The Subconscious Sea

 —Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

A HIDDEN COVE

When our lives gets smashed
broadside, like ships in a storm,
we are driven off course by waves,
tides, storm winds
dashing us against rocks.
Sharks lunge, sting-rays sting,
crabs can nibble to the bone;
seaweed entangles, pulls us
deeper into the sea.

We thrash, sink and swim, hope
a miracle will help us regain
our footing in a hidden cove
with a white sand beach.
We shield eyes from sun and ocean,
a glare that pearls and polishes waves
to a luster that half blinds.
Somehow we transcend, sensing
once again we will drift safely home.

 

 

 

 

A FOUND STONE
         
In Yosemite high country,
while resting among peaks, pines,
meadows, I find a stone,
its smooth surface and curves
     fit perfectly into my hand.

Slipping it into my jeans, I explore . . .
I’d not intended to take this beauty;
it belongs in the wilds . . .
At home, it broods on my dresser,
     like a missing chess piece; holding

it to my ear, I hear foothills
thrusting into mountains,
lava hissing as it cools; an amoeba
stirs the shallows of a swamp
     where dinosaurs once drank their fill.

When pressed, the stone seems to soften.
If tears moisten the granite,
it glistens . . . In two weeks, I will
return the keepsake
     to Yosemite high country,

     replacing the talisman back
     beside its creek of origin,
     whisper a Muir phrase on the breeze,
     beg forgiveness for interrupting  
     the chosen keepsake’s karma.

 

 

 

 

AFTERTHOUGHTS                                 

The butterfly counts not months
but moments, and has time enough.
              —Rabindranath Tagore

 

Ten feet below our lanai, the same
butterfly we spotted last year
still circles the same tree, still gathers
pollen to powder flora with immortality,
that spry springboard to time enough.
                        
A poet backpacks a notebook
made of intuition and air;
she will read within, between
and beyond the lines
that will one day root there.

Today, after reading Jung,
she visits a tributary
of the subconscious sea.
Floating on a slower tide,
she reaches a pristine beach;

propping herself against
driftwood, she will write.
But first she holds her ring-
finger under the full moon
and wears the pearl.   

 

 

 

 

ANTS to ANSWERS?

What do ants experience
in their mountainous world
of peaks, crevasses, walls,
debris, dust piled
higher and wider than
their entire body?

Do ants bond with providence,
pause to praise predestination,
nibble on tidbits of redemption?
Build altars near anthills?
Keep a hidden snack?
Will ants outlive us on the moon?

 

 

 

AMONG ANIMALS                       

I think I could turn and live with animals.
They are so placid and self-contained.
                             —Walt Whitman

 

A zoo-escaped hippo, finally sedated,
rumbles down a suburban hillside,
falls, smothers to death in a stupor.
Elephants, not felled for ivory or sport,
are goaded all their captive lives.

Baby harp-seals,
clubbed to death in Canada,
are skinned before their mothers’ eyes,
while rhinos are shot for their horns
and perish for an aphrodisiac lie.

We sport rabbit-foot key chains;
make love on polar bear rugs;
wear fur of mink, ermine
chinchilla; dedd up in shoes
made from alligator and snake skin.

In the Game-game, tropical parrots
are caged in condos all their lives;
anacondas bedded in bathtubs,  
while half-tame ocelots are paraded
for show by attention-hungry owners.

Beleaguered whales flee outlaw ships
harpooned to the hilt . . .
Greenpeace ships ply whale-rich
waters all over the world—
too often too late.

 

 

 

 

AT FEATHER RIVER CAMP           

No person posted a poem today. Yet,
yay, an eagle pair etched two lines
on their last graceful glide.

A beaver nudged the spirit
of a haiku, placing seventeen sticks
in Spanish Creek, where needed.

Afternoon sparrows, rich with refrains,
chirp out a triolet, not a story,
but moments of instantaneous glory.

Ants are talented in free verse.
Ever on the move,
they resemble dashes.

California brown bears, composing sonnets
in the forest, tag fourteen ponderosas
with earthy expressions.

So far it’s true, no human camper
wrote and posted a poem today
on the Bull board at Feather River Camp.

 

 

 

AT TWILIGHT

Shadows in San Francisco,
Rome or Tripoli Bay,
holding their breath all day,

begin to breathe more easily—
some relax as shadows
dozing on a full moon;
some darkenings even stay,
   
marking the orb with shapes
like seen on a Rorschach test
given by who can say.

_______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

BASHO’S EVENING POND
—Claire J. Baker

Child
drops
pebble
full moon
shimmering
in
silvery
ripples
of
concentric
circles.

_______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Claire Baker for her fine poems today!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that the
Direct Relief Fundraiser
featuring Josh Fernandez
meets in Sacramento
tonight, 7pm.
For info about this and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
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