To My Mermaids

Don’t be scared of mischievous night. From inside, the slap
Of punishing waves is quiet, weak. You may be jostled but you won’t rock
Regardless of intent, it is nothing. Sway with it, isn’t it nurturing? Angry gusts
Gather power beneath dark clouds, but look, they are merely hints of wild
And soon the coddling brightness will come. The illuminating glare
Of the emerging sun. It’s impossible

Of course it’s impossible
And so absolutely wonderful, you see, I say, and I slap
My glittering tail against the surface of the water, shattering the glare
Into tiny diamonds that scatter across the sea. Secure against the warmth of my rock
Salty queen of all I see, my kingdom is wild
Tossed before me, dancing with surly gusts

Out at sea a tightly wrapped sail escapes its night cocoon, billows out and gusts
Uncontrollable, like my hair, seaweed strewn and impossible
Why try to tame the wind? Let go. Its ok for your eyes to blur and your hair to go wild
For always the soft yellow sun will attempt to bring peace, to silence the slap
Of salty air, demand obedience, for it favors those who are rock
Solid and predictable. It colors even the waves with its orange glare

But only temporarily. So sweet child, I beg you to close your eyes to the glare
Turn your back to feel the support of blustering gusts
Join your voice to the wind, sing with dolphins from your throne of jagged rock
There are those who may try to set you straight, shield you from the impossible
But cling fast to your dreams, the ones that beg to be mocked, present a stinging slap
To the face of distasteful reality. The face that scorns things wonderful and wild

I will tell such tales to my children, stories of places where the wild
Things go, where anything goes. Give them power to silence nay-sayers with a glare
For every now and then don’t we all need a refreshing slap
To remind us that limiting rules offer nothing but limits, reality blows gusts
That whine of what can’t be done and whimpers of what is impossible
Let my children defy it, deny that world. I’ll give them the boat, teach them to rock

To stand astride, arms thrown akimbo as stones fall and rock
Walls crumble to dust. Intimidate with no more than a willingness to dream, wild
Thoughts shine from bright eyes. Don’t you dare say “no, that’s impossible”
Peer around hidden corners and search within the blinding glare
Add fairy dust and sparkles to icy gusts
And watch: they deflate beneath the rainbow-dusted slap

What is impossible? Nothing my child for you will rock
This world. You will refuse the slap by daring to be wild
Head held high, glare. You are the one to conduct the gusts

Child, Sun

Far from where her mother sits, a child
Dances with the shoreline, and the waves
In foaming crests enchant her with their splash.
She squeals, licking her lips to taste the salt.
While mother reclines, sipping the wine that remains from the picnic,
Shielding her eyes, thoughtful on a blanket under the swollen afternoon sun.

Her shoulders are tender and pink from this stolen day in the sun.
She needed urgently to come. To share this with her child.
Packing the car, preparing meticulously for the picnic,
Thoughts of her own mother, memories warm and soft, came in waves.
She folded sandwiches, anticipating them flavored with the salt.
The warm beach blanket, and life’s forgotten sounds, screeches of birds and the splash

Of loyal surf. She watches her child kick the teasing ocean, returning splash for splash,
And aches for the old summers, days spent in the maternal embrace of the sun.
Behind closed eyes she tastes the expansive freedom, the itchy caress of salt
The luxury of sand crunching in her teeth, treasures of a child.
Free to simply be, blissfully unaware until mother calls, waves
Her over. Remembering mother’s toes sifting sand, she is hungry for this picnic.

She gave them little thought, that ubiquitous line up of picnic after picnic after picnic.
But now she misses their predictability, and sighing deeply she lets the tears splash
As she sways, feeling the rhythm of the hypnotic waves.
The red tank, her freckled skin, her mother growing stronger under the watchful sun.
Breathing in the warmth left in the day her eyes find her own dancing child.
Sighing, smiling, subconsciously tasting leftover tears, she feels nourished by their salt.

Shaking the plaid wool blanket, she scatters shells, sand, and salt.
She feels strong, for reclaiming this day, their first summer picnic.
Stretching, reaching to the darkening sky, she moves slowly toward her content child,
Grabbing a sandy hand, they stand, feeling the water tickle and splash.
They dig heels into wet sucking sand. They feel the affection of the sun
Draping protectively over their shoulders, and her heart moves with the waves.

She is grateful. The beach’s distracting din, the repetitious lulling of its waves,
All still here for her. The sea air accepts unconditionally, with open arms of salt.
She hears her mother in the calls of the waves. Warm in her love of the sun.
She feels at ease, a welcomed and beloved guest at this beach picnic.
The soft sand wiggles up through the space between her toes, and a sudden splash
Of evening red and pink stains the summer sky, bleeding its color down onto her child.

The continuity of the splash. A child waltzing with the waves.
Youth in the musical spray. Sustenance in the sea salt.
Stability, of the beach picnic. Support, of the forgiving sun.

Blue

Peaceful landscape unfolds into endless skies that offer plastic comfort
Unnatural, uncomfortable like new jeans
With sharp seams stained an evenly false blue
Premature, this blue has not yet lived, wears no distinctions, no edge
The great western sky wide open, light. Beautiful? I grit
My teeth against such perfection, and miss the surf

Colors in constant evolution. Unpredictable chaos churns the surf
Intense rage in black green, a pinch of soothing turquoise for comfort
Smooth vanilla ice cream crunchy with grit
Shards of sand and grating salt water erode my jeans
Which bend to meet my body, perched above on a rocky edge
Against steel cliffs, above the harsh surf, I succumb easily to the blue

Never confused with babies eyes and endless skies, my reckless blue
Is unpredictable with chilled secrets hiding beneath an inviting sapphire surf
Demanding. Pay attention! Life is here, at the edge
No pretense at comfort
That deceives the eye, like those rolling fields and unbroken jeans
Predictable stretches of immature beauty, lacking imperfections and salty grit

Primary colors of a child’s drawing fail to reach the paper’s edge
Yellow sun, green grass, scrawls of sky in a soft cartoon blue
With the mandatory marshmallow puffs of white. How will my jeans
Tear through? Knees that haven’t felt the sting of surf
Can not blow out. Cannot relax into reliable comfort
Without an occasional peak over the edge

Angry waves broken shells stinging spray dance at the edge
Spinning in a wonderful turmoil of grit
Unavoidable, it lodges with delight and comfort
Against my skin, my eyes, raw as I stare out at imperfect blue
Too dark, too light, too cold, united within the indifferent surf
Sand spills out as I shake down the torn cuff of my jeans

The knees have worn thin on my salted jeans
Rolled up to bare legs that dangle over the rocky edge
Whistling wind signals the continuing dance, egging the surf
On in its endless movement. Scrubbed clean, alive with grit
The ancient blue
Offers possibilities and comfort

Roiling surf tugs at my jeans
An aloof uneasy comfort, this welcome mat at the edge
Treasure-tossed grit in a wondrously, fickle blue