Summer poetry collection

Published 9:00 am Wednesday, August 4, 2021

“City Girl”

By Jan Bono, Long Beach, Wash.

The place to be

at the county fair

was hanging out

in the 4H barn,

sitting on hay bales,

eating mustard-covered corndogs.

.

All the cool kids

were in that barn

grooming prize livestock

and keeping the stalls

(unlike my shoes)

manure free.

.

My cousin vouched for me

so I could join them

if I mucked out five stalls

to earn the privilege

of brushing year-old calves

waiting for auction.

.

I’d not yet read Tom Sawyer,

and too late I learned

what “for auction” really meant,

but I pinky swore

not to eat beef

for the next full year.

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“First Kiss”

By Jan Bono, Long Beach, Wash.

.

At 14, the oldest kid on our block,

it was my job to “watch the others”

after we boarded the berry bus

at 6 a.m. to seek our fortunes

in the Strawberry Fields Forever.

.

Little did I know

I was also “being watched”

when I ducked behind the outhouse

during the lunch break

and experienced my first kiss.

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“If you don’t give me a flat of berries

you pick today, I’m telling your mom,”

said the neighbor girl.

Begrudingly, I gave away my earnings,

of 75 cents a flat.

.

The next day she wanted more.

“Two flats, or I’m telling what I saw.”

Without a word, I lowered my head

and filled 24 quart boxes of berries

while cussing the boy I’d kissed.

.

The third day, that little wench

demanded more to keep my secret.

Instead, I took a handful of berries

smushed them up, and plastered them

on her back as she picked.

.

Hours later, I told my mother

about the boy, about the kiss,

and about the junior blackmailer

living next door

Mom handed me three dollars.

Honesty paid!

.

“Core of Discovery”

By Don Frades, Astoria

.

Still bridging to nowhere

That scenic Graveyard of the Pacific

Nestled in the berry thorns

Between the Slide Zone and the mossy pilings

.

Unaffordable history, unaffordable present

and a couple dumb movies

Yeah, the house is up there on the hill, third one over

Oh, they don’t like tourists

.

The fish could tell a story

Maybe they already have.

They never wanted to leave the river

any more than a trapdoor sailor wanted to enter it

.

Clark and Lewis. Sounds odd, but it’s summer anyway

Twist a fish and see who wins the seaside brawl

Here’s your canoe back, btw

Where’d you go?

You’re not from here, are you?

Are you?

.

The sea lions hail from California

Just couldn’t afford it down there

Never from Colorado or Michigan

Me either.

Oh, you’re….?

I could do this job anywhere

Sure rains a lot, though

.

This whole town smells like beer breath and low tide, she said

Sea lions are just dogs without limbs so they just fight all day about nothing

But that’s part of their charm, right?

.

Dismal niches and disappointments but

Everyone’s an artist downtown

Or hoping they make good tips

Have you tried our new beers on tap?

Be sure to drink responsibly

.

Have you lived here all your life?

Not yet, but always check the obits

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“As the Light Came in the Window”

By Jennifer Nightingale, Astoria

.

The window was built to let the light in

To a cannery that clinked and steamed

And tucked succulent bivalves into shiny cans

To be shipped off to feed hungry soldiers

Up against the Axis powers

A collaboration that outlasted the war

.

Out the window, the bay empties

Revealing its broad intertidal belly

Littered with rusting cages and a torn rubber boot

A set of mud-covered car keys sits on the surface

How did its owners get home?

Oyster scows beached in the muck

Waiting for the next influx of oceanic tidal waters

The meadows of red tipped grasses move under the summer sun

Like a rippling sea of gold and cranberry

Wait for the lick of the incoming tide

.

For a million different reasons

The cannery’s lights went dim and the machinery rusted

The cedar shakes silvered and some withered

Storms beat at its door

The pilings shifted and some lost their footing altogether

The cannery lay quiet as death

But still the light came in the window

.

Out the window the bay fills in

Great blue herons swoop down

On silver fishes or wait on their clown feet

On the muddy edges of the bay

Raptors circle for the tiny rodents

Flushed in by the incoming tide

Plovers and oyster catchers use their needle beaks

With surgical precision to suck the muck

Rich in nutrients and microscopic life

.

The oysterman had a vision of what the old cannery could be

As he tore out dry rot and battled bureaucracy

He bucked tides, and battled entrenched notions

Nearly wearing himself out

But in the end, he brought the cannery back to life

As a place where people could buy oysters,

Wrap cold hands on hot chowder or raise a glass of golden wine

.

As the light came in the window

.

For Dan Driscoll and all who believed in the vision

.

“Shelling Peas”

By Jennifer Nightingale, Astoria

.

