A Split Tale
August 8, 2022
A "creative nonfiction poem"
August 8, 2022
A "creative nonfiction poem"
INTRODUCTION: 52 years ago today, an orca calf was taken from her mother in a horrifying, brutal roundup of about 100 orcas in Puget Sound. Tokitae was the only calf stolen that day who would survive the sentence of entertainer at a marine park, though confined in the smallest whale tank in the nation at Miami's Seaquarium. Despite decades of ardent activism by thousands, and the collaborative plan of the Lummi Nation, Orca Network, and others to repatriate her to home waters, Tokitae is still there in the hot Miami sun, turning tiny circles in her tiny tank, listening to loudspeakers blare all day, doing tricks for dead fish. Doing nothing that wild orcas do.
Somehow, I grew up not knowing of Tokitae's plight. In 2019, when I first heard of 24-year-old Rachael Andersen's connection with the orca, and of her own traumatic beginning, I was deeply touched. But when I discovered the truth of Rachael's and Tokitae's beautiful, suffering selves, the parallels between them broke my heart. Each truly has, in the other, a soul sister--and each truly has, in her mother, a fierce, abiding love. I'm so grateful to Rachael and her mother, Suzanne, for allowing me in on their journey. May it end with Tokitae flashing her flukes from the depths of the Salish Sea.
Until then, for Rachael's sake, I hope you'll read and share their story, "A Split Tale."
Somehow, I grew up not knowing of Tokitae's plight. In 2019, when I first heard of 24-year-old Rachael Andersen's connection with the orca, and of her own traumatic beginning, I was deeply touched. But when I discovered the truth of Rachael's and Tokitae's beautiful, suffering selves, the parallels between them broke my heart. Each truly has, in the other, a soul sister--and each truly has, in her mother, a fierce, abiding love. I'm so grateful to Rachael and her mother, Suzanne, for allowing me in on their journey. May it end with Tokitae flashing her flukes from the depths of the Salish Sea.
Until then, for Rachael's sake, I hope you'll read and share their story, "A Split Tale."
The Pruning
November 2012 Italian sonnet The slender limbs of April's cherry plum Adorned with light pink, aromatic blooms, Invite attention. Honeybees are soon Engaged; the gauzy apiary hums. The buds beneath its petals then become Elliptic ruby leaves, translucent spoons That stain the light they hold, a dose of June's Elixir from the fountain of the sun. Then fruitless branches thicken, bees take flight, In autumn's moonless air, a whisper of A frigid current strips its silhouette Of leaves unloosed by canker, mold, or blight: December's Prunus cerasifera, No longer plum, stands naked, pruned, bereft. |
Forest Fire, Four A.M.
September 2016 Orion sprawls upon the blackened glass In search of prey on Earth, and spies a flash Of blazing yellow, a massive panther’s eye, Its brilliance marking where his quarry lies. The hunter’s shoulder twitches; Betelgeuse, Inflamed by jealousy, is hot to shoot. The canine lounging at Orion’s foot Is bright enough to know he should stay put: That golden glare is but a forest fire, Sequoia sempervirens’ funeral pyre – No trophy creature Sirius can fell, But rather, flames like those within that hell His vicious counterpart, Cerberus, guards. Orion stares. The cougar’s iris starts To blink, then flares anew as if to dare The hunter to descend into its lair, Unsheath his starry sword and swing a rain Of blows extinguishing the raging game. |
Degeneration
Published in Porter Gulch Review, Anniversary Issue 2010, pg 114 San Jose State University | James D. Phelan Literary Award - First Place, Long Metrical Verse (2006) I wrote this poem early one foggy morning as I perched on a tombstone near my father's grave in the Old Soquel Cemetery. At dawn an urge prevails to see again The quiet place he chose. I softly quit The sleeping house, with journal clasped in hand, And step past dark and dewy yards to cross The mountain road already quick with cars, And slip inside unbounded graveyard grounds Wherein my father now returns to dust. I wander reverentially among The shifting, sinking mounds of musty earth That culminate along the cliff, above The river where he used to love to fish. His body lies between these parallel Progressive paths: the upward road intense Commuters take toward