Forethought of Grief
One day in October
I decide to visit the four
side by side graves
on the green knoll
overlooking Monterey Bay.
I don’t come often,
don’t really think of them
there among the rows
of bronze plaques,
vases of plastic flowers.
They arrived one by one,
none recent, the last
nearly fifty years ago,
nevertheless unforgettable
in the smallest of details.
It seems the memories
are always the same,
his cigarette burning down
in the glass ash tray
on the stand by his red chair,
afternoons at the hairdresser
to arrange her silver white curls,
his series of classic matchbox cars,
and her chubby hand flinging
spoons from her highchair.
For a time I stand in silence,
wait to hear the breathy hush
of waves along the bay shore.
Still my old bitterness returns,
the deep throb of revisiting
so much loss in one place.
Blue Heron
At Sweetwater Springs
the stiff-legged heron
struts slowly,
each knee joint rises
and lowers
in measured cadence.
Slender salt grass parts
to accept placement
of her toes
among phytoplankton
and red pickleweed
in the estuary.
She walks under a ceiling
of coastal mists,
dips her beak
into the marsh algae
to grasp invertebrates,
a measure of sustenance --
just as this shoreline forest,
this vernal pond
are my nourishment
when I come forward
gradually, deliberately
to the edge of the sea.
Seacoast Passage
Just beyond Carmel,
Highway One stretches
out past Point Lobos,
winds through the highlands,
bypasses Spindrift Road
and Yankee Point.
Infinite shades of blue
extend to a distant horizon.
Along this hem of California
wavelets wash ashore
beneath shattered cliffs.
Small islands of stone
pepper cerulean coves.
A luminous membrane
lacquers the unruffled sea.
Vertigo-inducing bluffs
descend to curving
itinerant coastal ribbon.
We leave home by noon,
marvel more than once
at our good fortune,
clear shoreline sky,
a taste of briny moisture,
and pampas grass flags
that summon us south.
In addition to writing poetry, Laura Bayless explores creativity through collage, photography, and absurdity. Formerly shy, she now delights in requests to read her poems to strangers.
One day in October
I decide to visit the four
side by side graves
on the green knoll
overlooking Monterey Bay.
I don’t come often,
don’t really think of them
there among the rows
of bronze plaques,
vases of plastic flowers.
They arrived one by one,
none recent, the last
nearly fifty years ago,
nevertheless unforgettable
in the smallest of details.
It seems the memories
are always the same,
his cigarette burning down
in the glass ash tray
on the stand by his red chair,
afternoons at the hairdresser
to arrange her silver white curls,
his series of classic matchbox cars,
and her chubby hand flinging
spoons from her highchair.
For a time I stand in silence,
wait to hear the breathy hush
of waves along the bay shore.
Still my old bitterness returns,
the deep throb of revisiting
so much loss in one place.
Blue Heron
At Sweetwater Springs
the stiff-legged heron
struts slowly,
each knee joint rises
and lowers
in measured cadence.
Slender salt grass parts
to accept placement
of her toes
among phytoplankton
and red pickleweed
in the estuary.
She walks under a ceiling
of coastal mists,
dips her beak
into the marsh algae
to grasp invertebrates,
a measure of sustenance --
just as this shoreline forest,
this vernal pond
are my nourishment
when I come forward
gradually, deliberately
to the edge of the sea.
Seacoast Passage
Just beyond Carmel,
Highway One stretches
out past Point Lobos,
winds through the highlands,
bypasses Spindrift Road
and Yankee Point.
Infinite shades of blue
extend to a distant horizon.
Along this hem of California
wavelets wash ashore
beneath shattered cliffs.
Small islands of stone
pepper cerulean coves.
A luminous membrane
lacquers the unruffled sea.
Vertigo-inducing bluffs
descend to curving
itinerant coastal ribbon.
We leave home by noon,
marvel more than once
at our good fortune,
clear shoreline sky,
a taste of briny moisture,
and pampas grass flags
that summon us south.
In addition to writing poetry, Laura Bayless explores creativity through collage, photography, and absurdity. Formerly shy, she now delights in requests to read her poems to strangers.