There is nothing that smells so like Summer

As newly harvested shelling peas

The aroma of just mowed grass, warm sun and succulent soil

Scents radiates from shoots and newly opened crushed pods

Bringing in a parade of summer memories

Peas hitting the inside of a bashed metal pot

Like heavy drops of water on a canvas shelter

.

Our poet planted a garden where there had only been weeds.

Dark green aggressive ivy and thorny things.

Oregon Grapes and blackberry brambles

He pulled and fought until he found the rich loamy dirt

That begged to be given a chance.

In that spot, sweet tomatoes grew, oregano took over and one zucchini

Made it to the dinner plate.

His pièce de résistance was a crop of English shelling peas,

Staked up with beaver wood and wire fencing.

They grew lush, fertile and productive.

When that crop was finished, the poet pulled out the sun bleached vines

And then he planted more mores rows of shelling peas, carefully spaced with room to grow

.

“You can’t plant peas in September,” I said.

“When you eat them in November, you will eat your words,” he said.

Today, I eat those words as I hold in my hand the final brave crop of peas.

Peas that flowered and grew fat generous pods.

Despite the cold nights and the shortened days

They delivered plump sweet jewels encased in a bright green bivouac

Rich in vitamin A, vitamin B, calcium, iron, zinc, and potassium

A gift of the last sweet breath of summer.

.

“Two Dogs”

By Jennifer Nightingale, Astoria

.

Two dogs live for a trip to their river beach

To dig in the sand and leave their mark

Chase ravens and gulls

Fish for tiny sculpins and pounce

On the glint of wave and water

Laugh in the face of dive-bombing terns

.

Stretch out in the sun side by side

Listen to the buoy bell ring

Tide licking the shore

While rain spread circles in the puddles

Left from the receding tide

.

A place of bliss where the world is new

With Every pull of the turning moon

Noses to the sky and wind from the west

Carrying the scent of elk herd and field mice

Rotting detritus and kelp,

Burnt marshmallows and stale beer

Filling their heads with an unquenchable thirst

To follow their oh so clever noses.

Wherever it takes them.

.

“Marigold Legs”

By Dayle Olson, Cathlamet, Wash.

On this dazzling dayspring,

rising from a napping beach

exposed by tidal ebb,

in defiance of earth’s pull,

they rise skyward:

Twenty

White

Pelicans.

From the opposite channel bank

they fly straight at me

with the precision of guided missiles

on a mission to lift my eyes and heart

in one magnificent gesture.

Directly overhead

a prehistoric squadron

barely clearing the roof,

their marigold legs

and totipalmate feet

dangling just out of reach,

the unmistakable outline

of fish wriggling in their gullets

and satisfied smiles

at the hinges of their wondrous bills.

The sun is briefly obscured

by these alabaster B-52 bombers,

twenty of them,

with jet-black wing tips

doing a fly-by,

displaying the mighty formation

they have practiced

Thirty

Million

Years.

.

“Wings of Summer”

By Dayle Olson, Cathlamet, Wash.

Mayfly sits in still repose on window screen,

translucent wings of lunar light

at moonset.

Once a nymph, equipped to view a water world

through two sets of eyes

to explore the river realm with antennae extended in perpetual curiosity,

seeking to feel every ripple,

to devour delicate diatoms and detritus

with masterful mandibles.

No one saw her emerge from the shore, serene subimago,

shedding the old self, transforming to gauzy dun.

All those lovely hours below the surface now over

in the blink of an ocelli.

The promise of long light-filled days

tempt her to flirt in the late summer air,

above the nursery shallows,

and instinctively, with no instruction,

she welcomes the clasp of a dance partner,

to flutter and fall, briefly joined

in an act of prehistoric creation,

seeding the river with a thousand possibilities

filtering down to the bed of rock and silt,

to feed fish and aquatic beetles,

to nourish leeches and larvae.

Ephemeral, magical,

Mayfly.

I cannot know her secrets,

but I can marvel at nature’s exquisite conception

born from water and lifted in silvery flight

on gossamer wings.

.

“Zucchini Season”

By Dayle Olson, Cathlamet, Wash.

.

I will know it’s summer when the nuthatch

scales the fragrant bark of woodland cedar,

when berry vines crawl over every sun patch,

and hummingbirds choose flower over feeder.

.

I will know it’s summer when the frogs sing,

voices joined in marshland jubilation,

beneath evening stars packed dense and wheeling,

under all the wonder of creation.

.

I will know it’s summer when zucchinis trek,

stealthily from gardens by the score,

navigating fences, stairs and deck,

innocently leaning on the door.

.

I will know it’s winding down when dahlias nod,

red and yellow fading on brown sod.

.

“The Swallows Fledged”

By Robert Michael Pyle, Grays River, Wash.