cubicled careers; And current coursing downward on its way To reunite with its ancestral sea. This ancient acre heaves and writhes, deformed By roots and by the San Andreas fault, By wheelbarrows and formal narrow heels. An oak tree near the bank has bent too far And snapped, exposing rosy sinews in An arc of agony. A shingled shack Consumed by swarming ivy leans against The tangled woods, its windows boarded up; Tenacious plastic permanently blooms Beside untended tombs of crumbled stone. My father had a poet’s heart and so He chose this graveyard for its unprecise, Disordered art, its wild civility. I roam around the toppled testaments And broken borders, making acorns crunch And fallen oak leaves crackle, searching for A newer slab too young to have succumbed To creeping rash of lichen, soil and weeds. I note the names and numbers of the dead. Official, terse abbreviations mark Where persevering soldiers, uninformed Of truce or treaty, lie forever low In solitary trenches, earth around Them gopher-riddled, engines droning on Above them -- wingless craft, along the road. Adjacent graves hold some who never had A chance to fight, for Church or State or life: “Our Baby” simply says one marble slab; Another square, “Twin Boys.” I turn away. A flash of shiny granite draws my eye. No need to cry; that rending grief has passed. I gather up and bind some autumn leaves, A gift I know would suit his rustic soul, And tiptoe to the gravesite of the man Who saw the light in every dying day. |
Buckeye
With deference to Robert Frost San Jose State University | James D. Phelan Literary Award - Third Place, Free Verse (2017) In March the buckeye unfolds little fists, Fingers wide-splaying to take in the air, Eager for sunlight’s food, which also bears The viands for its future toxic cysts. (Natives knew the pods’ divergent powers: To poison, or be pounded into flour.) For weeks it waves green hands from silver wrists, Bright foliage packed with panicles of blooms That turn to fruitless fruit. July consumes Its every brilliant leaf until the tree No longer gives, except in memory Of brightness not yet tarnished by the heat. This was not foreseen when the tree was new And saplings at its side found sunshine sweet. We love what buckeyes are, not what they do. |
Campus Connections
San Jose State University, 2005 The chapel-to-library pathway is settled With wavering pieces of pastoral light In leaf-shapen template, celestial petals Diffused down the aisle to welcome a bride Who hastened to tender her turn at the altar In tremulous certainty that she was right, But twenty years later, now suddenly falters When reaching the shimmering, green-shattered beams, Reminders of years lost before she could halt her Progression past all of her sacrificed dreams. Romantic distractions! She turns her head, nettled By shadowy carpet’s arboreal gleams, And then sees the truth -- that the passage that meddled With youth, to the chapel and library led her. |
The Sands of Heaven
San Jose State University | Dorrit Sibley Poetry Award (2006)
Our Beatle-ridden radio ablare
To mask the station wagon’s loud distress,
We shimmy down the road at sixty plus,
Through undulating, corrugated fields
That rusted pinking shears of plows have scraped,
While crows, like wayward, blowing ashes, waft
From row to row. The land is hot and still;
Though lauded in the shelves of Steinbeck lore
That each Salinas Valley store and stand
So proudly crams among its lesser wares,
We yawn in unison, blasé and bored.
But when we glimpse, ahead and to the west,
That smear of indigo that marks the end
Of state and trip and all the world we know,
We sit up straight and slow our rate of speed,
Accommodating awe. The farmlands fall
Away, and land swells into slopes of sand.
The dunes are iceplant-stubbled, patchy, stabbed
With stunted cypress trees that sprawl and lean
On gnarled, knotty elbows. Some are bare
And curled, like shriveled spiders. Gray grass spurts
In random swaths along each curving crest.
Beyond the sand, the stripe of sea expands.
Denuded soon of plants, the dunes decline.
Now we can see the whited rows of waves
The ocean peels away and throws onshore.
Enormous seagulls soar and dive for fish –
And chips from bags on blankets on the beach.
We shove and shriek for window access rights
And gulp the pungent scent of pirate tales
Until we reach the lot and park the car.
