From West by Northwest.org Arts & Letters Poems: Shades of Loss By Mason, Bear, Nakamaro, Ramon and Garfield Mar 7, 2005 SWIMMERS ON THE SHORE Whidbey Island Like half a filial circus act splashing the Y pool shallow end, I swam about my father, who could stand. And when I climbed, an acrobat, diving from his muscled shoulders, they seemed as solid as two boulders. Now I can hold his shrunken frame in my arm’s compass. We’re together on a park bench in lingering summer weather before I make the long drive home. But halfway through some story, speech lies suddenly beyond his reach. I see him cast for words, and fail. Though talking never came with ease, it is as if my father’s memories dissolve in a cedar-darkened pool, while I no longer am aware which of us goes fishing there. Has he begun the long swim out toward silence that we all half-dread? I hug my father’s shoulders, lean my head closer to his, yet I cannot, from his unfinished sentences, quite fathom where or who he is. I want to stay. The day is warm, the salt breeze blows across the Sound long plaintive cries of seagulls sailing down to hover over churning foam there in the docking ferry’s wake. I want to stay for my own sake, holding the man who once held me until I dove and splashed about. He gives my hand a squeeze. There is no doubt, despite his loss of memory, and though the words could not be found, it’s I who have begun to drown. –David Mason, posted by permission From 100 Poems I have gone West twenty-three years. Not strange that, as I make new friends, they express surprise that I have a son in the East. I tell them how I go watch the moon rise with the evening star and think of it shining high in the ecliptic above the home he has made with his young wife there. – R.S. Bear, posted by permission This poem (above) was inspired by Abe no Nakamaro's poem below When I look abroad O'er the wide-stretched "Plain of Heaven," Is the moon the same That on Mount Mikasa rose, In the land of Kasuga? -Abe no Nakamaro The Survivor I turned away from war and death, seeking peace, almost futile except I had no choice. Long ago I staunched our wounds but seeking peace, tried to root out war I had no choice. Our weapons are a matter of scale but seeking peace, scale matters since I had no choice. My brothers, my sisters died. How do we love country and resist war? I had no choice. You, my whole, greater than my parts, You leave for the land of the dead You had no choice. I am the last one like Ishi, who came in from the cold I have no choice. Ryan Ramon Bitter Coffee Well made coffee used to be a love offering every morning. The single thing he did after unloading the dishwasher...another love offering. We drank it together and talked though morning is my quiet time. He stole it from me and my writing time as well. All a sacrifice to the relationship. Bi-annually we spent a month apart. Then writing could happen and quiet mornings until eleven o'clock daily. Weekends I work leaving the coffee and silence. Men what we sacrifice for one of our own. He serves me bitter coffee as a love offering, most days. No longer does he drink it. He's dying one day at a time Eighteen years investing in my future, down the drain. I will drink my coffee alone and have bitterly quiet mornings in my old age. – Laeh Maggie Garfield See The Christian Science Monitor Blog by Elizabeth, Lund The Poetic Life © Copyright 2000-2004 by West by Northwest.org