Going Home (A Paean to Summer)

(I have been writing poetry for some time, but I haven't shown my poems to any but a few close friends. This is an exception, and I was inspired to write it by the memory of all the summer trips we used to take to the beach when I was a child.)

Going Home – A Summer Odyssey

The battle is won and the waves recede,
dusky soldiers heading home in their long caravans
long rivers of flashing embers are as ever showing them the way
pulsing and winking, the heart is tired but strong as ever.

Victory brings with it a sort of peace
that lulls the mind of the sleepy warriors,
covered in sweat and grime, but of a pleasant sort,
these descendants of Odysseus plot their way home,

hard ships that ride against the wind,
what spell can lead them back to the hearth that beckons?
The 60 and 10, the 405 and the 110
91 cleaves through mountains on the way to the East,

their shields and tents and their cold caskets,
the remains to be savored, until next week
(it hurts to think they'll be locked away again)

No tunics wear they as they journey back
through grey clouds of fumes that curl slowly about them
something is burning, I can still smell it,
perhaps in the mountains, the trolls flee from fires,
and loud glittering flies swoop down upon them,
as red ants race around them, other battles still raging
but ours is over.

The ricos live in their gated communities,

way up in the hills;
they reach ever higher,
but can't outrun the fires,
it is late August, when everything burns,
even the shadows.

Sunday evening and the young ones sleep, burned but happy,
hair sticky as they clutch their trophies,
empty stained cups, bearing bright colors,
the thirst will never end, it is summer after all,
appetites can't be stilled, only dulled somewhat on long days,
the caravan snakes forward, the red eyes of Medusa
winking off and on, as they slump forward,
they can't kill it, they can only humor it,
but one day, one day, Hercules will come.

The music piles out of loudspeakers, pell-mell,
there isn't enough space, it bounces around, swirls and circles
bumping into everything, going up and down,
like a circus sideshow of musical notes circling round,
Ramon calls them out, he reels them in
open and closing, they breath in and own,
the accordion is happy but bears a stern warning,

la vida es corta, pronto se acaba,
Asi es mi norte! The soldiers cry out,
if only they could fight every day the way they fought today,
(the timeclock burns their memories).

The lights flash on and off, the chariots growl and careen forward,
banshee screeches sound as the struggle to move forward,
they feel even stickier, the feel the anger,
it is taking much longer than they could have known.
Didn't they win? Are these the spoils,
as the little ones slumber in back, they'll be in school tomorrow,
maybe it were best if they didn't make it back,
take the off ramp, go off and explore,
get lost in the night, pretend the journey will never end,
don't think they'll be caged once again, Odysseus and his men,
Cyclops will be happy to see them again.

There are waves out here too, and they beckon,
come here, we are one and the same,
the buildings breath with relief after a hot day,
they will stay warm for most of the night, and up above,
there are other lights to follow.

Would that they had wings so that they could cross the silent ocean,
without fearing the beasts from below,
would that the salt didn't pull them down,
they can see it below them as well, the shadows gleam too,
in August the voices ring clear, swirling around late at night,
there is no stillness now, no time to slumber,
they are tired, but for now, let me rest just a little more,
how quiet the sky looks.

The servants of Hermes wing overhead,
looking down powerfully, on the prowl,
I want to follow you although I know I shouldn't!
What are you hunting, you single-eyed servant of the night?
Will your prey escape from you tonight,
dare we say we could join you?

Earlier today, at the battleground, by the long open shore,
other winged creatures had been driven mad, things of an ordinary nature,
gulls and pigeons drawn by burnt offerings,
the smells reeling them in, burnt tortillas flung their way,

they dart, here and there, tormenting Odysseus’ tribe

and leave offerings of a different source,
they too can play the game. 

“Don’t go too far, stay where I can see you,

vas a ver, cabrón, si no me haces caso!

Cuida a tu hermanito, y no te vayas a meter adentro, pendejo, hazme caso!”

It was too much to ask for them to resist the call of the waves
they felt free, it was calling them forth, and they couldn't ignore it.
The dug holes in the sand, they piled it up on the shore,
they found seashells and called forth the spirits of yore,
this was their place, and they just knew it in their hearts,
they were meant to return. They came from water,
and they offered themselves once again.

Returning home, eyes and skin burning, their mouths still sticky with sugar,
the tribe of Odysseus plots to return once again,

he wheels his trireme home,
arms and hands rowing the wind,

it move forward, that big shimmering Impala,
an vessel built to hold armies,

and the tribe traces its way back.

Which is more home, this Ithaca by desert, this Thebes near the gully,
Pomona lying flat, she has had better days,
Montebello and Riverside, Corona with her sweet fruit,
wherever it is, each kingdom with its own green lawn,
a bounty of lemons, and an aguacate or two.

These caravans of land vessels promenading in triumph
like in a Frank Romero car mural, splashing colors, even in the dark,

crossing underneath the overpass, the gateways slink onward...

Caramba, was it really 110 degrees today?

They still savor the promise of summer,
they can't forget yet, the air won't let them,
the red eyes in front thin out, they are nearing home,
but it isn't any easier, so tired are they.

The memory of waves will have to do, their own private Cozumel,

stealing themselves they must, but they know they'll be back,
these roads will pull them, they always have,
that and the names, there is a special magic in them,
the Mediterranean is the wellspring, and it echoes even here,
for the realize that the journey itself is a form of magic,
the road is soaking with it,
the magic of names like the Santa Monica Bay,
Playa del Rey, Redondo Beach, San Clemente
and la aguita.

The road makes them remember that they were conquerors, too,
stalking their fortunes, accolytes of Hermes,
the abuelo had always told them, back when he was alive,

me vine para ganar dólares, porque allá, no más no la hacía.

This modern day tribe of Odysseus,

is still one and the same, and their hearts still beat with the spell,
even if their names are not Achilles, or Agamemmnon,
but Pepe and Lorenzo and Micaela and Chonchita de mi alma,

they are getting closer and closer to home, and they drift away slowly,
the memories at perhaps too sweet, the sweetest they've had,
and the final exit cleaves into view, and the traffic clears,
and they are caressed by the last wave, they hardly even want to return home
they want the spell to last just a little longer, for if you look closely,
you see that the evening light swirls around them as well.

You turn and look up and you see her,
Selena la bella, mira, nos esta mirando,

showing off her glowing earrings as she takes a rest,
she is bowing, you know it, and the stars around her,

are clapping. You're home.

Copyright 2014 (C) Oscar G. Romero