Alan: To be centered in a place that feels right... what could be better?
At The Door Of A Small House On An Old Cellar Hole On A June Night In Maine
I would rather live
where I can hear the bullfrogs
a mile away up a silent road
and see ten thousand fireflies
doing their bugged-out strobe-dance
under a quarter moon
and shoo mosquitoes
so that the air near the roses
moves and scents the still night
than to be
anywhere else in this
sick old USA.
Nancy: Watching for whales as they pass through the East Quoddy channel is more accurately “listening for whales.” The loud sound of their blow alerts you to scan the horizon. Just as you find the exhaled cloud, they are into another dive. Dive, feed on plankton, rise, blow, repeat.
East Of The Light
The whales say tchuf, tchuf,
and that’s all I know of whales,
tchuf, an eye,
The islands behind the whales
they will never catch the island called Moose.
The whales say tchuf
to me, tchuf;
I see the flukes, and then
The whales are making love;
they are pursuing the naked sea butterflies;
the Wolves are tirelessly pursuing
the island called Moose.
The whales are eating the brilliant
naked sea butterflies; they are
I want, and do not want.
How would it be,
to swim to the east, east of the light,
“East Of The Light” first appeared in Anthology Of Maine Women In The Arts (undated).