1

along the shoreline, the heads of two gray seals
bob and glisten

later, three seals together, lazy

and then, a dozen seals basking and lolling ensemble
twenty feet out
“you never see that”

while strolling a ribbon
between sand cliff and ocean

I try estimating one ladder or stairway
from the cottage above

later, two young wives
from Atlanta and Nashville
cute as can be
in their annual escape from their husbands

tell me they rent a place
just over the crest

109 steps        “Every year we count ’em
and they’re never the same”

against shoreline hammered every fifteen seconds
by a three-foot curler or six-foot breakers

judging by surf fishermen
at fifty- to a hundred-foot intervals

still, where the high apron of beach has been cut away
at high tide, I’m forced to remove shoes
roll up my pants and allow the surge to swell around me

it’s warmer than Maine
now after Labor Day

“Had I known, I would have brought my swim trunks”
“but it’s pretty rough, too”

hard to believe I’m walking on oysters or clams
the receding wave sighs
when I glance back at bubbling sand

another seal patrols the shore

when I see more of them in one day
than in all the rest of my life

2

comb jellies – white melting ice cakes
gelatinous to the touch
slightly resilient, like grapes
all over the place, where the water’s just been

scallops, they call ’em – open up in the water
like jellyfish (their relations
but these don’t sting

crab shells, a few mussels:
somebody’s eating well:
a decaying small shark

3

just three boats visible white specks
plus the freighter over the horizon

yes, 3 vessels
where yesterday
we saw none

wide open ocean

at my feet

would I rather be
kelp
or the indestructible
green rope
tossed from the sea?

sea spinach

4

just north of Marconi Station
keep thinking I hear jets
under the relentlessly crashing surf

many crab shells at the waters edge

some decaying fish up to two-feet long {cod
strands of spine
a gull leg and webbed foot

all to myself, step out and pee

a pair of footsteps
one going my direction
the other, approaching

above, beach plum like large blueberries

Marconi Station “you’ll know by the bricks”
knocked down to the Atlantic

but I see just one red cube and
way down the shoreline
what I think old pier pilings
begin moving as I approach
schoolchildren, field trips

the real debris appears as milk jugs
clear plastic bottles and cups, foam plastic coffee cups
and insulation, yellow nylon netting, multicolor nylon rope
a battered lobster pot, a child’s toy outboard motorboat
a cooler melted in one corner, stray firewood neatly cut
bottle caps, a large oil filter like a radar cover canister
(haven’t seen a condom yet), a black inner sole to a size
eight or nine shoe, pressure-treated lumber, nothing
too revealing so far, Glad bags, drinking straws
an aluminum shard barnacle embossed, a rusted horseshoe

4

as for cottage colors
on the bluff

gray shingles
blue trim

each one with a brick chimney
and fireplace romance

my wife contends a seaside cottage
should be plain, simple
something that can be blown away in a storm
without horrific loss

Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson
To see the full set of seacoast poems, click here.

Wellfleet, at their grandfather’s

two perfect horseshoe crabs
adorn the table
of the uninhabited house
while he’s in Florida

in the fridge, Heineken dark
“your surprise” – available across the highway

Wellfleet and just think
oysters or the saltmarsh

sunlight breaks through
my desire to travel lighter than this
unlike the children

an array of silver cups, a blinding turn
the chameleon hiding nowhere
but itself or the air, last week:
“You don’t look happy these days”
also: “What do you want from me?”
how I wish I could answer the latter

pine / oak / locust scrub
“tick country”                        even the lawn

tiny green acorns
dry cranberry bushes, as part of the groundcover

in his yard                              }           in the house
sand everywhere                               the arranged ginger jars
the grass brown                                his collection
with pine needles                             Rookwood Pottery, at least
the book

patch of mussels, each one the size of a pea

round brick
worn by the ocean

of course if we lean back, even nearly at shoreline
the water’s over our heads

water taller than I am
is the problem

or water that sweeps you
off your feet in this ocean so clear
we see fish swimming past us – one
a striper two feet long, the other a cod,
halibut, mackerel – I don’t know fish, really
bigger than my daughter beside me
just days past twelve

what kind of life has this been?
with flashes of brilliance, just enough
remaining for harvest

her knife, sharp and long

sailing into the wind
repeatedly, returning and now
through the years

windowpanes
two over two
traditionally
live our lives

one, in a denim jacket
while the other, in a blue swimsuit
nap in clear breeze

I wonder how people fall asleep in the sun
in chairs, at that

Rachel, my wife, informs me of changes
how so much has overgrown now
she no longer sees the saltmarsh or cove
from the dining room, even traces
of Reenie’s garden have vanished

ever dutiful, busily Rachel thins hostas and day lilies
where Grandpa has taken an ax to their roots
“and I came to the Cape for this?” but the motion
grounds her in a way the surf grounds me

blue sky, blue ocean
warm water compared to Maine
choppy surf “knocks a child over”
happened once and now Rachel won’t
bring them back here but prefers
bayside, where the water’s warmer

I believe her, yet

when we walk the road to the Atlantic full on
she observes
overgrowth around cottages and houses
is often quite pronounced
to go with the windswept, cracked gray of dunes cabins
and the ever present shake siding

all night, all day
the highway mocks
the surf’s rhythm

in the swells with Megan, she snarls
“I thought you said it was warm”
“warmer than Maine!”
and laments the waves aren’t bigger
though they knock us off our feet and
fill our suits with small gravel
(viz Grandpa’s bathroom floor after her shower)

turning overcast, trying to spit rain
cool, too
no swimmers but three dozen surfers in one stretch
kids sledding on the dune cliffs
30 feet, maybe, the low spots
100 in others

a seal, faroff, away from the surfboarders
feel the sun now, too much on my face

wind and wind gong
fiddler crab and mussels
the saltmarsh tide turning
chalk and slate outside the general store

oak, pine, and locust trees
a mole scurrying along the foundation

all these beachcombers
tomorrow expect no one
after the weekend

“we’ll take you back”
the waves cackle and rage

will the kid ever learn, packing a whole suitcase for herself
(too much and still no swimsuit)
for a short trip?

 

morning water cold but great breakers,
a great workout, knocked over, body slams –
lose my trunks once, saved at the ankles
fortunately, out of season

surf calms but still choppy, very windy
a seal head appears, just briefly

Sunday morning, clearly the last swim of the season
a record amount of rain for the month
Hurricane Wilma decaying offshore
kicked up quite a show here

twenty-foot swells crashing on the rocks

Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson
To see the full set of seacoast poems, click here.