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At Sea
Why did I do this? Why rise from the soft and waving depths Howling and choking on spume Wet hair stuck to my face
I am not graceful or mythical My fingers are wrinkled My arms slimed with kelp
And with each passing wave I am somersaulted, half drowned My eyes sting from the salt
I think back to those emerald depths The whale song And the soft shimmer of stones That fade to dull in this cold and heartless air
An undertow takes me And I am dragged down among the anemones Til stubborn and strong-legged, I kick and fight once more to the surface
It’s then I see it. The vault of the stars gyres above me I stare, agape And remember.
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The Fury
Again, he asks Palms like cups outstretched
As easy as a shrug of the shoulders Black and iridescent feathers gleam A taste of pennies on my tongue
Hovering over a pit, bottomless and black I muse Will I become an empty drum, scraped clean While he smacks his lips and smiles? Love, they say, is kind.
Even now a gale rises, invisible above the treeline Fleet of wing I rise upon the thermals His one last and unknown benediction, to watch me disappear into the vault of the sky.
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At the Skamania County Fair
On the last night of the county fair The tilt a whirl is a neon streak against a twilight sky And hucksters bray from their plywood booths
A dust of wood chips like down coats my skin And a sweet barnyard scent seems to follow me As I wander, uncertain and alone
From narrow alleyways I watch the church kids Traveling in noisy packs All denim and cotton candy, pamphlets in hand
I’m invisible, for now From the men who whoop and holler And the dark eyed teenagers who smoke and grin
A quiet creek runs nearby, Where the tall grass nods, heavy from heat And the water flows clear and cool
Still as a heron I watch the laughing girls, the preening boys And the feel the creeping rhythm of hymns I hover, captivated Then flee to the safety of the rushes.
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Just so you know
By Esther
At lunchtime In the sunny kitchen I leaned over the sink And ate a ripe peach
A bowl of fruit Bore dappled witness But I make no apology For the sweetness that ran down my chin
I savored it Warmed by the sun And saved for nothing.
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The Luminary Procession
The parade kicks off at sundown With the thump, thumping of drums in the air Soon twinkling stars bob shyly along Leading the way in the gathering dark
Then viruses scuttle on many legs And bell peppers waltz with shimmering fish An anteater trots on four stout legs Chased by a sleek and colorful fox
Whole phylla dance in the crush and the crowd While creaturely all, we sing and we laugh And crane our faces toward the dappled light
For a moment we gleam, as if lit from within Til we slip, with a sigh to the softness of night.
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Echo
I’ve done what was asked Winnowed and chiseled
Flakes of marble fell at my feet Dust sticking to sweated skin Until I emerged, lithe and white
I accounted for myself Ordered and reordered My thoughts Until my mind whirred and clicked and gleamed
But still. For every neatly ordered day There grows, dark and moist beneath my feet
My echo. Fine filaments like mycelium, incessant In their spread And serving only their own delights in the dark
This appetite, this stranger Searches with flicking tongue every fossil, secret spring And sweet loam
I may confess and aver, deny three times To that thin and clanging air But what use?
Is it me, who carves and assays? Or is this rigid spine A mere beacon to appetites in the dark?
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Driving past Nisqually Delta
April, but last seasons grass, burnished by a long winter Waves in the intermittent and watery sun
Two geese, newly paired Take flight From some hidden rivulet
As clams doze The sea makes and unmakes forever The twisting labyrinth of mudflat channels
And a boardwalk floats in the distance Hosting a pilgrimage of sturdy shoes, and yellow and green rainjackets
We fly pass, a murmur of cars Into spring
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A dream about power
by Esther
I was a vampire in the dream, Standing proud, slaked and complete My fangs glistened in the soft light
But envy tore at the men Mediocre and mortal
And with perverse and dreamy logic they held one power - Their dull bite Could steal my fangs for themselves
So they harangued me Their mouths wide and red, hands grasping Declaring themselves more worthy of what was mine
So I turned away And arms growing black and leathery I took flight, stark against the cool moon
Into a world of my own.
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This poem was inspired by this ghost story I heard awhile back: Late one night, a man stumbled home drunk, only to find that his newborn baby wouldn’t stop crying. Flying into a blind rage, he threw his own child into a nearby well. His panicked wife didn’t even hesitate, but dove into the well after her baby. He then covered the well and fled into the woods. They say that on clear nights, you can still hear his moans of anguish.
The story is fine, as spooky stories go, but it struck me that the wife was the more compelling character. And it got me thinking: Who's suffering matters? Who's stories get to haunt us, and why?
The well
I looked up, as I fell My hair streaming, skirts tangling and flapping around my legs I think I glimpsed his stone-white face against the moonlight And it was gone.
