Thomas Piekarski
Jade Cove
There are certain places I call home whenever I visit them.
The Tetons are one, Tetons immaculately slit by glacial ice,
majestic as Swiss Alps. Rockaway Beach near San Francisco
where an army-green ocean favors octopi with incredibly
intelligent tentacles. The Grand Canyon so vast, cut by a mere
wandering river. And not the least Yosemite, its Half Dome
and El Capitan ominous practically beyond comprehension.
But I’m never more at home than at Jade Cove. Oh how I
relish this hidden little enclave where Pacific breakers splash.
Jade Cove is the virtual epicenter of Big Sur, its steep cliffs
conspicuously perilous. One must take calculated baby steps
down them or could easily slip and perish. For centuries birds
of countless breeds have nested here in pines of the mighty
Santa Lucia mountains that heave their gigantic shoulders
to the edge of the sand a thousand feet unto a roisterous sea.
Those birds form a cooperative, share equally in nature’s
plenitude—the tundra swan, sooty shearwater, blue-winged
teal, red-throated loon, all of them thrive above the shore.
Dear Sadie, daughter of enchanted dreams and astrobiology,
your Filipina eyes, slightly slanted, and smooth brown skin
mirror the jade in abundance here. Sensible Sadie, let us clasp
hands, descend this ageless cliff. As you know, love doesn’t
come easily, one must work for it. It must be collected like jade
and spread freely throughout mankind. It’s up to you and me
to collect and spread this jade before it’s too late, spread it near
and far, wherever love goes wanting. And this must be pure jade,
not its close cousin serpentine, often mistaken for it, that forms
the spine of California’s coastal range. Serpentine which is thrust
to the surface by faults that grind, groan, and heave up the bowels
of inner Earth, collected in abundance by hikers along the summit.
Fantastic magic exists in jade, jade carved throughout centuries
into talismans by the Chinese, Mayans, and such exotic peoples.
It’s reported that the Costanoan Indians who lived here believed
that before the beginning the world was entirely covered by ocean.
Then a single mountaintop rose from the lifeless sea, and on its land
the first falcon, hummingbird and coyote were born. And from them
all other species evolved. I’m not sure of this. But I know that today
in the luxurious littorals of these rugged shores crustaceans survive
in spite of ocean’s rising acidity, and that tuna, squid and seals wept
witnessing enslavement of the simple and peaceful Big Sur tribes
by invaders who bandied Lord and sword, insuring their servitude
and eventual extinction. They were deemed savages in the main
because their gods didn’t die on a cross. Now look! An albatross
lands on a big rock, appears for all the world like a huge seagull,
and pelicans in single file swoop, catapult a yard or two above calm
ocean waters, oblivious in the rear view mirror of destiny. These days
we rise with the tide and go with the flow, not wondering why the sky
doesn’t speak to us, not conscious of the wind’s secret messages.
Remember, Sadie, the night has trillions of eyes, and they continually
peer down upon us as fog thickens in the valley of gloom. Although
we may not soon cease as a race, I wonder if there will be anything
of any significance to hold onto, to believe in once we exit Jade Cove.
Thomas Piekarski is a former editor of the California State Poetry Quarterly. His poetry and interviews have appeared widely in literary journals internationally, including Nimrod, Portland Review, Mandala Journal, Cream City Review, Poetry Salzburg, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Boston Poetry Magazine, and Poetry Quarterly. He has published a travel book, Best Choices In Northern California, and Time Lines, a book of poems.
Jade Cove
There are certain places I call home whenever I visit them.
The Tetons are one, Tetons immaculately slit by glacial ice,
majestic as Swiss Alps. Rockaway Beach near San Francisco
where an army-green ocean favors octopi with incredibly
intelligent tentacles. The Grand Canyon so vast, cut by a mere
wandering river. And not the least Yosemite, its Half Dome
and El Capitan ominous practically beyond comprehension.
But I’m never more at home than at Jade Cove. Oh how I
relish this hidden little enclave where Pacific breakers splash.
Jade Cove is the virtual epicenter of Big Sur, its steep cliffs
conspicuously perilous. One must take calculated baby steps
down them or could easily slip and perish. For centuries birds
of countless breeds have nested here in pines of the mighty
Santa Lucia mountains that heave their gigantic shoulders
to the edge of the sand a thousand feet unto a roisterous sea.
Those birds form a cooperative, share equally in nature’s
plenitude—the tundra swan, sooty shearwater, blue-winged
teal, red-throated loon, all of them thrive above the shore.
Dear Sadie, daughter of enchanted dreams and astrobiology,
your Filipina eyes, slightly slanted, and smooth brown skin
mirror the jade in abundance here. Sensible Sadie, let us clasp
hands, descend this ageless cliff. As you know, love doesn’t
come easily, one must work for it. It must be collected like jade
and spread freely throughout mankind. It’s up to you and me
to collect and spread this jade before it’s too late, spread it near
and far, wherever love goes wanting. And this must be pure jade,
not its close cousin serpentine, often mistaken for it, that forms
the spine of California’s coastal range. Serpentine which is thrust
to the surface by faults that grind, groan, and heave up the bowels
of inner Earth, collected in abundance by hikers along the summit.
Fantastic magic exists in jade, jade carved throughout centuries
into talismans by the Chinese, Mayans, and such exotic peoples.
It’s reported that the Costanoan Indians who lived here believed
that before the beginning the world was entirely covered by ocean.
Then a single mountaintop rose from the lifeless sea, and on its land
the first falcon, hummingbird and coyote were born. And from them
all other species evolved. I’m not sure of this. But I know that today
in the luxurious littorals of these rugged shores crustaceans survive
in spite of ocean’s rising acidity, and that tuna, squid and seals wept
witnessing enslavement of the simple and peaceful Big Sur tribes
by invaders who bandied Lord and sword, insuring their servitude
and eventual extinction. They were deemed savages in the main
because their gods didn’t die on a cross. Now look! An albatross
lands on a big rock, appears for all the world like a huge seagull,
and pelicans in single file swoop, catapult a yard or two above calm
ocean waters, oblivious in the rear view mirror of destiny. These days
we rise with the tide and go with the flow, not wondering why the sky
doesn’t speak to us, not conscious of the wind’s secret messages.
Remember, Sadie, the night has trillions of eyes, and they continually
peer down upon us as fog thickens in the valley of gloom. Although
we may not soon cease as a race, I wonder if there will be anything
of any significance to hold onto, to believe in once we exit Jade Cove.
Thomas Piekarski is a former editor of the California State Poetry Quarterly. His poetry and interviews have appeared widely in literary journals internationally, including Nimrod, Portland Review, Mandala Journal, Cream City Review, Poetry Salzburg, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Boston Poetry Magazine, and Poetry Quarterly. He has published a travel book, Best Choices In Northern California, and Time Lines, a book of poems.