

So I sent it to her and got this reply, “Thank you so much for this lovely poem! It's actually one bright spot in this dreary experience--I really admire it, and I'm grateful you sent it.”

During her difficult challenge, a small poem brought a moment of pleasure, making “something happen," afterall.

The Dune

The weathered gray barn squats
between elm grove and sawmill,
where Grandfather brings to life
the monstrous, jagged-toothed saw,
its steely blade my height.

Like the toothpicks of some Bunyan,
the pine trunks await their fate,
at each end weeping amber sap,
trapping would-be scarabs,
and my anticipation.

Watching for Grandmother, I jump—
faded overalls, sky blue blouse,
huckleberry buckets in hand—
as the saw motor starts,
sputters, then growls steadily.

Rattling chains draw logs
to the first of many snarling bites.
Blond chips and dust fly,
settling like resinous sand,
in a pile behind the mill.

Silently the dune beckons
like a Michigan shore
on a sticky August afternoon.
I wade to the top, slide down again
and again in an avalanche

of slivers, until finally,
ready to meet blueberries,
I empty pant cuffs, shake pigtails.
Only the barn notices the slap-and-dash
as I mill the evidence of my trespass.

[This poem was originally published in Pennsylvania English, 2004/05.]