At last we separate our sticky selves,
Unwinding tangled limbs in frenzied rush
To plunge across the rolling, rippling plains –
These furrowed by the salty breath of God –
And swim until exhaustion halts our play.
We fall upon the sand. Its crystal grains
Provide a warm reception, transmit waves,
And tune our souls to soothing, static surf.
San Jose State University | Dorrit Sibley Poetry Award (2006)
Our Beatle-ridden radio ablare
To mask the station wagon’s loud distress,
We shimmy down the road at sixty plus,
Through undulating, corrugated fields
That rusted pinking shears of plows have scraped,
While crows, like wayward, blowing ashes, waft
From row to row. The land is hot and still;
Though lauded in the shelves of Steinbeck lore
That each Salinas Valley store and stand
So proudly crams among its lesser wares,
We yawn in unison, blasé and bored.
But when we glimpse, ahead and to the west,
That smear of indigo that marks the end
Of state and trip and all the world we know,
We sit up straight and slow our rate of speed,
Accommodating awe. The farmlands fall
Away, and land swells into slopes of sand.
The dunes are iceplant-stubbled, patchy, stabbed
With stunted cypress trees that sprawl and lean
On gnarled, knotty elbows. Some are bare
And curled, like shriveled spiders. Gray grass spurts
In random swaths along each curving crest.
Beyond the sand, the stripe of sea expands.
Denuded soon of plants, the dunes decline.
Now we can see the whited rows of waves
The ocean peels away and throws onshore.
Enormous seagulls soar and dive for fish –
And chips from bags on blankets on the beach.
We shove and shriek for window access rights
And gulp the pungent scent of pirate tales
Until we reach the lot and park the car.
At last we separate our sticky selves,
Unwinding tangled limbs in frenzied rush
To plunge across the rolling, rippling plains –
These furrowed by the salty breath of God –
And swim until exhaustion halts our play.
We fall upon the sand. Its crystal grains
Provide a warm reception, transmit waves,
And tune our souls to soothing, static surf.
Crosstalk
San Jose State University | James D. Phelan Literary Award - First Place, Short Metrical Verse (2006) This sonnet was inspired by a drive through redwoods interspersed with what seemed to me the naked corpses of those majestic trees. Erect, apart, yet linked by sagging strands Of wire strung through iron epaulets, Each stripped, tattooed and cuffed with metal bands, A chain of weathered captives, old and gray; Or else a row of executed slaves, The wretched victims of a vain revolt, Attracting crows to ravaged forms whose brave Resistance met with crucifixion bolts; Or sacred crosses lined up to lament The conduct of those profit-seeking men Who truncate, trim, and sink in wet cement The glories that once graced a redwood glen. At any rate, a token charge to pay To speed our words along their global way. |
Interruption
2005 She leans back, pressing bare feet against warm flagstone, Savoring late sun on eyelids until a breeze Sends the red plum swaying, sets the lemon leaves Trembling. A slender white iris shivers, alone. Pine needles flare like a startled green porcupine. The frail remnants of quail eggs roll downhill, Pursued by snail shell, seeds, and redtail quill. The subtle wind has stirred the soul of summertime. A blast of hip-hop blares from beyond this haven, Followed by a horn and screeching tires. She starts, Clasping knees, at the cacophony which imparts Raucous artificiality, a brazen Assault on her solitude and meditation. Nature vanishes. The pink polish on her toes, Her faded jeans and gauzy shirt and gilded prose, Seem starkly false, contrived, sheer fabrication. |
The Light
