Sea Ranch: a collection of poems
by: Chris Whalen
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Sea Ranch: a collection of poems Loading...
by: Chris WhalenLoading...
Table of Contents: Title page
Table of contents
Dedication
About Growing (In Resilience)
Sea Ranch
Late July BBQ
Classic Range Rover
Land of the Free, home of the trapped
This chapbook is dedicated to my family and friends. Thank you for always reminding me about what important things in life are.
About Growing (in Resilience)
Every Oregonian has seen these strong trees. Sixty-five native species with ancient names like douglas fir. Together they form something majestic--the forest floor, a base camp of curiosity.
The ecosystem doesn't crumble completely when something goes awry, it is resilient--
building back what has been lost.
(Other things like survivors work that way, too--
find resilience in the loss, the darkness.)
The forest takes up almost half of the land in Oregon. Maybe we should give more thanks to forests, and to all those
ancient but supreme ecosystems in the word-- adventures,
the forgotten allure of the forest.
Every Oregonian has seen these strong trees. Sixty-five native species with ancient names like douglas fir. Together they form something majestic--the forest floor, a base camp of curiosity.
The ecosystem doesn't crumble completely when something goes awry, it is resilient--
building back what has been lost.
(Other things like survivors work that way, too--
find resilience in the loss, the darkness.)
The forest takes up almost half of the land in Oregon. Maybe we should give more thanks to forests, and to all those
ancient but supreme ecosystems in the word-- adventures,
the forgotten allure of the forest.
Sea Ranch
wind, water, and waves,
crash into the sizeable panes of glass,
the age-old dryer clanks in an aggravated argument
its shakes and shivers
—rumble—
throughout the structure
the storm passes and the quiet mumbling of hot tub bubbles emerges,
the leather blanketing the humble couches engulfs me,
once stiff aces through kings shuffle, and
elderly puzzle boxes slide shut
with a hisssss
creme brulee-like succulents crunch and then soften under my shabby sneakers.
the wind whistles upwards off of the bluff.
uncut, gravelly sand pours gently out of my hand and collides with different versions of itself in a monotonal,
crashing,
sound
dew slides slinkily off of the virgin grass
a cool breeze rustles the reeds
chewed by the moles who scurry under the path
wind, water, and waves,
crash into the sizeable panes of glass,
the age-old dryer clanks in an aggravated argument
its shakes and shivers
—rumble—
throughout the structure
the storm passes and the quiet mumbling of hot tub bubbles emerges,
the leather blanketing the humble couches engulfs me,
once stiff aces through kings shuffle, and
elderly puzzle boxes slide shut
with a hisssss
creme brulee-like succulents crunch and then soften under my shabby sneakers.
the wind whistles upwards off of the bluff.
uncut, gravelly sand pours gently out of my hand and collides with different versions of itself in a monotonal,
crashing,
sound
dew slides slinkily off of the virgin grass
a cool breeze rustles the reeds
chewed by the moles who scurry under the path
Late July BBQ
Rich smoke fills the air, the smell of meat cooked
slightly past done engulfs me in its thick embrace.
I stare at the plate of sausages
waiting,
patiently,
until my uncle determines they have rested
enough.
I never understood why they needed to rest,
can't we just eat them now?
why wait?
The obligatory zucchini thinly sliced and
cooked until sultry,
a little olive oil, salt, pepper,
“that's all you need” i hear my dad say.
I disagree.
it's a little boring, it’s the same thing we eat every summer.
It's boring but, it’s memories, the memories aren't boring.
Uncle Perry’s looming german shepard gnaws
at a 2x4, the closest thing she has to a toy.
I bring out our largest metal bowl
filled with as much water as it, and I, can carry.
Her chain-like collar stands out from her black coat
like the last popsicle in the freezer.
Finally, time for dessert,
cousin's homemade ice cream
and uncle's pie.
I don't like pie.
But I'll eat the whole tupperware of ice cream,
it is cloudy and scratched
after years of duck confit, yogurt,
and that scrumptious
ice cream.
Rich smoke fills the air, the smell of meat cooked
slightly past done engulfs me in its thick embrace.
I stare at the plate of sausages
waiting,
patiently,
until my uncle determines they have rested
enough.
I never understood why they needed to rest,
can't we just eat them now?
why wait?
The obligatory zucchini thinly sliced and
cooked until sultry,
a little olive oil, salt, pepper,
“that's all you need” i hear my dad say.
I disagree.
it's a little boring, it’s the same thing we eat every summer.
It's boring but, it’s memories, the memories aren't boring.
Uncle Perry’s looming german shepard gnaws
at a 2x4, the closest thing she has to a toy.
I bring out our largest metal bowl
filled with as much water as it, and I, can carry.
Her chain-like collar stands out from her black coat
like the last popsicle in the freezer.
Finally, time for dessert,
cousin's homemade ice cream
and uncle's pie.
I don't like pie.
But I'll eat the whole tupperware of ice cream,
it is cloudy and scratched
after years of duck confit, yogurt,
and that scrumptious
ice cream.