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Awe and wonder, inspiration, Mennonite poet, Poetry

Ode to Seaweed Footprints on Cape Cod and Other Poems by Clarissa Jakobsons

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Poet Clarissa Jakobsons

Seaweed Footprints on Cape Cod

When the moon’s shadow covers clouds
sunset eyes swell in sheep-sheared vastness
and the black spotted pelican skims lullabies
each evening. At the pier
fishermen lure with bait, prey, and songs
as the great heron inches closer to the fish
stacked pails. Several youngsters dance
splash into a blazing sunset,
clapping to the finality of light. Burnt rays
spread pink-orange lashes. Calmness breaks.
The Shoreway Patrol spews brazen crimson-yellow
lights on beach sand.
Flickering seaweed prints flow into halos,
fishermen twirl airborne fish, shadows ripple.
A heron gulps one whole. I summersault
into waves for the longest night.

Dana’s Kitchen, Falmouth MA

Night fills dreams with new words
for aged poems like sage and thyme

from Dana’s garden. We sit among
blooming daylilies, ocean spray

roses, and rainbow hydrangeas.
Breakfast: soft-shell bedded crabs,

cranberry muffins, and java
wakening each cell of our bodies.

Thunderstorm warnings loom, winds swirl
at 20 knots. Black back seagulls drift

between scattered showers, in and out of shore
lifting prayers with the fog. Underfoot

sharp, broken clam shells guide our paths.
The Esterel yacht anchors each year

in Falmouth while the Corwith Cramer
schooner heads towards Shoals Marine

Lab on Appledore Island, with my daughters.
Marielle and Lara. Hurricane Lana looms.

Ode to the Pacific Cypress Tree

Before leaving Gualala’s Sea Ranch
I run to the cypress tree facing
our living windows for final good-bye
hugs. Together, full arms waver
in the blustery winds. Four more arms
are needed to encircle and embrace
this ancient trunk. Each morning,
a chirping flock of birds
arrives fetching tender gifts of fallen seeds.
Seaside residents with inquisitive dogs
walk along ten-mile cliffs. Invisible cats are safe.
Good-byes open gifts. My family waits
without complaints in their rental car.
Mama cypress will wait, family roots
surround her with shade. Pacific waves
rest patiently waiting for our return.

—Clarissa Jakobson is a book artist, painter, and poet whose visual and written art are inspired by her Lithuanian heritage and her family’s history during WWII. Her new book, Baltic Amber in a Chest (Bottom Dog Press, Harmony Series, 2023), received a Pushcart Nomination. The book’s cover is her own oil painting. She reflects these influences pairing her visual and lyric art. Clarissa studied Art (BFA) and Poetry at Kent State University. Her work has been exhibited at the Morgan Conservatory, the Cleveland Museum of Art and enjoyed a solo exhibition at the Moose Gallery. Clarissa won First Place in the Akron Art Institute New Words Competion and her poems are published internationally. She lives in Aurora, Ohio, and enjoys daily walks with her husband around Sunny Lake.

Awe and wonder, Poetry

Along the Shining Sea and other poems, by Clarissa Jakobsons

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Along the Shining Sea

Cumulus pockets of abandon hover

over waves. High tide churns seaweed tufts

close to my chair and feet. I sit on stones

b

listen to the ocean breathe, watching a seal

drift past. Low flying, double-breasted

cormorants head toward the dilapidated

b

pier where several posts remain.

My Canadian friends left this morning, packed

their van by 8 am, kids strapped to back seats

b

with stuffed sharks and 120 plastic critters in a box.

Four-cormorants drift, open mouths anticipating

a free meal. I miss my new little friends,

b

6-year-old Clare and 8-year-old Eliza.

Last night, free hugs and kisses filled old bodies

with warmth. Clare called me the pretty one,

b

Grandma watched, thankful for her first embrace.

Live well, my lovelies. Catch the sails and check-out

the horseshoe crabs on shore. Sleep safe

b

tucked in clouds. Listen to the waves at your feet.

You don’t have to touch bottom when you swim,

just kick,

kick, and kick.

b

Listen to the Great Emptiness

Can you hear the tide turn its head at Sippewissett

Two ocean sunsets lost

forever chased by Hurricane Earl.

The geese are not crying.

b

Falmouth shoppers scurry shopping carts

instead of the sea. I flee Buzzards Bay, Bourne.

Along Route 86 and 17, the Southern Tier Expressway

past Albany, Binghamton, Corning, New York.

b

In a far field, cows and horses cast shade

and Angus nestle like crows.

Evening Primrose opens a window,

a promise. Water

b

lilies tighten under darkening sky

cold rains dampen feet.

Curled hay, bundled and tied,

full streams ahead.

b

Suddenly, Lake Erie appears

as an ocean cradling its own light.

My fingers loosen grip, a seashell falls—

Home.

Originally published in The Tower Magazine, UK

b

Somewhere Between Heaven and the Heron 

The call of the running tide is clear,
a wild call that cannot be denied
—John Mansfield

There’s something to be said

about the wind waving in the ocean

rinsing shells that nag the traveler

upset by cell phones wailing,

sea gulls screeching, or men

shearing leaves at dawn.

b

Quartz sand blows across his face,

the slight sting reminds of breath

where sea salt drips to nourish sand,

black-eyed Susans, sea oats,

and a few Palmetto palms.

b

Somewhere between heaven

and the heron there is a song.

b

Eternity Meets the World’s Beginning

He departs as swift as his arrival, our minutes a fond memory. A gift. Return tomorrow, egret, I’ll serve a fresh plate of beef Wellington next to the shells. We’ll speak of the past, herald desires to the sky and wink with a smile.

Like a poem, his plumage flows in wind, spiral tufts crowning head. Toes stretch into still-wings. I wrestle the urge to stroke his down, hunted years past almost to extinction for feathery hats. Today, we share this space, this air. This pure-white charmer preens like a tightrope walker balancing on a toothpick. Bright yellow-basket feet, one tucks suspended from sight. His head nestles into the soft pillow of his back, ever-present, watching every move.

I sneak Mother-May-I steps into hotel room for a Canon camera. He inches toward the door concentric eyes zoom onto a plate of empty shells cleansed of salt drying in never-fading brilliance. Quickly, I close the door and snap 100 snowy egret photos.

Within a wink the white moon perches on the rail overlooking beach gulf sand where eternity meets the world’s beginning.

I am.

The Gulf Between Us

His plumage wades through black seas:
tufted crown still wings, toothpick legs
glaze mordant red. His beak stabs my gut.

I turn off the news.

Creatures great and small
covered in the doom and sludge
of sleep. He swallows
tar balls thinking food.

—Clarissa Jakobsons, Aurora, Ohio, teaches art and writing courses at a local community college. Her art has been exhibited widely. Recently she enjoyed a Fine Arts Work Center artist residency and is working on a book of poems. Visiting Cape Cod during her college years instilled in Jakobsons a love for the ocean though without her quite knowing why it felt like home. When her daughters visited Lithuania of her childhood and sent photos of the Baltic dunes, she immediately understood the connection—the sea harbors a special place in her DNA; it is why she curls toes in the sand.