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SHARK REEF
A Publication of the Lopez Writers
Guild
Vol. 6, No. 1
Winter 2006-07
On Ocean Avenue
by Ande Finley
The palms on Ocean Avenue poke
the sky, swishing their clatter
against fat clouds, against pale stucco,
bleached out by salty neglect,
against the edge of this sleepy beach town
that no longer remembers itself.
Joggers pass us, serious bikers and
skaters with kneepads and nose rings,
early morning power walkers, nannies
from the barrio walking the dogs.
Crossing the highway, looking out
to the surf, we spiral around the bend
and there's that man again wrapped
in a faded plaid sleeping bag between
cement pylons, staking out his claim.
The beach is forlorn, there's a sign
warning us not to swim, but we let the waves
soak us anyway, hungry to feel the salty slap
on our pale winter skin and dig our feet
in the undertow.
With my back to the ocean, I feel giddy
looking at the sentinel palms
lined up on the skyline like broomsticks
reversed by some incantation
and planted here on a whim,
the irresistible skinny trunks that
go on forever, the sprouting caps
from a fantasy created by children
or clowns, or maybe a god laughing
the whole time.
We leave the beach and hike up
the steep wooden steps covered
in eucalyptus droppings from the
grove that lines the hill, sturdy caps
offering their pungent gift
to any quick, careless foot.
All the streets are littered with
this beautiful debris, serrated
golden chunks of palm bark,
huge broom-shaped leaves and
I can't resist the urge to play with
these giant toys, to take in the smell,
the exotic feel of distant places, knowing,
sadly, this tree trash is as common here
as pine cones where I come from.
Past the tattooed skateboarders, the
stately Japanese couple, women in
Gucci sweats, panhandlers burned to
a leathery brown and the sun is heating
up now, our bones are starting to hum,
it feels like summer but we've got a month
till spring and tomorrow we go back to the rain.
That final night, I tilt deep
into the star-driven night,
along the impossible length
of three palms, where the full moon
rides the desert sky
and angels dance with a city's dreams
in those leafy crowns.
By Hummingbird Pond
by Ande Finley
Dragonfly leaves behind
a random trail
in
the dense pause
of
an island afternoon,
spattering light through muddy reeds
flickering
through the rising of several suns
and maybe a bit of moon
a scant few hours
to hatch, mate,
lay eggs
fly with the erratic
grace of her kind
inhabit her fragile
body, fully,
for
each allotted minute
untethered
to time
She touches down on a wild rose
embracing
hot
dry soft wet
her world
a sensate celebration
cool mist
the
solidity of leaf
the
snap of an amphibious jaw
and
its gift
of
oblivion.
Last Memory
by Ande Finley
Such a small box
to hold
the tall, solid bulk of you
bones and skin
your unbeating heart
conjured into fine gray ash
we sang a little
about flying and angels
we spoke singing words
about the sea
we prayed our quiet grief
before we made it your home
again, then
it was time
for gentle hands
to cradle dust
into dark water
briny with tears
we poured you
into the eager current
a thousand thousand grains
dancing a trail to
the dreamless ocean
till finally
we could let joy
arcing through salty wind
carry our gifts
blood red carnations
purple-hearted clematis, sweet bells
blue as the mirror of water and sky
and for a long time after
we followed your journey
beneath the shining bay
beneath the tide of flowers
a stream of light, a last memory of gardens
Island Buddha
for Jeremiah
by Ande Finley
Buddha speaks
freedom, he says
as we bear him
from his nest
of spangles, batik, dark
Indonesian wood
watch the clerk
wrap him
carefully
cradle him
days and miles away
now he rests
by the crooked cedar
courted by rocks, salal,
stray salamanders
we watch him
cupping warm rain
his small secret smile
invites surprise
in summer
the meadow robes him
in pigweed, nootka,
thistle fluff
we leave him
drowning in green
a billion pieces
of the moon hang,
swaying, in the unsleeping firs
glittering
in his downcast eyes
fog, a bit of snow
endless wet
his heart picks out the gloom
his back settles deeper
we speak to him of fear
his palm opens
to the melting sky
and waves us through
Copyright © 2006 Ande Finley
Ande Finley had been writing forever before becoming one of the infamous Seattle Writergrrls. She loves being a conduit for some of the creative energy of the universe and plans on making it a full-time pursuit someday soon. In the meantime, she is thrilled to find poetry in the remote forests of Lopez Island whenever she can.
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© 2003 Lopez Writers Guild
Made on a Mac by
Leta Currie Marshall