Willawaw Journal Winter 2018 Issue 5

Loggerheads and Leatherbacks

Once in the Caribbean brine,
away from the prying eyes of my father,
lost in blue with the smell of fish-bones on our skin.
I gave myself to you, soft as the inside of a mollusk,

bashful as the turtles we were chasing.
Coast after coast following the nesting sites,
every egg marked and mapped,
each freckle traced by your finger–naming constellations.

We navigated with the laughter of our crew,
two desperate boys, who robbed at night
the future of  those nests, unseen to us ‘the protectors’
while we stole each other’s breath under the Antinous stars.

Plundered nests before the sun entered those waters,
under the fading eye of Yucayú,
just as you left without saying adiós
leaving me alone on sand, ocean, and new discovered fire.

 

Amelia Díaz Ettinger, born in Mexico and raised in Puerto Rico, has written poems that reflect the struggle with identity. In 2015, her first book of poetry, Speaking at a Time, was published by Redbat Books. Her work has appeared in Willawaw Journal, Windfall, The Avocet, Speaking of Ourselves: Women of Color Anthology, Oregon East Magazine, and Accentos Review.

The Night has her Own Quiet Victory

–for the Dutch poet Joop Bersee

We came here. Pilgrims. We danced in search of stones. A voice
answered in return. Told us about life and what our purpose was

here on earth. My father was the ragged phoenix. I think of the
wild birds in Kenya. Do they coo wherever they woo? The light

scares me. So do bone-thin women. I know more sin than saint.
You are woman with the graceful neck wearing sackcloth rather

than designer label. I pray that I will write a novel based on the
stories of your life. I also pray that you will never read it. It is

just this volcano lover waiting for death. Just this wait until death
then it is all over. When darkness comes all I want is sweet you.

I have life because I have blood navigating through my veins.
You have the same blood flowing through yours. I never promised

to obey you. I think of how the day has turned out. The calm sea
and the calm river of it all. Songs of the dumped found there forever.

Saturn. Robert Mugabe resigns, loneliness seeps into my
bones highlighting the gathering summer and light in seawater.

The physical world of seawater shimmers. It glitters. It strikes poses.
Courage is powerful in the same way triumph burns, the shape

of leaves, couples on a beach, and the clouds here are full of
enormous knowing. I would have been a bad mother. A bad

feminist. I know this truth in the abyss of my tired bones.
Saturn has done this to me as well as the image of ritual.

This insight transforms itself into light. The light of day and
I still remember the day you walked away from me a free man.

 

Abigail George was nominated for the Pushcart Prize for her fiction, “Wash Away My Sins.” She is a South African blogger at Goodreads, and an essayist, playwright, poet, grant, novella, and short story writer. She briefly studied film at Newtown Film and Television School in Johannesburg.

Dancing with the Gods

Once on a large ship, somewhere
between England and Ireland,

I was lifted, out of the blue, by a god—
not the father, nor his son, the one symbolized by a fish

but by one of the ancient ones, crowned
with the vigorous vine, a friend to women,

a lover of wine and song who picked me
up in a sudden gale, carried me aloft,

then dropped me (or did he lose me
like a storm that ran its course?)

in a valley along the Pacific coast.
It was a hard fall. Bruised all over,

I forswore him and his mad’ning swings, found
succor at the shrine of his genteel brother

whose lyre music and reasoned views
helped me heal, restart my life. All of which

I hold in high esteem. Still, temple work
(the mountain air so clear, so rarefied) turned

into another fantastic flight. This time I rode
a magic carpet, laughing as if

I were one of the boys. Such fun
never lasts. Another harsh landing.

Now what?          Listen: faint notes—
A summons? From this grove above the glen?

Such reedy sounds! Are these
eyes glowing in the dark, a beard—a cloven hoof?

I heard of him: Earthbound, hairy, wild,
furtive as a deer, rutty as a goat.

He is rustic at best. Still, he offers
his own kind of revels. He hides,

yet, wants to be seen. He knows,
oh, he knows: how I long to be

swept off my feet again, blown
away, reeled into another high-flown jig.

