m review — poetry — ocean night — buffet
Ocean Night
by Stella Ward-Whitlock
Phosphorescence traces a delicate pattern
through the waves. The moon reflects
on the surface as the ocean breathes —
I dive into the next swell, and silver
flecks scatter, disturbed. On my back,
I float, gaze up, cradled by foam
and warm water, while the moon
stares down at me, unblinking,
and waves resume their fall and rise.
Pinpoints of light piece the dark
sky-god's colander, I called it
as a child. Back then, I thought
the ocean strangely mine, that I
mattered. Growing up in Florida,
I swam every day, felt as if the sea
were flowing in my veins and I thought
I was part of its pattern, my rhythms
not completely my own. I remember
gulls' raucous screams, sandpipers strutting
along the beach, pelicans fishing from pilings,
then a parasailer, like some wild-colored
Icarus, challenging clouds. I would taste
salt on my lips, feel sun warming my face,
water lapping against my body.
Once my friend and I went skinny
dipping at midnight, and the moon
turned our bodies into ghosts.
When we splashed each other, plankton
scattered like glowing confetti.
The incoming tide soaked
our shorts, shirts, and underwear,
which we had abandoned on dry sand —
and rescued just in time.
Buffet
by Stella Ward-Whitlock
Every night I watch deer graze
our garden like women at a salad
bar, picking their favorite items,
passing on the rest.
Pansies, half-smiles of gold
and purple, are always first to go —
here one day, gone the next,
only a few bare stems remain.
Next baby-pink impatiens
disappear, then monkey grass
gets gnawed to the ground.
Forget-me-nots vanish before
we can remember them, as do tops
of tulips, tender tips of camellia
branches, and almost-ripe apples,
juicy Bartlett pears, honey-sweet figs.
Deer don't like daffodils
or pungent marigolds.
If they did, our yard would be bare.
Whit's shoulders sag as he surveys
the damage, shakes his head in dismay.
"Why plant?" I ask.
He just sighs, shrugs,
and digs in the rich dirt again.
Stella Ward-Whitlock of Fayetteville, North Carolina
Stella Whitlock grew up in Florida but now calls North Carolina home. She is a retired school teacher, mother of four, and grandmother of seven. Since retirement, she has begun to fulfill her dream of becoming a writer by going back to the classroom as a student, taking courses in creative writing, poetry, short story writing, drama, and magazine article writing.