That moment in the dark stretched endlessly And I knew it was no mere gravity that pulled me now But her cries, leading me away from the old life Away from him.
And who knows? Maybe we landed with surprising lightness, And gathering her into my arms Maybe I murmured a lullaby, upside down in a brand new world
It doesn’t matter how it ends. I would throw myself into a thousand darknesses for her Without thought. Without hesitation.
So let him haunt the woods, let him have his rage and grief Even now he fades, a pebble worn smooth by worried fingers
And tossed into a well.
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Smoke season
By Esther
The sky is glowing yes, But never mind that now
Our tomatoes warm under a golden light And crickets are singing their late song
Let us pick blackberries Fingers stained
Taste of ash on our tongue There is sweetness in the burning.
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Analogy
By Esther
It’s not that I don’t admire a pocket watch, Stately and glinting on some mossy stump.
Containing no end but it’s own perfection, It ticks its telos, corralling the unruly seconds.
But were I to open the back, and peer into the secret movement Would I divine something of its order?
Or is my suspicion correct? And would the clockwork begin to ripple Then leap, free as a trout from its casing?
Leaving me aghast As I watch that fish swim away with strong motion Knowing nothing.
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Wealth
By Esther
It was an honored Sunday tradition The paper would arrive in the morning So fat with ads they slipped from between the newsprint
I’d gather up those slick and colorful pages And poring over the clothing and jewelry, I imagined a future swathed in suburban abundance
I spent countless hours savoring that longing From inside a ramshackle house at the edge of the forest Where a wood stove crackled in the morning And the hot water always ran out
Did I notice then, The fine earthy scent of foraged morels That my mother gathered and cooked into soup? Or the mossed forest floor, soft like carpet and sweet with sorrel?
Years have gone by and the world is changed. Gone is the old house, the Sunday paper, And half again my desire
My fingers and neck do not sparkle But the scent of morels has lingered Just past tasting.
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Tinnitus
by Esther
I hardly notice The woosh and whine that fills every quiet room Like a rough and well-loved blanket pulled tightly over my life
Somewhere the shower splashes and storms A door slams The vacuum howls, as I write
And it’s easy to forget the failed aural architecture, The flawed inward spiral - my wooly cocoon.
But on those rare evenings, when the air is still and my hands are empty The whispers rise like trees whisper, quiet and wild And in no tongue I can answer
So maybe I will listen awhile, pressed by strangeness And note the contours of not-silence
And finding the length and measure of the ringing gap Approach the far edge of that roaring canyons distance.
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After an illness
By Esther
(Ok, it was covid but that’s not important right now)
I sat for a while in the root of the mountain Like plato's fools Mesmerized by fire-cast shadows in a cave
I was chained, in a way By fever, by fatigue, and the general fog of sickness
Falling deeper into that darkness, my vision narrowed Thoughts sifted and winnowed Until even worry - my oldest companion Left me
And for a time, outside of time I watched those dancing figures and was content.
But time returned to me, as it must. And I stirred from the couch, to load the dishwasher, feed the cats And tend to all the tasks that exist, insensible To caves, or metaphors, or sickness.
But I cannot forget, or regret That peace in the dark.
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Memory
By Esther
The world was softer, just then When my room was stenciled with stars The curtains drifted lightly in the afternoon breeze And I sat, cross-legged on the peach carpet
Cradled in my hands, a child’s jewelry box With a fairytale scene painted on the lid Gossamer-winged sprites smiled as they alighted, Beatific upon soft-petaled flowers In some hidden glade, still wet with dew
And unclasping the golden buckle Revealed my heap of treasures on soft velvet - Trinkets and baubles, glinting gold and silver
And the ballerina! Who rose before her mirror and danced Forever ensconced in a tiny, perfect world.
If I held my breath Could I tumble in?
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Morning bike ride in bad weather
By Esther
I don’t recall the decision To pull on long johns Coat, and waterproof boots
As automatic as eating breakfast, I left my warm bed, the dry house And rode my bike into the early morning sleet
Though I was hardly alone - Chickadees and robins Chirped and fluttered their spring songs Insensible to the weather
And so there we gathered A congregation of damp and squawking life Pulled by a knowledge deeper than reason And wiser too.
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By Esther
My life, I said is a sheet, draped over mahogany furniture Redolent of orange oil Waving slightly in the breeze of an open window
I swore it was leaf litter, blown and scattered over ancient roots Vanishing into hummus
I was lightness itself, Marbled blossoms of paint dripped in clear water Vanishing into the cool mirror
I held that knowledge, Like a wisp of smoke in my palm A breath held in a bony cage, escaping
But I begin to see That I am too the slow subduction at the pacific edge The infinitesimal accretion growing blindly in secret caves And the horizon bending forever out of sight.
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