Blood on Stone, (Mazzaella splendens)
A red algae,
at low tide
you surface
in the rocky intertidal
at the edge of the sea
like blood on stone.
Your slippery mucus resists
dehydration as you carpet
rocks with heart-shaped blades,
insulate life below from harsh light
and desiccation. Your deep purple color
appears iridescent when wet –
like oil on water. Limpets that graze
along rocks find your texture
rubbery, difficult to eat.
For people who tide pool
your shiny appearance gives
warning – step with caution,
avoid Mazzaella
and a fall.
Postal
Post office lobby overflows
with packages and impatience.
An employee wears a blue turban,
works the line, smiles
through a salt-and-pepper beard.
With velvet voice he offers help.
A burly man holds a package,
his demand fills the air
as he yells at the Sikh employee –
Speak English,
I can’t understand a word you are saying –
bruising my spirit purple.
Insults continue to hurl
from the burly man,
pummel the employee,
electrify the room with tension.
As bystanders we freeze, stare
wide-eyed, cowed
like people who expect violence.
Out of self-restraint
the Sikh continues to serve.
Out of fear,
no one speaks, except for the yelling.
Out of control,
the burly man storms outside.
Out of my silence,
remorse.
The Farmer
September’s almonds hang in clusters
dusty grey coats flung back,
hard buff-colored shell exposed –
it’s harvest time.
With loud squawks, a scrub jay
glides in on his blue feathered cape,
lands on a branch, eyes his harvest –
peck, peck, peck – his treasure released.
Almond held by the vise of his yellow beak
the farmer cocks his eye left, then right,
looks for a place to cache his loot.
Warily he darts under the camellia bush,
on the lookout for thieves, especially other jays.
With a head like a hammer –
tap, tap, tap – the jay pounds his seed
into the moist earth. Suspicious, he looks
around. No one is watching yet he exhumes
the nut, flies off to rebury it elsewhere.
Later the jay returns for his prize,
walks around, probes, can’t remember
the burial site. No matter, instead of an almond
he exhumes a pecan, an oak or a walnut –
booty planted by another.
Lynn M. Hansen is a retired Modesto Junior College professor of marine biology. A member of the Ina Coolbrith Circle, Orinda, CA, MoSt Poetry Center, Modesto and National League of American Pen Women, her work reflects her sense of place and the art of story-telling. She enjoys gardening with native plants, photography, cooking and writing. With her husband Richard Anderson she has traveled to all five continents and enjoys adventures in different cultural realms. In 2013 a collection of her poems was published by Quercus Review Press entitled Flicker, Poems by Lynn M. Hansen. She is currently writing an historical novel about her maternal grandmother, Mernie Daisy Lewis, 1882-1963.
A red algae,
at low tide
you surface
in the rocky intertidal
at the edge of the sea
like blood on stone.
Your slippery mucus resists
dehydration as you carpet
rocks with heart-shaped blades,
insulate life below from harsh light
and desiccation. Your deep purple color
appears iridescent when wet –
like oil on water. Limpets that graze
along rocks find your texture
rubbery, difficult to eat.
For people who tide pool
your shiny appearance gives
warning – step with caution,
avoid Mazzaella
and a fall.
Postal
Post office lobby overflows
with packages and impatience.
An employee wears a blue turban,
works the line, smiles
through a salt-and-pepper beard.
With velvet voice he offers help.
A burly man holds a package,
his demand fills the air
as he yells at the Sikh employee –
Speak English,
I can’t understand a word you are saying –
bruising my spirit purple.
Insults continue to hurl
from the burly man,
pummel the employee,
electrify the room with tension.
As bystanders we freeze, stare
wide-eyed, cowed
like people who expect violence.
Out of self-restraint
the Sikh continues to serve.
Out of fear,
no one speaks, except for the yelling.
Out of control,
the burly man storms outside.
Out of my silence,
remorse.
The Farmer
September’s almonds hang in clusters
dusty grey coats flung back,
hard buff-colored shell exposed –
it’s harvest time.
With loud squawks, a scrub jay
glides in on his blue feathered cape,
lands on a branch, eyes his harvest –
peck, peck, peck – his treasure released.
Almond held by the vise of his yellow beak
the farmer cocks his eye left, then right,
looks for a place to cache his loot.
Warily he darts under the camellia bush,
on the lookout for thieves, especially other jays.
With a head like a hammer –
tap, tap, tap – the jay pounds his seed
into the moist earth. Suspicious, he looks
around. No one is watching yet he exhumes
the nut, flies off to rebury it elsewhere.
Later the jay returns for his prize,
walks around, probes, can’t remember
the burial site. No matter, instead of an almond
he exhumes a pecan, an oak or a walnut –
booty planted by another.
Lynn M. Hansen is a retired Modesto Junior College professor of marine biology. A member of the Ina Coolbrith Circle, Orinda, CA, MoSt Poetry Center, Modesto and National League of American Pen Women, her work reflects her sense of place and the art of story-telling. She enjoys gardening with native plants, photography, cooking and writing. With her husband Richard Anderson she has traveled to all five continents and enjoys adventures in different cultural realms. In 2013 a collection of her poems was published by Quercus Review Press entitled Flicker, Poems by Lynn M. Hansen. She is currently writing an historical novel about her maternal grandmother, Mernie Daisy Lewis, 1882-1963.