Whale Songs - anna hood
No longer do you decorate
your hair with raven feathers,
or garland your neck with shells -
sandy still - smelling
of Tracadie Bay.
You used to.
You’d come for me at lunchtime,
the bruised van a blight
on the Sister’s eyes. ‘Get in,’
you’d say, ‘I’ve brought a picnic.’
We’d lurch away - you clumsy
with the gears – a black feather
bobbing in your red hair, laughin
all the way to the beach.
We’d spread our ragged chunk
of plaid on the rocky shore, dig
bare heels into the sand, face
the corduroy sea, the salty wind
sand-blasting our cheeks,
our winter-white legs. We’d
sit close, arms touching, scarf
bologna sandwiches slathered
with yellow mustard.
Off shore, whales might breach or sing
and seagulls in kindergarten blue
skies would wheel and scream.
On shore, crabs would scuttle
sideways, crumbs of wonder
bread clenched in pincher claws.
You might tell stories – silly
stuff – how you rode across
Niagara Falls on a motorcycle,
or traveled those same falls
in a barrel or, if the mood
was on you, you’d sing.
Now, you sleep and I wonder
do you fly with ravens in your dreams?
Momma do you still sing whale songs?
No longer do you decorate
your hair with raven feathers,
or garland your neck with shells -
sandy still - smelling
of Tracadie Bay.
You used to.
You’d come for me at lunchtime,
the bruised van a blight
on the Sister’s eyes. ‘Get in,’
you’d say, ‘I’ve brought a picnic.’
We’d lurch away - you clumsy
with the gears – a black feather
bobbing in your red hair, laughin
all the way to the beach.
We’d spread our ragged chunk
of plaid on the rocky shore, dig
bare heels into the sand, face
the corduroy sea, the salty wind
sand-blasting our cheeks,
our winter-white legs. We’d
sit close, arms touching, scarf
bologna sandwiches slathered
with yellow mustard.
Off shore, whales might breach or sing
and seagulls in kindergarten blue
skies would wheel and scream.
On shore, crabs would scuttle
sideways, crumbs of wonder
bread clenched in pincher claws.
You might tell stories – silly
stuff – how you rode across
Niagara Falls on a motorcycle,
or traveled those same falls
in a barrel or, if the mood
was on you, you’d sing.
Now, you sleep and I wonder
do you fly with ravens in your dreams?
Momma do you still sing whale songs?
posted by anna at 1:40 PM
8 Comments:
Oh boy that last line just left me so barren. What a beautiful poem!
annie
you touch me
a
Dear Alec and Aaron~
August 22, 2006
When I left
the skies were the color of the flesh
of the inside of those tiny Greek plums
they feed you for desert in the remote mountain
villages up the one lane roads after the lunch
of freshly caught trout taken from the nearby
streams on dry flies or worms.
When I turned my bike around on the Canadian side
of the Niagra Falls, the skies had become the color
of the sweet meat of a mango that might ripen
on a tree in the forests of Bangladesh and written of
in those ancient Hindu Vedas as the food of gods.
There was no rain on that day that I rode
my bicycle across the those thundering
waters, though, needless-t0-say, there was mist
rising that obscured my path and made balancing
very difficult, and though the waters thundered
there was no lightning.
When I got home, I sat down to a plate
of spaghetti and tomato sauce with meat
balls and Italian sausage prepared by
my sister Judy. This was a very long time
ago and I still remember the scent of garlic
in the kitchen.
Ms. Spring,
If I only had such memories, I might then write one tenth as well.
Breakaj
Jas, thank you so much for always always reading and responding to my stuff. ((hugs))
Bear, it you only knew the number of times you have touched my heart.
btw I loved your response. I too can smell the garlic!
Kejrab, you too have these memories, you only have to tap into them. Sometimes the ones we've imagined are the very best.
with regard to the spelling
everyone can use a little a
Oh Anna.
This left me with a lump in my throat...
This is very beautiful.
I miss the cordury sea.
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