Spectacular Beauty
Beneath the underwing of pelican
feather sifted light imprints our skin.
Fog shift interlocks ocean and sky
disguises the curvature of horizon.
If we lay down on this beach
our wingspans touching
before we make sand angels,
breathe world in, sea breeze exhalation,
imitate a sea otter squeak,
the hum of jellyfish,
green glass waves breaking
over prehistoric rock formations,
sun spun silver etching ocean’s wave caps,
sky mirroring us laying down the cure,
connoisseurs, curators of this beautiful life,
can we save Mother Earth?
Tree Bodies in Wind
Underground, trees hold each other up
—roots bound together--
against wind powerful enough
branches rub against trunks
creak and moan at a certain pitch,
sound of bone on bone,
sound the old man downtown years ago
played on the saw every afternoon,
haunting reverberation
against storefront windows
—mannequins wearing antique
high collared lace dresses,
yellow carnies in cages
coronated by sun--
sound of children
who have died too young
turning into angels,
his hunched body bending the saw
against his knee,
ghost call to strangers,
shoppers, surfers and hippies back then.
After he passed
they made a statue of him
—old withered man playing the saw
he used in his youth
logging the foggy mountains of Santa Cruz--
bronzed at the spot he sat playing for decades,
from before anyone could remember,
where he’ll sit for centuries more
beyond all our memories measure.
Joanna Martin is a longtime poet in Santa Cruz, California. She has published two books of
poetry, The Meaning of Wings and Where Stars Begin, with Hummingbird Press. She has published poetry in Red Wheelbarrow, Porter Gulch Review, Second Wind, Phren-Z and various other publications.
Beneath the underwing of pelican
feather sifted light imprints our skin.
Fog shift interlocks ocean and sky
disguises the curvature of horizon.
If we lay down on this beach
our wingspans touching
before we make sand angels,
breathe world in, sea breeze exhalation,
imitate a sea otter squeak,
the hum of jellyfish,
green glass waves breaking
over prehistoric rock formations,
sun spun silver etching ocean’s wave caps,
sky mirroring us laying down the cure,
connoisseurs, curators of this beautiful life,
can we save Mother Earth?
Tree Bodies in Wind
Underground, trees hold each other up
—roots bound together--
against wind powerful enough
branches rub against trunks
creak and moan at a certain pitch,
sound of bone on bone,
sound the old man downtown years ago
played on the saw every afternoon,
haunting reverberation
against storefront windows
—mannequins wearing antique
high collared lace dresses,
yellow carnies in cages
coronated by sun--
sound of children
who have died too young
turning into angels,
his hunched body bending the saw
against his knee,
ghost call to strangers,
shoppers, surfers and hippies back then.
After he passed
they made a statue of him
—old withered man playing the saw
he used in his youth
logging the foggy mountains of Santa Cruz--
bronzed at the spot he sat playing for decades,
from before anyone could remember,
where he’ll sit for centuries more
beyond all our memories measure.
Joanna Martin is a longtime poet in Santa Cruz, California. She has published two books of
poetry, The Meaning of Wings and Where Stars Begin, with Hummingbird Press. She has published poetry in Red Wheelbarrow, Porter Gulch Review, Second Wind, Phren-Z and various other publications.