2012 Octosyllabic couplets Though afternoon Italian light Fills every outdoor seat in sight As locals settle down to feel the Languid summer breeze, Lucia, Crossing the canal and rushing Toward her favorite café, clutching Gucci bag, notepad and pen, is Certain of a table – Larenz Favors her. Throughout the campo Tourists with their crumpled maps go Into huddles, pointing, peering. One asks her, Do gondoliers sing For a fee, or just a tip? She Tells him with a frown, succinctly, They don’t sing at all, sir - it’s not Disneyland. He sneers. She sit, jots Notes about Americans, their Stupid questions, white shoes, frizzed hair… No -- who wants to read another Slam on them? So, what to cover, What to write? She orders: “Vino Rosso, pronto, Larenz.” He goes, Brings that liquid muse. Its jaunty Essence makes her pause, Chianti Goblet warm beneath her fingers. Pen down now, she sips and lingers, Listening to dishes clatter, Starlings chirp, amiche chatter, Watching as the setting sun casts Amber light on ancient plaster, Light that runs like melted butter Over rippled panes; it’s what her Archived, rerun dreams are colored, Tinted by romance. Two lovers In a corner kiss and cross the Cobblestones. Lucia tosses Back her hair. She knows the ending Of that scene – the climax pending, And quickly falling action, too; Those movies end too soon. Ah! Mood Altered, she picks up her pen. She’ll Write (of Venice) as if for reel! An aging beauty sits, marooned, Stagnant, sinking, depressed, and doomed. |
Dandelion
1995 Appearances are hardly rare; Just tends to pop up everywhere. Ubiquitous, can’t be repressed (By some considered quite a pest). Deep roots secure the perky top, The sturdy stems, the vibrant crop That grows in sunlight, rain and shade, But never wilts or shrinks or fades. Yet comes a day when what seemed tough Becomes a ball of fragile fluff So delicate in gloomy gray, That barest breeze blows bloom away. Time soon restores the failed cheer And I, who hold her truly dear, Shower love like streams of water On my dandelion daughter. Tsunami
At helicopter height it looks like sludge - A pour of concrete twenty-four feet deep, Resurfacing the streets unsupervised, Collecting cars, trucks, timbers, homes– and flesh – That bob and sunder in its roiling grip, Then disappear. The farms and fields beyond Absorb the dark remainder of its mass; What’s left begins to settle, then recede. Survivors stumble down from Ararats, No prism-colored promises in sight. |
Dust Thou Art
2010
This senses poem was written in tribute to our dear old apple farm in the hills of Santa Cruz, where my sister and her family now live. It still looks, feels, tastes, sounds, and smells -- like dust and so much more.
I smell dry earth, the sweat and dung of horses,
Distended burlap sacks of chicken scratch,
Hot laurel bay and eucalyptus leaves,
Mom’s chili, wood smoke, ragweed, saddle soap,
Alfalfa hay in musty verdant stacks
Shoved into forts and stages and storefronts,
Shellac and varnish, paint and paint remover;
The pungent scent of fly spray, salted air,
Oats, rotten apples, dead mice inside walls,
Wet soil on boots, pink Cecil Brunner roses,
Hot cider, Folger’s coffee, flannel shirts,
The fallen fruit that scents the orchard dust.
I feel the strain of lifting sodden straw
From muddy stable floor to wheelbarrow,
Cool coastal fog against my neck as Dad
And I hike with a thermos over hills
Vibrant with dew. I feel that barn-sour pony
Tearing home beneath me -- my numb panic,
Hard fall, sharp shoulder pain, embarrassment;
The amber evening sunlight on my arms
While cantering through undeveloped land,
The sticky, chunky texture of the oats
Inside the wooden feed box; scratchy hay,
The privacy of tree-forts and the sense
Of secret space yet union with all things,
Legs dangling down from slender eucalypti
That, bending, send me to the forest floor;
My purple fingers pricked with berry thorns,
And dust like talcum powder underfoot.
I hear the John Deere sputter, cough, and growl;
Rain jumping on the corrugated roof
Of our old barn, dogs howling, roosters crowing,
Ducks squawking, horses breathing, hooves clip-clopping;
The clanging dinner bell across the acres,
Dania yelling at her mom next door,
The screech of tires where the road turns sharply,
The thump of hammers, wail of table saw,
Dad calling “All right!” or, “Aw, cruminelly,”
Wind fluttering through the acacia trees,
The crunch of driveway gravel that announced
A date, his car eclipsed by silver dust.
