Tag Archives: nature

Essays, Writing

The Gulf of Mexico

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AI Generated images prompted on Gencraft.com by Rebekah Marshall.

My first time in the ocean today, I got knocked down. I was trying to get to waist deep but did not have the strength to stand against her playful nudges. She seemed surprised and almost irritated that her friendly gesture toppled me and sent several really hard slaps to push me further toward shore.

Maybe she was trying to help, trying to get me back to safety, saying, “This one’s too delicate to be out here. She won’t last a minute.”

What she didn’t know is that I’m too weak to stand up once knocked down in her waves. I must get deeper to be more buoyant to be able to stand, especially with no balance and ever-increasing frequency of waves. Trying to crawl further out to sea became impossible. She made it impossible.

“You don’t understand, tiny human. I am dangerous. Go back to your dry land!”

We were not communicating in the same languages. Mine became unstoppable laughter, hers, ever-strengthening waves bent on pushing me to shore.

Somewhere about here my husband grew concerned. He wasn’t sure if I was communing with nature or in trouble and came closer from his comfortable beach chair to see.

“Thumbs up?” he questioned.

I shook my head no and waved for him to come rescue me. I couldn’t stop laughing as he began the slow trek my way, the gulf all the more insistent I exit the way I came.

I could stand or steady myself. I could not do both. So, with his presence, I stood, then grabbed his hand to help with balance, his stable strength what I needed to walk back to shore.

It was lovely. Not scary. Not painful, beyond the usual discomfort of being upright with joint pain. I went back to watching and listening from my shaded chair, exactly where I belong. This is how the ocean and I commune best. We sing to one another and just enjoy each other’s presence. Everyone is happier with that arrangement, especially my husband.

Addendum: I went back in twice more. He had to rescue me the 2nd time, as well. But the 3rd time, I made it to waist deep and back on my own two feet and felt so very, very pleased with myself.

Poetry, Writing

My Sweet Aunt Mary

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(Poem 361 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/DKQMGQ

My sweet Aunt Mary would absolutely say that it is not a waste of time to spend all day trying to count the leaves on a single tree. What greater way to spend one’s time than analyzing each forked twig and bough, penciling on paper the exact tally for limb 27.4? All my powers of focus, balance, strength, and intellect are at play, and Amelia (that’s the name of the tree in question) absolutely adores the attention. It’s been years since we spent an entire day together and we’ve missed one another immensely. I may or may not complete the task, but that is not important. The act of singular wonder amidst nature’s display of resilience is the thing.

My dear friend Mary would also understand my anger at certain words when they will not appear in my mind’s screen, how my brain screams words like resentment and frustration and hate at the missing word, but what I really mean is, please come back, I miss you, I need you, don’t leave me.

Mary and I know we’re not invited, but still sort of wish we could experience being a whirling dervish because there’s something in the spinning magic of their dance that speaks to our souls.

Once, when I was a bird, I flew over Mary as she took her morning walk along the tree line. I waited to see if she would notice me, but she seemed lost in thought, or maybe prayerful. She chuckled to herself, as though laughing at her own joke, then stopped to study something in the dirt.

When I grow up, I want to be Mary’s dog Percy. Oh, to be loved with such devotion and cared for in my old age, as Percy was. To be accepted, encouraged, admired, and appreciated just for being me—stinky, silly, lazy, and a devoted friend. To sit all day and listen to Mary chat and read, napping with my head in her lap as she scratches my ears, saved from rough beginnings by the kindness of that gracious lady. And when I died, I would not argue about whether or not God made me. I would know.

@Home Studio – 361st poem of the year (After reading Mary Oliver’s book of poems A Thousand Mornings.)

Oliver, Mary. A Thousand Mornings, Penguin Books, 2012.

Runner ups for the Mary Oliver photos to accompany my poem:

Poetry, Writing

Gator Bird

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(Poem 347 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/Hnji3q

The great North American
Gator Bird can be found
in the swamps and marshlands
in the Louisiana bayous
along the Mississippi
and the Okefenokee in Georgia.

They eat other birds, snakes,
turtles, fish, racoons, opossums,
deer, and the occasional stray human.

@Home Studio – 347th poem of the year

Runner ups for the Gator Bird photos to accompany my poem:

Poetry, Writing

Turtle in a Turtle Shell

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(Poem 167 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/xW7ThK

Maybe a turtle is in a turtle shell
much the way mice are in fur coats,
eels wear slick high-sheen leather,
and monsters live in skins of goats.

Stubborn dinosaurs wear emu feathers,
and goddess cats are draped in fluff.
Humans must don these hot meat suits,
while armadillos carry armor that’s rough.

Porcupines live inside costumes with spears
to protect like whales with the thickest skin.
It makes me wonder if the being we see
could be different from the soul within.

@Home Studio – 167th poem of the year

Runner ups for the Turtle photos to accompany my poem:

Poetry, Writing

Opossum Hammock

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(Poem 158 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/7TnOut

Every opossum should have a hammock
for the purpose of reclining and lounging.
They spend the night mastering feats dynamic,
then cleaning little hands after scrounging.

Their weary bodies need 18 hours of sleep,
so it’s amazing we ever catch them awake.
A suspended soft perch ensures nary a peep,
as they dream of eating cake and a steak.

Yes, every opossum deserves a hanging bed
where they can climb to a safe, warm retreat.
There they can nestle and rest a tired head
to nap in peace and dream of sweet meat.

@Home Studio – 158th poem of the year

Runner ups for the Opossum Hammock photos to accompany my poem:

Poetry, Writing

Aliens and Flowers

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(Poem 120 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/YauaEp
AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/7YJLJc

Our most fragile young
sleep in giant moonflowers
and sip the nectar if they are
hungry between feedings.
When they outgrow the
petal-perfect beds nature
constructed just for them,
they learn to sleep on the
knit hammocks strung
delicately between the
lowest branches of the
swaying willow palm trees.
The cloth is woven from
flower stem silk and the
bedding is fresh layered
petals changed nightly.
Our skin becomes the
fragrance of the flowers,
for we are inextricably
intertwined with the vines
and the leaves and the
fronds and the buds.
Then, when we grow too
old to see the stars with
our own eyes, too old
to hear the song of the
silver sycamore boughs,
too old to feel the velvet
of the lambs’ ear bush,
too old to taste the nectar
of the purple dragonmint,
we enter the heart of the
forest to create a nest of
shaggy moss and jelly lichen
cushioned with sweetgrass
and honey death fungus,
and cover ourselves with
layers of galaxy orchids and
phoenix lilies so we can
join our brother flowers in
eternal sleep.

@Home Studio – 120th poem of the year

Runner ups for the Alien Flowers photos to accompany my poem:

Poetry, Writing

This Looks Like a Great Painting to Ride Into

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(Poem 108 for 2024 – I am writing a poem a day)

AI Generated image I prompted on Gencraft.com https://gencraft.ai/p/mlfTEz

This looks like a great painting to ride into on a gentle appaloosa.
She and I will trot along at a leisurely pace, past the old shack
and on down to the creek behind that far off stand of trees.
Occasional clouds of red clay dust might kick up behind us if we
decide to pick up our speed, so we keep it nice and easy instead.
The clouds gathering on the horizon threaten rain, but we welcome
the cover cooling the afternoon with a comfortable spring breeze.
The only sounds the sporadic scolding of birds when we ride too
close to their nests, and the creak of our saddle with each step.
We’ll turn around and head home when we reach the field of
wildflowers just out of sight around that far bend out yonder.

@Home Studio – 108th poem of the year