The Pelican

A poem inspired by a childhood memory of a pelican swept inland to my yard after a violent thunderstorm.

The Pelican

Storm-swept and bedraggled, she lifts her head and sweeps her massive bill side to side in wonder,

As if to ask where the arms of the wind have dropped her from their keeping.

Far from the baking sand and shushing waves.

Far from the broad flat leaves of the sea grapes.

She raises a wing, smoothing the troubled feathers into place. There, there.

High atop a foreign tree she sits. Icily still in the frozen sunlight.

Above the swaying pines with their relentless needles.

Above the little house where the child stands, watching.

A girl, holding the strong hand of her father’s, gazing up at the strange bird with the large brown eyes,

Who poses with wings awkwardly outstretched, waiting for the sun to dry them.

Waiting for her wings to remember their strength.

Waiting for the sun to light the path home once more.

 

National Poetry Month - Dare I?

So I'm minding my own business on Facebook (which is already in itself a wild contradiction), and I happen to notice that April is (as most of humanity must already be well aware) National Poetry Month. Which mostly means the internet is abuzz with talk of "One Poem A Day" challenges and such.

Which is awesome, unless you happen to be near a Vogon who can't help but recite his latest work to you.

Only slightly less frightening is the news that I thought, hey, a poem a day. I can do that! Short piece. A Haiku or something maybe?

Somewhere, real Japanese poets shudder at this thought.

I'm not being modest, I really am a horrible poet.

So why take on the challenge then, you so wisely ask?

Simply this:

Somewhere, probably from a much smarter person, I ran into this idea that practicing poetry will help strengthen and invigorate the writing of prose. So I figure, what do I have to lose?

And with that in mind, I wrote my first poem (since that last disastrous attempt in college.)

It is about a pelican. I'll post it separately here in just a sec. May as well play by the rules of the challenge, right?

Fly Fishing Adventure #1

We hit the water probably a little after 7:30am on Saturday, the sun slowly rising over the bank of the canal. Just my dad and me in his boat. Just the wind and the water around us.

I hadn't been out fishing with my dad since I was a kid. As he cranked up the boat motor and we took off, those forgotten moments of youth came rushing back, and I caught myself thinking - why did I ever stop doing this?

The answer, of course, I already know: my teenage years were filled with me-centered activity, with friends more than family. I missed a lot of things I now regret. But that's another post altogether.

We found a good spot, boat parallel to shore, and got set up to fish, him from the front and me from the back of the boat. My dad has been doing this for years. He's a master. I like watching him end a cast, seeing his line roll out across the surface of the water and land next to the shore, within easy reach of the fish lurking below the surface.

My casts are beginner casts. About one in ten land near where I meant them to go, and more often than not, I end up with a long zig-zag of line on top of the water. The fish were pretty forgiving, though. Twelve took the bait and survived my disorganized efforts to bring them in to the boat and unhook them. I was pretty excited.

There's something peaceful about being on the water like that. For five hours, I had nothing in my head but my line and the fish I hoped to tempt into biting it. I watched my dad bring in catch after catch of his own, too, and I couldn't help beaming. I've seen him catch hundreds of fish over the years. This time was somehow different. Maybe because it looks an awful lot like fly fishing has hooked me.

I know that I desperately needed something I found out there on the water. I'd been looking forward to the weekend, hoping to find it, but not having any idea where it would come from. Peace. Solitude. A mental rest and reset.

But that was really only part of it. I started learning to fly fish because I was curious about it, wanted to write about it, and because I knew learning was something I could do and share with my dad. Going out yesterday was the next step, sort of the culmination of those efforts, and I wasn't entirely sure how I'd feel about it all. I would not have regretted the day, even if it turned out fly fishing wasn't my thing. I wanted the time with my dad. That would have been enough.

Instead, I honestly adored it from the first minute to the last. And I already can't wait to get back out there again. The picture below is me with my first fish (please pardon the medusa hair.)

Smile for Saturday

I love Saturday mornings. They're the one time of the week that is all mine. I can choose to lie in bed with a book and be lazy, hit the couch with some junk food and a movie, or, as is the plan on this particular Saturday morning - take care of a whole list of nagging to-do list items I wasn't able to cross off this week.

There are only nine more Saturdays left this year, including today. The last of those is Christmas. Eight more weeks until Christmas... Is it weird that this year I'm not dreading it?

Right now in this quiet, peaceful place, it's hard to dread anything.