By Maureen Ellen O’Leary
We stood
two aliens amidst a sea of skiers
at the base of Mt. Hood
snow-white white mountain
bluejay blue blue sky
blinding shimmer of bold sun
and, perched jauntily above the peak,
one shaving-cream swell of cloud,
a hat for the mountain.
We admired its soft whimsy
its hovering fidelity to the rock below it.
Your own incongruous chapeau
crowned your fine head
a dark gray fedora in a setting
of ski-caps and ray-bans
a rival in caprice to what capped the mountain.
You posed for me at the entrance to the hotel
one of those sprawling, heavy-shouldered
big bullies of lodges effortlessly
cut down to size
by the humbling grandeur of the mountain.
The big lodge, the big scene, the big mountain
and you, your crumpled chinos
a little food-spotted, bagged out by car travel
tripling the size of your knees
your black snow-soaked leather shoes
that earnest look into the eye of the camera
that stern frown you affect as the shutter closes
That hat.
New England
I want to walk out on an amber afternoon
late in the day, late in November
with December looming near
I want to walk by the old walls
built stone by stone by a mason
I never met but imagine
I want to feel the cold creep up from the ground
and down from the lowering sky
and I want to meet no one but know
that behind the curtained windows
below the roof that blows the chimney smoke out
someone sits.
I want to follow the curve around that bend
and stop before that field that slopes down down
where bits of sticks and straws and dried out motes
of other seasons linger and stretch
out of the fresh snow that breeds its own light
even as light fades and yields to something
no longer day but not yet night
Not yet
Wild
We lolled about the house
heads slung back on paunchy couch cushions
bellies exposed, round, round for all the world to see
five slatternly sisters to the seals
sunning on rocks earlier that day.
The sea, the sea did it to us.
We stood agog, field glasses hanging round our necks
like our children used to
children clinging, trusting us to bear them
trusting us to catch them when, from some lofty height,
they flung themselves our way
wild, they were.
Wild that wet weekend was
Friday proffered a small patch of blue
Saturday then Sunday too thundered in
wailing at windows and doors
all the night long, Nature, out of control.
Warm, blanketed, we peered
at first through thrumming panes
offered our benign approval, envy maybe
of those grand, showy moves
like when, our spreading bottoms settled on
sandy beach chairs, we squinted at
young bodies sinking, shrieking, springing up
in swells that rose and sank and rose again
And then
Wham!
Something came for us
something swept us out of that house
into that mad, wet, wild embrace
into that fierce, heedless beauty.
We launched lazied bodies into the tumult
shed years like outgrown garments, braved mudslides
sacrificed clean jeans, dry socks, tidy hair.
“Take us! We’re yours!”
we bellowed into the booming sky
shouted against the crashing surf
our voices so small in that big outside.
The sea, wilder than we, suffered our presence
accepted our rapt gaze, answered only
with the blank look caught on those children’s faces
when they caught us watching them.
“What is it? What do you want? Who are you?”
Worth the Whistle
I wished that June day that I could whistle
the way those men in big trucks did
when I was a girl. Well worth the whistle
(though I never liked it)
I was then.
But waste no breath on me.
Nothing comes close to that bright branch
suspended in the warm wood, fresh green leaves
underlit by new summer’s light
late afternoon sun sliding through the trees.
I had to stop and stare, stunned and seduced
by an innocence long lost to me
by a beauty that ignited
no lust, no desire, no longing beyond this:
the urge to put my two lips together
and blow out my boundless admiration.
Maureen Ellen O’Leary’s poems have appeared in Blue Arc West: An Anthology of California Poets (Small Press Distribution, 2007), A Walk with Nature: Poetic Encounters that Nourish the Soul (University Professors Press, 2019), California Quarterly (2016/2021), and Months to Years (2022). Her nonfiction has appeared in numerous publications, including Financial Times, Hemispheres Magazine, The East Bay Monthly, and The Chronicle Review. Originally from Boston, Maureen decided (with considerable angst) to remain in California after completing her PhD at Berkeley. She was a tenured professor at a community college for many years and lives in Oakland. Visit her at www.maureenellenoleary.com.