The White Whale

She swam the gauntlet
Six times, seven
Then took a chance on love
And was rewarded
Far beyond her hopes and dreams

But now this eighth trip south
Much harder than before
And she so weary
Overburdened
Unesteemed

Then it went wrong
The water
Kind no longer
Tainted and impure
Took first her child
And then, no longer caring, she

When soon she came to rest
Among the rocks
Almost as if to say
You’ve cared not for my ocean home -
Now you must deal with me.

The first in over sixty years
The whooping cranes are living wild
Now one young pair has laid an egg
And, too, with luck, will raise their child

They near Kissimmee were released
Beating the odds, survived to breed
A ray of hope they might increase
And ***** the armor of human greed

But cranes need water as do we
As still we pump the wetlands dry
Our chains of lakes sprout fat resorts
The river of grass condemned to die

Yet dare we dream we might reverse
This harsh inflicted damage done
Still apathy is our nation's curse
Which battles none has ever won

Today I cheer the whooping cranes
Who still have hope that they might see
Upon some far and distant day
Their offspring's offspring flying free

I've had it since childhood
A thirst for the sea
A longing for something
Once dormant in me

To bring to my consciousness
Deep from within
That which I was born for
And must now begin

Cori MacNaughton
3/99

Thoughtful inquiry
beginning the journey of
imagination

Thunderstorms - inevitable proof
of the awesome power of Nature's God

I am sorry for your pain
but I am not the cause
and seeing how you've treated me
I think I know what was

Dishonest in your ranting
as you're girlfriend and not wife
no wonder why he shies away
from unrelenting strife

Accusing without evidence
eschewing private mail
you castigate me publicly
as illogically you rail

Behaving with much cruelty
demonstrating zero class
you couldn't solve a mystery
if it bit you in the ***.

18 Jun 2015

Upon a magic afternoon
I met you in the fall
together finding haven
else oblivious to all

I birthdays hold in high regard
you held yours in disdain
first yours then mine crept past us
pointing out the years between

Companionship was natural
but separation hard
I knowing what I know today
those years would disregard

For you, who waited, drew last breath
'Till spring shall come no more
dwell in this haven of my heart
eternity and more

Upon a tree I chanced to see
a travel weary bumblebee
frustrated in his search for nectared flower
Upon a flower he did light
and died upon that second night
though I would sooner stay that fateful hour

A lesson learned by such as I
who from afar must feel you die
and dying too myself in tiny leaps
But you are gone and I am here
my soul is numb, my mind unclear
my vision so contracts to He who sleeps

The finest singer in the sea
I heard upon this morn
And in that strange sonorous tone
A universe was born

The low melodic wailing touched
And roused me from my sleep
As the humpback lithe and languid
Made a turn and sounded deep

And as my mind awakes it turns
To whales large and small
To the snowy white beluga
The canary of them all

The clicking bursts of ***** whales
And the California grey
The fin whale speaks across the sea
To those a world away

The short and longfinned pilot whales
With whistles quite complex
The striking graceful orcas
Speak in different dialects

But it is the great blue whale
That makes the loudest cry
Though it is far too rare today
With such an awful why

But on this wondrous morning I
Am filled with joyous glee
That God has given life to whales
And gave to them the sea

Cori MacNaughton
24Oct2000

I have shorn the hair of Samson
And the tiger's claws unsheathed
I have spit into the hurricane
And defied as fires breathed

The minutest one is fastest
And the closest one to me
The largest is the strongest
The most likely to break free

The middle is most cunning
Spits and growls at my resolve
Yet I face the fearsome challenge
As should one the more evolved

I have bravely fought the battle
To triumphant victory
As I fiercely clip the claws
Of not just one cat, but all three

Cori MacNaughton
20Mar2001

Wavering resolve
why is it so difficult
to be kind to self?

Between the Navy or Whales
I'll choose Whales EVERY TIME

When I gaze into the mirror
my mother's eyes peer out
on the first day with a twinkle
on the next a wistful pout
Though our eyes are different colors
more alike we are then no
still her thoughts to me a mystery
she may never choose to show

The mirror on another day
my grandmother becomes
watching birds at breakfast
saving them the finest crumbs
Formidable and frightening
she could also often be
all too human and imperfect
still she helped to make me me

Great-grandmother another day
the mirror then became
though much lighter of complexion
now the eyes were much the same
Though a humorous and honest soul
emotions quite repressed
she affects me still more deeply
than I ever would have guessed

Today within the looking glass
the only face I see
is the youngest culmination
of these elder women three
And I see them all within me
in my talents and my quirks
still I wish that they had taught me
how to stay away from jerks.

Wisdom is the culmination
of a lifetime
learning from mistakes

Within every face we see, also, a mirror
within every silence, a breath
within every soul is the path growing clearer
within every lifeform, a death

Our stuff is the stuff of the planets and quarks
existing as one in this space
'till that universe distant and showering sparks
stands ready to take this one's place

A day is as a thousand years
a thousand years as a day
yet human psyche interferes
and would find a better way

The thing that most matters, which few understand
for which many continue to die
is that Unification of Physics Grand
I am you, as you are I

Wooden Bowls and Wooden Spoons
items ***** and mundane
draw me into my shared history
with my foremothers
and theirs before them

The sharing of these simple things
of chopping, stirring, baking
snipping herbs and crafting soup
smoked meat served on wooden platters
such as might have been used
a hundred years ago
or ten thousand -

Wood has served us from the dawn of Humankind
as fuel for the fire
as shelter from the storm
as living trees producing oxygen
as things of beauty and inspiration,
of poignancy and pathos

There is a warmth to wood
absent in gold or sterling
the warmth of life - still with us
and once the meat is gone
the platter will cleanse itself of impurities
with the defenses remaining
from the tree it once was
protecting us yet again
keeping us safe from the dangers
outside of the circle of wood

With wood comes the danger of fire
this danger I accept
and brave the fire I will
to have the wood with me
to walk beneath and smell the perfume of the leaves
to feel them crunch beneath my feet
to see the earthworms retract
as I toe them from the path

I want my life to end
having given more than I have taken
and giving trees brings me joy
and makes the world a better place
a place in which there will never be too few trees
to be able to enjoy the feel
of wooden bowls and wooden spoons
where endless forests and healthy woods
add to this miraculous planet of Life

Cori MacNaughton
Apr 2002

In a book of love letters
written centuries ago
I found a line you once wrote to me

and it startled me so badly
that I closed the book
replaced it upon the shelf
and avoided it for months.

It was a letter from a man
to his lady love
separately secluded in pastoral France
and I think of another letter you wrote
while I was in Luxembourg
in which you ended with the words
"Get to Paris at all costs",
and I wonder
if the two might be connected.

You loved my letters
my practiced penmanship
and humorous style
but it was to my sister
that my letters
were most creative.

Her favorite and mine,
a letter where on one page
I wrote every third line
until the page was full;
on another I began writing
on all four edges of the page
and spiraled inward.

Thirteen pages,
each different and unique
as I recalled for her
the mundane details of my days -

And then I got a computer.

And, despite my best intentions
promises made to myself and friends
I stopped writing letters,
replacing them
with infrequent cards
and impersonal printouts.

And even though
the content was much the same
they were devoid of much
of their former style
and personality.

And so it was
that we lost touch
and I was left behind
to seek you elsewhere.

I returned to that book one day
and though the words
of that long ago lover
still rang with your voice
they'd lost some of their sting.

Cori MacNaughton
(prior to) 28 Apr 2005