I sway, reed-like, between desire
and distrust. Can I rise above

his rough hide, his ill repute,
do I dare to dance with him—

this third, this most unseemly, this ancient
of the ancient gods? Who doesn’t mind

his shape, who loves his flesh! Is unabashed.
In my sunset years, it’s him who with his chimes

charms me into a different pas de deux: he twirls me,
releases me, then pulls me back into his arms

to raise me high above his head. And always, always
lets me gently down. Thus, we romp around the central fire.

Brigitte Goetze lives in Western Oregon. A retired biologist and angora goat farmer, she now divides her time between writing and fiber work; in either case she spins her own yarns. Links to recent publications can be found at: brigittegoetzewriter.com.

Shipwrecked

Once, in the land of Ecrovid,
‌                                                         a man found himself
‌                                  chewing on fish bones
‌           he’d plucked from a pile of ashes on the beach.
He stared out into the blue
‌           under blue
‌                       under blue
and thought of his son across the sea
‌                                                           in need of a father,
‌                                     of all his supportive friends,
and the inappropriate, sometimes amusing support from strangers,
‌             like the two laughing boys riding a camel
‌                         who invited him into the desert to forget,
‌                                     or the woman who showed him a picture of herself
‌                                                 kissing a different stranger
‌                                     and didn’t explain why,
‌                          or the turtle who had surfaced
‌              while he clung to the broken mast.

The turtle had said he would be fine
‌            if he could only get to the beach beyond the sunset
‌                        because that’s where baby turtles come from.
It made no sense to the man
‌                                    but nothing did.
So when the three mountains
‌            peaked over the horizon
‌                         he’d followed the turtle’s directions.
But the beach was empty.
And all the strangers
shouted kindnesses from a great distance
‌                       about the beauty of certain parts of the land of Ecrovid
‌           places he could not reach.
And no one rescued him.

He thought about the storm while he chewed the bones.
‌            She had come upon the boat so quickly
‌                        Striking with lightning.
‌                                     Sinking with efficiency.
‌                                                 You cannot be angry at storms
‌                                                             for being storms.
‌                                                                         Or at ashes for tasting
‌                                                                                     like ashes.
‌                                                                                                 Or at innocent fish
‌                                                                                                            consumed by
‌ ‌                                                                                                                      long dead fire.

Benjamin Gorman is the author of The Sum of Our Gods, Corporate High School, and The Digital Storm. His novel Don’t Read This Book will be released in March of 2019. He runs an independent press for genre fiction called Not a Pipe Publishing. Gorman lives and teaches in Independence, Oregon. Learn more at Teacher Gorman.com

Beyond Belief                        

A wise man points out
that stars give birth to planets
and even galaxies are born and die.
Animals and plants, too, fulfill their destiny
–even when they need to build a nest
or store food for the winter,
they have plenty of time
to sit in the sun and sing.

We work, convinced: we must.
Don’t get me wrong.
I love my work.
And yet–
There are things my soul yearns to do,
ways in which to be,
that are locked behind the thoughts:
I can’t. I don’t deserve it. I don’t have time or money.

Today I am allowing for the possibility
there might be another truth,
another way of thinking and being.
How?
I don’t know.
Do the star and galaxy know
how to create the abundance that
lights up the firmament?

Does the seedling in the forest know
how soil and sky allow it to grow
into the enormous Redwood tree
it was meant to be?

I am simply asking my mind
to loosen the grip which holds
my narrow assumptions in place.

 

Isa Jennings lives in Elmira, Oregon. Retired from doing grief work with children and families, Jennings now offers spiritual healing retreats in the quietude of her country home and finally has all the time she wants to read and write poetry.

Linda Wimberly is an artist, writer and musician from Marietta, GA. Her poetry has appeared in numerous journals. She is an abstract artist who works in acrylic, oil, and mixed media. Her art has been used in several publications and for cover art. (lindawimberly.com)