I see the old red of the sagging barn,
The oak worms Shawn and I picked from our sleeves,
The plays presented on our rustic stage –
Small Becky in a sapphire evening gown
As Salome, delivering the head
Of St. John on a platter (skull-sized rock
Besmeared in ketchup underneath a scarf);
The Scotch Broom frothing from the well-road banks,
Sun sinking in a shred of distant sea,
The broad leaves of the fig tree splayed to keep
Most of the summer sun from my green cave,
The steep twist in the forest trail where
Our ponies liked to dash across the roots,
The blossoms on the bellflower apple tree
Whose branches brushed the soil like a skirt,
The scrubby brush that filled the dense corral,
Clouds, columns, devils, swirls, and puffs of dust.
I taste the sweet Satsumi plums, the quince,
Ollalieberries, kumquats, and persimmon,
Fresh crispy apples eaten under trees
Or whittled into cider, pies, and jams
By Mom, who made the most of everything;
That bitter unknown fruit we used for pranks,
Dad’s catch pan-fried in cornmeal, kidney beans,
Spaghetti, chard and spinach, deviled eggs,
Surfeit zucchini tucked in every dish,
Pure well water, warm cheesy casseroles,
Tart sourgrass, wild fennel, boys I kissed,
Big gulps of ocean air and orchard dust.
2010
This senses poem was written in tribute to our dear old apple farm in the hills of Santa Cruz, where my sister and her family now live. It still looks, feels, tastes, sounds, and smells -- like dust and so much more.
I smell dry earth, the sweat and dung of horses,
Distended burlap sacks of chicken scratch,
Hot laurel bay and eucalyptus leaves,
Mom’s chili, wood smoke, ragweed, saddle soap,
Alfalfa hay in musty verdant stacks
Shoved into forts and stages and storefronts,
Shellac and varnish, paint and paint remover;
The pungent scent of fly spray, salted air,
Oats, rotten apples, dead mice inside walls,
Wet soil on boots, pink Cecil Brunner roses,
Hot cider, Folger’s coffee, flannel shirts,
The fallen fruit that scents the orchard dust.
I feel the strain of lifting sodden straw
From muddy stable floor to wheelbarrow,
Cool coastal fog against my neck as Dad
And I hike with a thermos over hills
Vibrant with dew. I feel that barn-sour pony
Tearing home beneath me -- my numb panic,
Hard fall, sharp shoulder pain, embarrassment;
The amber evening sunlight on my arms
While cantering through undeveloped land,
The sticky, chunky texture of the oats
Inside the wooden feed box; scratchy hay,
The privacy of tree-forts and the sense
Of secret space yet union with all things,
Legs dangling down from slender eucalypti
That, bending, send me to the forest floor;
My purple fingers pricked with berry thorns,
And dust like talcum powder underfoot.
I hear the John Deere sputter, cough, and growl;
Rain jumping on the corrugated roof
Of our old barn, dogs howling, roosters crowing,
Ducks squawking, horses breathing, hooves clip-clopping;
The clanging dinner bell across the acres,
Dania yelling at her mom next door,
The screech of tires where the road turns sharply,
The thump of hammers, wail of table saw,
Dad calling “All right!” or, “Aw, cruminelly,”
Wind fluttering through the acacia trees,
The crunch of driveway gravel that announced
A date, his car eclipsed by silver dust.
I see the old red of the sagging barn,
The oak worms Shawn and I picked from our sleeves,
The plays presented on our rustic stage –
Small Becky in a sapphire evening gown
As Salome, delivering the head
Of St. John on a platter (skull-sized rock
Besmeared in ketchup underneath a scarf);
The Scotch Broom frothing from the well-road banks,
Sun sinking in a shred of distant sea,
The broad leaves of the fig tree splayed to keep
Most of the summer sun from my green cave,
The steep twist in the forest trail where
Our ponies liked to dash across the roots,
The blossoms on the bellflower apple tree
Whose branches brushed the soil like a skirt,
The scrubby brush that filled the dense corral,
Clouds, columns, devils, swirls, and puffs of dust.
