Clarissa Jakobsons





Oyster Pond, 2010             

Three swans, two white,
one stepping stone brown,
nestle in Oyster Pond
 
Heads appear, disappear
like fresh snow melting
each bearing Leda.
 
Which one is Zeus?






Listen To the Great Emptiness        
                                                                   

The geese are not crying at Sippewissett Beach.
                               Can you hear the tide turn its head?
                                I lost two full days, two ocean sunsets
                                because of Hurricane Earl.

Falmouth faithful scurry, grocery carts flee.
                               We pass Buzzards Bay, Bourne Bridge,
                               driving along Route 86 and Route 17,
                               Southern Tier Expressway
                               through Albany and Binghamton.

Corning cows and horses cast shade
                                in fields where angus nest like crows.
                                Yellow wildflowers open arms to promise.
                                Water lilies tighten under darkening skies.

Full streams ahead, curled hay, bundled and tied,
                                cold rains dampen feet. Suddenly,
                                the lake appears as an ocean cradling its own light.
                                My fingers loosen their grip. A seashell falls,

                                I am Home.






Letís Drive to the Knob


Woods Hole, Pie In the Sky,
thick baked raisin bread pudding and Sumatra java.
50 pound Guatemalan bean burlap bags,
free on the bench.

Seagull wings pass Quissett Harbor
I inhale deep before dipping into Jenkins Pond
in search of the old snapping turtle
Felix once vowed to eat. 

Feet nestle curled weeds, calloused toes grip rocks,
stone filled memories pass. I sip sea salt
and light into aging bones and bow to the wind.





 
At the Little River

The traveling goddess breaks
         stillness, a yogi, draped
in soft waves. Her head bows low
         to Venus, not knowing

she alone is Venus.
         Salt cleansed, aura,
a mere three-hour drive
         for this twilight ritual.

Tonight Spica twinkles blue
         while Mars fires red witness.
Venus steps out of low tide,
         out of her skin,

ignoring the Turkish towel
         on the sandbank and wraps
her body in moonbeams
         waiting for the coming day.
 



Copyright  ©  2014 Clarissa Jakobsons

 
Clarissa Jakobsons is an artist, poet, and instructor, twice featured poet at the Shakespeare and Co. Bookstore, in Paris, and first place winner at the Akron Art Museum 2005 New Words Competition. Sample publications include: Glint Literary Journal, Hawaii Pacific Review, Ruminate, Qarrtsiluni, The Yale Journal for Humanities in Medicine. Her paintings and one-of-a kind artistic books are nationally exhibited including at the Cleveland Museum of Art Ingalls Library. Donít be surprised to see her inner artist kicking sandcastles, climbing Mount Diablo, painting Provincetown dunes, or walking under an Ohio crescent moon.