Roar of the ocean

she looks angry

pounding her shore

wave after wave

crashing, smashing, no slowing down.

Why such a hurry

why not relax,

hang out on the deck and chillax

like me?

Pink tan sand

wet and juicy under foot – or would be, if I ever get up.

Seagulls hang nearby

calling, cawing,

looking for meals,

just rummaging around on shore

hunting for treasure

with nowhere to go.

Silhouettes, joggers in the distance

backlit at daybreak

daylight turns pink - just a hint - a shy little blush.

In the distance, heavy grey.

Up close, marine layer mystery.

Ocean, she keeps deep secrets,

line between air and sea barely visible, if any.

Is anyone lost at sea?

www.DogDiary.org  Photo: Barb Ayers — www.DogDiary.org Photo: Barb Ayers

Sounds of ocean orchestra

symbols and drums

occasional soprano

mostly treble

she could be trouble

Mother Ocean.

She’s not the shy little thing that is lazy and warm

definitely not here on the Oregon Coast

with cold, crashing waves

grey, moody skies,

shipwreck city.

And those birds, they look lazy on shore

like casual beach goers

but I know the truth,

they’re always on guard.

I’ll stay warm in my blanky,

tightly wrapped, swaddling clothes

on the recliner

at ocean overlook

early fall morn.

Think I’ll wait to see her in person,

to feel her person

think I’ll just sit here and watch,

feel her spray

from the safety of warm and dry.

Hear her roar, feel it inside.

Savor her smells,

the siren scent,

a most dangerous woman.

Feel her pulse,

I’ll try to get in sync

or anywhere closer than

girl in window, safe and lazy,

with a spectacular front row seat to roaring surf.

I’ll let those enterprising birds do all the work

until sun comes up and

cold, pounding ocean becomes warm sandy beach

and I can’t resist her call a moment more.

Hint of blue behind grey cloudy skies

will she bring joy

or more great grey mystery?

Think I’ll sit and watch ocean TV

and see what the wild woman decides.

By Barbara Ayers

Lincoln City, OR

Mosier, Oregon.

Our hometown. Our downtown park. For all 430 of us + dogs. Technically, there might be more residents just outside City limits.

At any rate, this is small town USA, right off the Historic Columbia River Highway, right next door to hipster Hood River, in one of those most scenic places around.

I wrote a poem for "Writing Up the Gorge," about this place - for a plein air writing event at the Columbia Center for the Arts. All the Who's in Whoville is on exhibit in September. Look for it reprinted below.

Here's the plaque on our front porch. Built by the Wilson's in 1907, it's a Sears Catalog home. No kidding, you ordered a kit home from the book and it shipped out in a box. Some assembly required... It has been a safe haven for people and animals ever since. Sears catalog homes are pretty rare out west.

We're proud to say our home was built before Mosier was incorporated. We celebrated our home's centennial in 2007 and the town celebrated in 2014.

We supported the renovation of Mosier's downtown park for the Mosier 100 event. The dogs and I were proud to help bring the park to life with so many others in our community.

"Our favorite spot" - our donor plaque at Mosier park. Turns out, it was this dog family's favorite spot too, in the 1900's.

Mosier's historic highway, a two lane road, was carved out of basalt cliffs that form a geologic spine in the Columbia River Gorge.

On Mosier's westside, The Twin Tunnels Trail is a magical stretch of the old highway closed to cars, with amazing river views - preserved for people and animals on foot, hoof, paws, bikes or skates.

We stand on the shoulders of those that came before. The pioneer cemetery - our town's namesake.

There were remarkable women who built Mosier from the ground, up - side by side with menfolk. We tip our hat to lady pioneers at the Mosier Park entryway.

The Mosier centennial parade in 2014 - how cool is that? Modern day Mosier lady pioneers - most of their family trees still live here.

In the parade, we rolled right behind with our Dog Diary surf dog unit - Elvis, Dude and Doodle. How many home town parades have the King of Rock wrapped into a basset hound surf dog?

That's me, Barb Ayers, dog mom, not pictured - pulling the surf wagon load. Like every other mom in America, snapping a trillion pix of my kids.

Plein Air poem for "Writing up The Gorge" at Columbia Center for the Arts:

All the Who’s in Whoville

By Barb Ayers www.DogDiary.org

Golden, glossy grains. Amber waves, curvy road. Buxom hills - fertile shapes. Farm gates open - tractor ready for labor.

Sunset silhouettes.

Rows of neatly spaced trees – vigilant neighbors of tender and ancient vines of future wines. Some young grapes longing to grow up and move away – the rest of us savor sweet and mellow Mosier.

Downhill from Analemma winery, I’m drawn to a quiet place, where time stands still and always will. I can’t resist. I’ve never visited a cemetery voluntarily.

Massive oak - gnarled trunk - sky-high outstretched arms. The sentry. Patriarch, Caretaker, undertaker of dearly departed. He himself, more than 150 years old – keeper of Mosier memories - keeper of families loved and lost.

Gregarious neighbor trees twitter leaves, bearing witness.

I am - we are - here together. Me, in flip-flops, windsurf rig with dogs and gear parked just outside. Chatfield 1848-1909 welcoming me to the cemetery.

It’s not fancy, Mosier. She’s the soulful one, with much to say if you’re paying attention. Super-subtle. Caring for her own. No fanfare. No glossy green grass. No paved walkways. No gilded urns. No rows of perfectly aligned flags - though an orchard of noble veterans - thank you for your service.

My shadow, 2-stories-tall over James F. Wynn 1869-1901 and Ida, His Wife, 1873-1897. So young – I wish I knew their story. I send my 50-something heart their way in my silhouette.

James and Ida reply, casting headstone shadows over the Sendlings, one plot east. We all intertwine.

This place where the Roots put down roots – Root family tree buried ‘neath Caretaker oak.

Hewitt. Ireland. Elder. Herman. Middleswart. Kruger and Brooks. Some rustic, some elegant. Husbands (including His Wife,) Proctor, Evans. Holmes. Putnam. Rorden. Kennedy bench. Mosier generations – they’re all here.

I miss my family, all living elsewhere, none resting nearby. These are my people now.

Some, glossy granite. Some, lichen-laden pioneers. Some sweet-simple. One AstroTurf hangout. One Elton John “Friends” album, no explanation necessary.

It’s a Who’s-Who of Mosier. It’s Whoville.

Co-mingled with mole holes, grey diggers and chatter of birds. Empty flagpole clanging - safe harbor - church bell calling to service.

August breeze rustles leaves, the stillness broken. Siren call - red rose scent. In full bloom! Out standing in a field of dried-out arrangements! Here, where sun sets and nature cremates.

I feel them before I see them. Red rose drew me in – to their rows - my people. Wilson. One word – one name - overwhelming tears.

"Miss You So Badly" sang Jimmy Buffet.

My Wilson relatives – though I know them not.

Danita, Grant, Wilson, Huskey. Red, the family dog. Buried together. That’s how I know we’re family.

Grant “a servant to his community.”

Donita “a nurturer of quality of life for all.”

I’m humbled - neither serving, nor nurturing enough.

My Wilson family. I bought the Wilson farmhouse. On Wilson Road. Sears Catalog home, assembled before Mosier, 109 years ago. Warpy old windows. Century-old hardwoods.

In the heart of the cemetery, the most magnificent stone - Mosier. As in Mosier, Oregon population 430, incorporated 1914, just like the sign says.