The Mole Crab
Bandon beach. An elderly woman caged in a pink coat pokes exposed soft shells and mechanical innards. She calls out to ask what it all is. We stand around hypothesizing: prehistoric crab? Armored shrimp? Feathery hems confuses us all. She asks us to find out, tell her. Her husband rolls his eyes. The internet says: mole crab. They live in the frothy surf, flying little filament flags to catch the drifting winds of plankton. We see the woman on the way back. Despite deafness, we inform her. A few waves of gratitude and she wanders off with husband to bury herself back into our unknowing. Route 22 Memorial On Route 22 to Bend we pass Mill City and the blasted heaths of last summer’s fires, so bad they closed Portland, millions muffled. The road passes through blackened brigades of Santiam Forest trees and piles of the fallen, heaped up in snow stained charnel clearances. In vacated lots the rubble of homes linger, indiscriminately chosen by the concentration, a few ironic fireplaces and chimneys still standing. Skeletal cars lay scattered like shells. Trailers have multiplied. Blink and you might think tourists. A few pristine houses escaped the fist of the fire. The burnt skin of the hills with charcoaled trees like my grandfather whose hair fell out during World War Two’s shock and North African heat. The Santiam river slips past guiltily. We climb towards the Willamette National Forest, soothing rain becoming concerning snow. At Detroit Lake, we find a European battlefield, blackened stumps memorialising the mud. The dead cleared to create a buffer zone. On one side of Detroit, a motel sign hangs by the stony scar of itself. On the other side the grocery store is still surviving. More rubble piles, more sudden trailer living and lonely fireplaces. Leaving we smell woodsmoke and see smoldering signals that in the earth not all is forgotten, people trying to live and not worry about next summer. Published in Sparks of Calliope, April 2022.
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Boy Again
It hangs in the air on a string of suddenness, tiny bat-like wings beating gasps of evolution. This Rufous Hummingbird is beyond any British bird I know. A whipping, yo-yoing puppet, fooling the flower, following invisible air streams owned by dragonflies. Impossible imposter beating butterflies with its fairy act. Its tongue unfurls from blurry imagination, its body becomes a puff of fantasy and thankfulness. I religiously wait hours for the resident miracle to reappear in magical blinks and bolts. This morning a Black-chinned Hummingbird is lighting just beyond arm's length, bobbing into yellow buds then bulleting back to the orange flowers. A few days later and my eye is tuned. I can spot them just from frantic twitters. Every time I see a hummingbird I am drinking nectar, blessed, a little boy again. The Time of Owls For many years of my flighty childhood, Dad’s owls flocked on shelves and bookcases, guarded the back garden, hung on the walls, became the dominant animal in the bungalow. Owls of all sizes, shapes and interpretations from Realistic to the Surreal, Classical to Cubist. Christmas and birthday presents were easy, welcoming new members of the Parliament. Even on our two foreign holidays: bleached white porcelain in Spanish Medieval old towns, and Yugoslav Communist owls on stickers found near dumpsters where homeless families foraged. I fledged the nest and returned to find the forest quieter. Dad had started packing up the owls. When asked why, just a shrug and “downsizing”. Each time I returned, fewer owls winked at me. Only the favoured remained in their roosts, the rest were retired to boxes. Then one day, the trees were empty. Cupboards closed. Extinction. The days of collecting were over. Suggestions for presents, to resurrect the old Naturist, were waved away. No explanation, no shared wisdom, just the watchful silence of owls. Published in Qutub Minar Review, April 2022. |
Poetry Biography:I have had over 70 poems published in the following worldwide magazines and literary journals: A Handful of Stones, Acta Victoriana (Canada), All the Sins (UK), The Amethyst Review (USA), Amsterdam Quarterly (NL) The Blue Nib (Ireland), Bolts of Silk, Borderless Journal, The Brasilia Review (Brazil), Bushfire Literature & Arts Review (US), Cadenza, Cake Magazine, Carillon, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal (Hong Kong), DASH (USA), Clackamas Literary Review (USA), Cooch Behar Anthology, Dawntreader, Dreamcatcher, The Dillydoun Review, Earth Love, The Ear (US), Eastlit (East Asia), Erbacce, Envoi, Finger Dance Festival, Ginosko, Gloom Cupboard, Hidden Channel, Inlandia Journal, IS&T (Ink, Sweat & Tears), Into the Void (Canada), The Journal, The Lakeview Journal (India), Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Lunch Ticket (USA) The New Writer, One Hand Clapping, Orbis, Oregon English Journal (USA), The Passage Between, Prole, Sentinel Literary Quarterly, Sonic Boom (India), Third Wednesday (USA), Of Nepalese Clay (Nepal), New Contrast (South Africa), One Hand Clapping, Opportunity Publishing, The Oregon English Journal (USA) Origami Poems Project (USA), The Paddock Review (USA), Panoplyzine (USA), Paper Swan Press, The Passage Between, The Peacock Journal (USA), Pens on Fire, Poetry Salzburg (Austria), Potomac Review, (USA) Prole, Pulsar Poetry, Rear View Poetry, Queen Mob's Teahouse, Qutub Minar Review (India), Red Ink, Shiela-Na-Gig (USA), South Bank Poetry Magazine, Stand, Waterford Teachers Centre, (Ireland) We Are a Website New Literary Journal (Singapore), Weber - The Contemporary West Review (USA), Windfall (USA), Writing Magazine, Words for the Wild and Verbal Art (India). Archives
March 2024
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