USA

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Beginnings and Ends


A cranky sea lion barks.
Blow-by wave spume
tickles my skin.
Stubborn fog retreats
until chilly nightfall
and sullenly waits.

It's the old century's
final hours.
We pull ourselves
through ceanothus and mustard,
silvery herbs,
stand above crimson stone
watching scrap-paper gulls.

Below,
rocky crone eyes protrude
from twitching blue surf.
Foam breakers bluster ashore.
Scum ribbons snake
past the edge of this world.

We climb toward the sun,
leaving any known trail.

Pacific Pummeling


Blue muscles bulge.
An entire ocean lifts,
flexes wave after wave
from submerged granite bones.

An aroused Pacific
leads with its right,
pounds foamy cuts
in a sandy point's brow.

Roundhouse breakers
shatter volcanic cliffs,
punches cocky boulders
into convulsing surf.

Elkhorn Exodus


Gangs of jittery shorebirds
scatter and wheel.
Pale herons
patrol shiny mud,
pace a pickle weed beat.

I crouch
beneath petrified fennel,
silvery limbs of past sensuality,
dried up and gone.

Mars canals
carve an emptying estuary.
Canada geese,
tired of wandering,
fill scattered ponds.

I rest
upon a weathered fence rail,
contemplate misty horizons,
listen to the mournful pariah
who circles and cries
from dark clouds overhead.

Trails spiral
through greasewood,
milky nettles,
paths of bruised sage.
My camera frames
and then captures
an ancient barn's
naked bones.

I scribble questions
into stable columns,
ponder shifting currents,
rotting stumps,
receding tides.

Butterfly World


Frail jewels ascend,
strike walls of netting.
Silk wings beat soft barricades
in frantic rhythm.

Here emerald hummingbirds
measure the pulse
of bleeding hearts and yellow bells,
brandish stethoscope tails.

Our fingers touch
self-important troll blooms,
blustery freckled jowls
bouncing in a light wind.

Impossible cocoons
spun from iridium
bask and ripen to butterflies
in filtered sun.

You pull me into
thickets of hibiscus
and bamboo
where sensuous lorikeets play.

We kiss within an ethereal mist,
frail benediction
that evaporates
as it touches hot skin.

Sleeping Atlas moths,
exhausted from the effort of living,
hang like autumn rags
on dry Byzantine limbs.

An arching foot bridge connects
Tropic Snow with tough, leathery fern.
We embrace. Silver carp roll
beneath lily quilts in their watery bed.

© All Copyright 2001,  Jennifer Lagier.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.