I had intended to write about whales whilst sitting on the cliff looking out to sea. The wind was so strong, with squally rain, that the car became the only place to write. Balancing an ink pot (somewhere) and writing round a steering wheel in a wildly rocking car certainly added humour to the poem! I find I’m enjoying the daily jottings more. I’m less resistant to the practice. I like making the time.
What is leading the whale
as it banks with a continuous
pulse, in cells, out of cells, energy
rolls up my arm, twists
over in my chest, down
the other arm, over over, pliable
eight until the room joins in the wave
to crescendo into the street, veil
the river, its ozone scents
my breath, as weather charts me
out into purest arctic oxygen
and fixes in my myoglobin
for the sounding dive of my life.
Bionote scans can draw my tired
chest tape in several screens, a tiny spot
barely nearly not there is a nice thing to say
yes barely nearly not there and yet
tiny spot opens wide jaws wide saying
the laws of emptiness leave you
your daily blessings and marshmallows,
and an elk, soft emblem of inner survival
like a padded notebook, making marks
on the tundra, where going home
is a hope feeling, determined
by the practical prayer of steps
in a shrinking isolation of ice.
another kind of happiness 