.

The swallows fledged today!

Brown-capped babies followed purple-green parents

out into the world. Then they swooped and chittered

around the house in joy, just as they do coming home each spring.

Three newbies rest on the gutter till mom and dad woo

them back to the air, swerve and cut already perfect.

Then suddenly they’re gone, down to the valley below,

not to be back until April.

.

I will miss their dawn to dusk paddleball,

out and back, out and back, the soft flutter

of the adults bringing food, the sharp titter

of the chicks’ constant want, their backup

for the thrushes’ lovely sound track at dusk.

.

But when the swallows sprang their young

from their stale and dirty nest and took them away,

they left something else behind: something

that feels a little like hope.

.

“When I Had Summer Toes”

By Florence Sage, Astoria

.

I used to look for summer in sun-browned skin,

I remember when,

a slim bracelet around my naked ankle,

sandals or mules if I had to wear shoes, legs

skimmed perhaps by linen pants, un-ironed,

or a gauzy skirt that flirted with the lawn.

.

It was polish on my nails

that most convinced me it was summer,

though, too fanciful for serious work.

.

One year each toe wore

a separate jewel color, gemstones

of emerald, ruby, lapis, amethyst and pearl

arranged across each foot.

Ta-da! What a show!

.

Another time all ten were Starry-Night Blue,

Fantasy Fuchsia I think in 1996,

and Garden Green and then Extremely Violet

shone back at me

when I lost the feel of summer and got tense.

.

My daughter took my bare feet up

in her young hands, late in June,

bathed them, rubbed in an aromatic cream,

then glazed the nails with a bright vernis

.

and performing this small service of love,

my own Persephone,

she brought the season back to me

.

and summer entered our home

in her brilliant florals

borne every year on my feet.

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“At The Park”

By Jane Schussman, Ocean Park, Wash.

.

Perched high atop the tallest rock with knees drawn up by thin brown arms

To make a nesting for his chin,

His sun-streaked hair by breezes blown

To frame his face in golden crown

And halo lend his dusty skin,

He gazes far beyond his throne,

Ignores the sandbox just below

From where the cries of playtime ring,

Above the slopes where mothers sit

And idly gossip ‘neath the trees,

He sees but his imagining.

.

He doesn’t know I’m watching him

Or that I’ve joined him in his flight.

I too can see the special thing

That’s just behind his smiling eyes,

Nor does he know that I agree:

This one brief magic moment, he’s a king!

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“Conquest”

By Jane Schussman, Ocean Park, Wash.

.

Two children, armed with driftwood plank

To ward off stinging jellyfish,

Confident with their weapon rough

That masters of the day they would remain;

When feet were cut by barnacles,

Toes numbed by icy froth,

And in one last assault were briefly snared

With legs entangled, caught in seaweed arms,

They turned but slightly daunted to the watching shore

And for a time,

Relinquished to the sea

The sea’s domain.

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“Guiding Love”

By Irene Jackson Smith, Raymond, Wash.

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The ocean beckons me, deep down in my soul.

Come to me, it calls, and watch my waves roll.

Walk my beach, and pick up shells.

The serenity and solitude, comforts me, that all is well.

Gazing at the horizon, as the sun sinks,

Thoughts of years past, and what the future holds, makes me think.

My footprints in the sand,

have had a loving, guiding hand.

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“Our Ocean”

By Irene Jackson Smith, Raymond, Wash.

.

The powerful Pacific, with your waves so strong.

Your white foam washes, on the beaches, so long.

Wind whips, the pines on the cliffs.

Into the inlets, the calmer waters drift.

Gulls hover, in the blue sky,

waiting for a fish to swim by.

Your mood changes, day by day,

Letting us know,

That you will have your way.

So strong and mighty, you truly are,

we will respect you always, from afar.

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“Early Morn”

By Janice Thompson, Long Beach, Wash.

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The sun appears, over the rolling hills

Fog lifts-

In wonderful drifts.

It wanders into, a sky turning blue,

and over the river, so still and true.

Trees and clouds, reflect in its depth.

Natures beauty, so precious, I almost wept.

The wind whispers, a light breeze.

Ripples and waves, on the river tease.

Reflections are now gone.

A new day, has begun, like a song.

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“Henry”

By Janice Thompson, Long Beach, Wash.

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Through my open window, yes, a sound

Teasing me from lazy, languid sleep

Peering out I spy a curious cloud

And rise towards the doorway groggily.

.

What could cause such clamor and such dust?

There, the hill, which I begin to climb

Nearly to the crest, but only just,

Whirling lanky arms and legs I spy

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Red hair bobbing, singing to the Sun

Radiating unrelenting joy

This first day of Summer has begun

For a most ecstatic little boy.

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