I Have Written A Book

 

Let go

The voice floats in through a speaker, or from the car next to me, or maybe it’s the bird sitting on my shoulder, Live in the moment.  The voice sings, murmurs really. Her soft lips tickle my ear, her breath, my neck and her words fall down my spine.

Let go

The breeze lifts me out of the car, the roof opens, peels itself back, I lift up to the blue and the white cotton clouds.  The sun, bright-orange-glowing-smiling, down on me, reaches her tentacles, pointing toward the ocean.  I feel the breeze kissing my belly, my thighs, my shoulders, my cheeks, she moves me, placing me on the shore.   The dolphins leap high to the clouds.

Let go

They Dolphin speak,

Let go

My words fall into place.  Splayed out, legs spread, arms open, back arched, heart beating.  My words rejoice.

Let go.

My heart, broken, mended, healed, scarred, my alive heart.  I watch my heart, lift and soar and the sun’s tapered fingers cradle her.  I am amazed by the contrast of Sun’s orange fingers and my red melting heart.  My love oozes.

The beach glows soft-heart red.  MY open heart.  And the sand is my page and my words, my words, my words, spill onto that page. as simple as that cover Yellow, polka-dot, blue, purple, striped, lavender, rainbow, black and white, my words, paint the page and the beads of sand slip between my fingers and we are there, on the page, me and my heart.

We are bound together, my words, my heart, my poetry.
The page is a live. It is a life. A life lived. A life — on the page.

Let go.
Let the words speak for themselves.
Let go.

I have written a book.

 

** I have written a book of Poetry.  Check it out here! 

 

Board Meeting

Board Meeting

We wonder what they say
as we walk hand in hand along the beach.
They are assembled on the sand
30, 40, maybe more.
White and grey
feathers tattered and worn
decorated with that small orange circle
on their yellow bill.

It’s their weekly board meeting,
Saturday morning congregation
on the sand.
Sharing traumas of the week
like the narcotics anonymous circle of 17 chanting
the serenity prayer
a few lifeguard stations north.

They could be planning a party,
a surprise for Joe,
who will be turning 21 next weekend.
Deciding who will bring the main course,
the side dishes and the dessert.
“Don’t forget to invite his Aunt Bea, the one that lives in Marina Del Rey”
Jean prods Tom.

They could be discussing
how many fish they each caught that week;
comparing species
comparing sizes
comparing stories.
Or the garbage they saw floating in their ocean.
Or their disappointment at the low turnout of visitors to the beach
who brought bread or birdseed to share.
Or the amount of trash they left behind.

They could be confessing
the number of heads they dropped on
looking down
cawing an apology
of their lack of control.

Maybe it’s a support group.
They come weekly.
Today George is making amends for the fight he started with Jim;
George didn’t share the fish guts tossed overboard
from the rusty blue and white Luhrs fishing boat,
instead he swooped in
pecked at Jim and snatched his prize from the fisherman.

They’re working toward acceptance
of themselves and each other.
Appreciation for tattered feathers, orange dots and
uncontrollable droppings on cars and benches and heads.

My husband and I watch
as the meeting on the sand ends.
We listen to them chant the serenity prayer
like the 17 people three lifeguard stations to the North.
“It works if you work it” they squawk,
take flight and catch the wind.

 

Carolyn Ziel

 

My Bench

Summer At The Bench

I woke up this morning and it was a hot summer day. I was looking forward to sitting on my favorite bench at the beach. It was my favorite bench for no other reason than it was mine. I like to go and sit. Sometimes I can sit for hours staring at the ocean change colors. When I got down to the beach and approached my bench there was a large man sitting on it. “That’s my bench.” I said. “Oh yes, well would you like to join me? I come here to look at the ocean. My wife disappeared last month, the sky just took her from me and I like to come here to look for her. I look out onto the ocean and see if she isn’t swimming toward the shore. She wasn’t a very good swimmer, but with all this practice, well, she must be quite strong at it by now.” I felt bad for this large lumpy man. He wore a black and blue plaid suit. His chin spilled over his tie. I just wanted to sit on my bench. I squeezed in next to him and sat staring at the ocean with him. “How long have you been looking for her?” “Oh for years now.” He said. “I have been coming to this bench every day for years. Although sometimes I go to the one over there or the one over there or the one over there.” He lifted his thick arm through the air and pointed each time he said the words ‘over there’. I saw his arm moving in my direction on the third ‘over there’ and I pushed back as far as I could so he didn’t hit my nose. My nose is worth protecting, that’s what I’ve always said. We watched the ocean together. It changed colors maybe twelve times that day. We watched the toy poodle and the bulldog play the shell game. The toy poodle was cheating, taking the bulldog for everything he had. “Trickery!” I said. “Trickery!” he agreed. “Trickery!” the bulldog barked. When the sun sunk into the ocean we stood up, shook hands and went our separate ways. The next day it was sunny again. When I arrived at my bench it was empty. I had so much room I could move my legs or even lie flat if I wanted and turn my head to stare at the ocean. I didn’t. I sat straight and tall and pushed myself as far as I could to the edge of the bench. Somewhere out there, someone was struggling with the sky.

August 21, 2012