Summer poetry collection
Published 9:00 am Wednesday, August 4, 2021
- The window that inspired Jennifer Nightingale's poem.
“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.
.
“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.
.
“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
.
“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.
.
“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!
.
“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.
.
“Guiding Love”
By Irene Jackson Smith, Raymond, Wash.
.
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.
.
“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.
.
“Early Morn”
By Janice Thompson, Long Beach, Wash.
.
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.
.
“Henry”
By Janice Thompson, Long Beach, Wash.
.
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
.
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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