Poetry

The cool breeze of delight swirls
And spins me onto the soft grass.
The profusion of harbor activity arouses my
restless spirit.
Little white sails on little white boats catch the
delightful breezes
As the ferry makes constant progress towards its
destination.

I sit up and take stock.
The handsome schooner glides effortlessly around
the harbor.
I imagine my pirate self silently swimming out to the ship.
Like a shark, I circle around then quickly scale her stern.
Stealthily, I stash myself away from sight.

Then, single handedly, I overtake the crew and captain,
Proclaiming myself the all victorious mistress of the sea.
My hostile captives, stirring with mutinous intentions,
Are quickly subdued by the enlightened captain.

He alone has understood my true objectives.
For I am a pirate of peace.
My fierce ambitions are to tame the vessel of discursive, distracted
mindlessness
As we sail on the surface of our primordial ocean.

I open my eyes,
The sun has shifted.
The boats are moored.
The schooner has sailed.

My dog licks my face,
It is time for a walk
In the cool breezes of delight.

-Evie Preston

It’s the day after,
After what? she asks,
After a lifetime of the days before.
Before what?
Before turning 60.

I’m 60 and 1 day old,
As new as the newborn yawning in her crib.
As old as the antique bench where I sit,
Right this moment.

So how does it feel?
How does what feel?
How does 60 and 1 day feel?
It feels mysterious like love around the corner,
And fragile like a connection taking hold,

Maybe,
Certainly,
Almost there,
Way off in the distance.

Yet, right here,
With myself,
I’m landing in the connection.
A love supreme.
The newborn stretches,
The antique bench settles.

Evie Preston

Waiting for my car in the “quiet room”

Separates me from the noisy silence of bored faces.

Hum drum music,

Hulking thighs spilling over upholstered seating.

Flashback to Dad’s office,

Big people,

Little me.

So long ago,

Yet right here in the Toyota waiting room.

My hair’s gray now,

Actually blond.

It’s the best I can do,

Until the gray tells me I’ll never be ten again.

Pema says waiting rooms are for “John Cage moments.”

Just pause, three breaths, again and again.

What are we waiting for?

The $900 bill?

The next flashback?

A kiss?

Nothing.

-Evie Preston

The steps, oh the steps.
The view, oh the view.
The excitement, the smell, the joy, the anticipation of
a great day.
Full blown wonder at the majesty of it all.

Oh my god, the waves are perfect.
As we run down the steep steps and careen through the sand.
I stop short.
I have on my new two piece, just like Margo’s bikini,
Only a two piece, just right for me.

She’s thrown a fit to Mom but I don’t care.
It’s mine and I love it
The sand like butter and sugar under my feet,
Plenty of room to stretch out.
I don’t have to worry as there is endless space for
us all.

I take my towel and carefully lay it down, careful not to get
sand on it
I place rocks on each corner.
I spread the Coppertone all over my body.
Again I am still.

Everyone is in a good mood and the waves are perfect.
I can trust this.
Today I can trust the love and fun and cooperation and acceptance and care.
It will last all day.

Today I can let go.
Today I can bodysurf forever.
I can race Dad and tumble and suck in the salt water.

I can eat hard boiled eggs and peanut butter and jelly and Pepperidge Farm Cookies.
Today I can wallow in the luscious pool of clay and swim it
all off.

Today I have landed at Baldwin’s Beach!

-Evie Preston

Listening to the presence

the presence of Nyiasha

she, like the filddle heads

unfurls into the spring of herself

A fern who breaks through long awaited soil

fingering for sun

Her years reach almost 20 now

She sits like an elegant plant beside me

halo of cloud hair christens her head

seeds germinate inside her

listening to the live presence of Nyiasha

Listening to her listen beside me

her willow roots have taken hold in the banks

the river inside me syncs to

the river going by us below

swelling like my so much love for her

after such a long time

Dead and broken hurricane trees and driftwood

bask and roll beneath wild dogwood

blossoming white like star blessings

the shore and forest floor

the mystery of Nyiasha

her quiet strong strength discovering itself

as the last days of adolescence linger

lapping lazy like willow branches

getting in the last taste of a time

that will move on

through her new door of sky

Alexandra Morgan  May 4, 2013….Birthday Picnic at Sojourner Truth Park

The Journey