I taste the sweet Satsumi plums, the quince,
Ollalieberries, kumquats, and persimmon,
Fresh crispy apples eaten under trees
Or whittled into cider, pies, and jams
By Mom, who made the most of everything;
That bitter unknown fruit we used for pranks,
Dad’s catch pan-fried in cornmeal, kidney beans,
Spaghetti, chard and spinach, deviled eggs,
Surfeit zucchini tucked in every dish,
Pure well water, warm cheesy casseroles,
Tart sourgrass, wild fennel, boys I kissed,
Big gulps of ocean air and orchard dust.
Slam
San Jose State University | James D. Phelan Literary Award - First Place, Metrical Verse (2004)
San Jose State University | James D. Phelan Literary Award - First Place, Metrical Verse (2004)
Thump of rap
Gleaming glass
Musty hops
Oak and brass
Crimson bulbs
Neon pools
Room half-full
Vinyl stools
Kitchen grease
Dull wood floor
Brewing yeast
Open door
Freezing air
Burning drinks
Tasteless fare
Poet stinks
Time to go
Happy thought
Purse and coat
Parking lot
On the road
Going home
Not a waste –
One new poem.
Gleaming glass
Musty hops
Oak and brass
Crimson bulbs
Neon pools
Room half-full
Vinyl stools
Kitchen grease
Dull wood floor
Brewing yeast
Open door
Freezing air
Burning drinks
Tasteless fare
Poet stinks
Time to go
Happy thought
Purse and coat
Parking lot
On the road
Going home
Not a waste –
One new poem.
Maker's Mark
(2020)
Song lyrics, with deference to Phillip Phillip's "Unpack Your Heart"
Chase down the lies that lock you in this tower
Knock them back with truth, release your power
Seize the day--at least this unhappy hour--
Bend aside the isolating bars,
Twist through, and cross the dimly lit yard
Break free now and be who you are--
Go make your mark
Lift your spirits to the sun!
Leave the past—what’s done is done.
Liberate your bitter heart:
Live your music;
Make your mark.
Slip past the guards in tanks who tend the gates,
Resist the calls of left-behind inmates,
Toss back every thought that agitates
Your anger, your doubt, your self-hate,
Your fears that it might be too late.
Cut off every lie, go create--
Go make your mark
Lift your spirits to the sun!
Leave the past—what’s done is done.
Liberate your bitter heart:
Live your music;
Be your truth.
Last call to break free from this box,
Cut your sentence short, and walk your walk--
Last call before love is on the rocks.
Take this shot! Gaze into the glass:
See freedom, and don't toss it back.
Lift your spirits to the sun!
Leave the past—what’s done is done.
Liberate your bitter heart:
Live your music;
Make your mark.
Free your life and free your heart;
Free your spirit from the dark.
Set your soul free, be your truth:
Live your music;
Make your mark.
(2020)
Song lyrics, with deference to Phillip Phillip's "Unpack Your Heart"
Chase down the lies that lock you in this tower
Knock them back with truth, release your power
Seize the day--at least this unhappy hour--
Bend aside the isolating bars,
Twist through, and cross the dimly lit yard
Break free now and be who you are--
Go make your mark
Lift your spirits to the sun!
Leave the past—what’s done is done.
Liberate your bitter heart:
Live your music;
Make your mark.
Slip past the guards in tanks who tend the gates,
Resist the calls of left-behind inmates,
Toss back every thought that agitates
Your anger, your doubt, your self-hate,
Your fears that it might be too late.
Cut off every lie, go create--
Go make your mark
Lift your spirits to the sun!
Leave the past—what’s done is done.
Liberate your bitter heart:
Live your music;
Be your truth.
Last call to break free from this box,
Cut your sentence short, and walk your walk--
Last call before love is on the rocks.
Take this shot! Gaze into the glass:
See freedom, and don't toss it back.
Lift your spirits to the sun!
Leave the past—what’s done is done.
Liberate your bitter heart:
Live your music;
Make your mark.
Free your life and free your heart;
Free your spirit from the dark.
Set your soul free, be your truth:
Live your music;
Make your mark.