Prose Poem

Water Mother

by

Water Mother

Mother Ocean and Human Connection
Mother Ocean will always call us home.

“Hey there,” I say to Mother Ocean and her crashing Pacific waves. “I’m going on a trip. I’ll miss you.” I talk to her quite often and unashamedly. She listens, too—I know she does. When I am sad, she comforts me. When I want a thrill, she gives me one. She is benevolent but strict. Her rip tides chastise me, her foam caresses me, her sea life teases me, and always, always, she beckons me.

Still, I must go. And so…

I drive away, away,  a ways away, down to the bay, where the waters are gray and sluggish and tangled in mangrove roots, hiding gator and manatee and other brethren from the primordial soup we all share in; where barges watch for sand banks and people speak with lilt and twang.

Away and away and farther still till I stop for lack of land, where turtles nest in dunes of sand. I hear her call, confused at first. And then my mind grows wide as my smile. “Hey, there,” I say to Mother Ocean and her placid Atlantic ripples tickling my toes.

“Silly,” she says, “You never left me at all. Did you not feel the brisk cool Rio Grande, the Mississippi rain? Did you not see me dressed in emerald green along the Gulf, did you not hear my voice in the wind rushing to birdsong?

“I am water, cloud, and vapor. I am here, and there, and the same, and different. I am a frightening stranger and an intimate mate. I am you and you are me. I am ocean and you are human, but we are one.

“Your neighbor is you. Your stranger is you. Your enemy is you. Your lover is you. Remember this, next time you see a drop of water. You are loved. All of you is loved and all of you are loved, and you share a common mother—me. You would be wise to remember, and wiser still, to share this knowledge.”

And so, I travel back, back, back, through storm and cyclone and hurricane and I think—enemy, friend, water, unity.

Love.

I am not going home, no matter where I am. I am already there.

 

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Look Up!

by

Look up! What do you see through the car window? The Alps. The Pyrenees. Three seas and an ocean.

Look up; beauty is everywhere!

You finally rest on a rock and write about the power in the crashing waves; rainbows vivid as if on a paper sky; and theatrical clouds and sunrays showing off feathered plumes, ribbons of light, black sinister robes, and pastel baby blankets.

Look up! What do you see in the towns as your tires roll through? Grand citadels. Quaint villages. Stone entries built for horses, threatening to scrape the paint off your car doors.

At last, you sit at a cafe and write about the ghosts you see at that ancient wellhead—a servant bustling with a bucket. A horseman dipping a ladle. A fair maiden dropping a coin. You hear the clip-clop of horses, the call of merchants, and the clang of church bells. You don’t need to imagine the bells; time couldn’t quiet their iron.

Look up! What do you see on those windy country roads? Cliches you now understand; Ireland is truly emerald. Fairy tale castles and thatched cottages really exist. France and Italy’s vineyards are as beautiful as they say.

In time, you stop by a babbling brook and put to words what your heart sees; a bridge that spans generations. In the middle, you hear the past—clashing steel as each side wars. You see the present—the same middle adorned with pink ribbons from a wedding, both sides united in love.

Look up! You are home now, in your ordinary house, your ordinary yard. You have nothing left to write. Everything is ordinary.

A hummingbird zips close and hovers, giving you a knowing look; reminding you there is no such thing as ordinary.

Liscannor, Ireland

by
Ireland beckons

Liscannor, Ireland: rest, rainbows, and rejuvenation.

Liscannor. A tiny town on the Atlantic coast of Ireland. There’s Lahinch across the horseshoe bay, with white houses pebbled along the hazy kelly hills. I ask a local how to pronounce it.

“To the English, it’s pronounced Lis-CANN-or. To the Irish, it’s Liscannoooor,” she says with a ghostly purse of the lips and a brogue roll of the tongue.

Night.

Travelers, weary from a month on the road, we settle into a cozy beach cottage and light a fire in the black stove. A previous dash to the country store has rewarded us with a crisp wine, and we clink our glasses. As the room warms, we peel off our layers of coats and scarves and finally sweaters, our socked toes curling to the heat as we bask in the embers.

Afternoon.

A strategically placed Irish novella beckons from a bay window—first him, then me, and then we chat about secrets hidden between delicious words.

A tumult hurls rain sideways, loud as breaking glass. The lap blanket gets pulled to the chin with a smile.

A season in a day here, soon the sun gleams and glistens, turning grass the famous emerald, and gray stone to a true gold. And, yes, a rainbow, its full arch so clear that if we each run to a side, we swear we’ll be soaked in its paint.

In the past, the village folk got together and created a park with lovely stone benches. Not facing each other, but each facing the sea. There is no sitting across for such a view—Ireland is for holding hands and silence and stirring of souls.

The Atlantic is a raging, smashing, crushing giant bull, stomping and snorting, tossing the spray straight up with such a mighty blow, that the water is momentarily suspended there, afraid to come down again. And soon, with a season in a day, it whispers and laps and shimmers gently to lovers and sleeping babies over smoothed rocks and boulders, and seabirds can tiptoe on its shores once more.

Morning.

He is now making breakfast—our last before we leave. And I am on a stone bench, pondering, then simply being. The stone is chilly through my jeans. And it’s time to go. The sun filters glowing ribbons down on me, whispering stay. But that’s the beauty of Ireland. You never really leave, once you’ve been here.

Liscannor Ireland
Stone benches for pondering and just being

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Patchwork Muses in Umbria, Italy

by

Patchwork Views and Cobble Strolls

Follow the cobble to find your muse!

I walk down an ancient cobbled path, to a view of vast rolling hills, like a quilt draped over a pile of sleeping cats. Squares of green tufted candlewick trees, a plain beige patch here, a striped green and brown vineyard there, a golden plowed field with mustard peeking through in vivid yellow.

Descending steep stone steps, I see a grotto with a statue of Mary to the right, and a marble bare-breasted maiden to the left. Viva l’Italia!

The wind is soft as the sky, with its gentle haze muting the colors—just a little. Italy doesn’t do ‘muted’ for long.

I arrived in the dark, delivered to the tip-top via a treacherous drive up, up, up, inches away from the craggy crumbling bluff, the driver confident and nonchalant.

The thing is, that’s how to do it. Perceived danger is a funny thing. Like the light mist, it can be gently dismissed by a calm confidence that all will be well.

A surprise gust of wind catches my attention and hair. Yes? I ask the sky as if it will answer. I often open my ears to the possibilities, the avant-garde, and the muses skipping and floating, invisible and playful.

“You see me?” I ask out loud as my dark tresses flail about. “I see you, too.”

Talking to the wind is not crazy. It is connecting to all that is, not just the plain old atoms and molecules and facts and the concrete.

What is wind, anyway? Molecules, tossed about wildly, carrying the atoms of people and trees and dinosaurs and stars. That’s the real circle of life. Oh, the stories an atom could tell.

A cat, its coat patched in shabby gray, meanders, nonchalant as the driver, and is on her merry way after a rather royal sniff to my offered hand. A queen walking among the common folk in disguise, her cloak didn’t fool me—the flitting tail was a dead giveaway.

Silver-edged clouds glow uncannily, stealing the scenery—they want their moment, too.

Patchwork clouds and patchwork fields and patchwork cats; patchwork atoms and patchwork me. We’re all just pieces of each other, really—we people, animals, earth, sky… cats.

I smile.

I’m no philosopher, but that sits well with me, as I sit, well, in Umbria.