There is a softness to this early morn.
Waves slowly, rhythmically, lap the shore.
Tide ever-so-surely recedes,
reveals soft ripple lines on moist sand
sans foot prints of any kind.
Sky awakens rimmed with tufts of dawn,
pastel pinks and barely blues.
In the distance, Provincetown sleeps.
Sail barren masts pierce the clouds,
spinal column of the town.
Serene solitude,
self alone in nature’s calm.
I close my eyes in wakefulness.
I listen. I feel . . .
the softness of this early morn.
Darkest grey
to pearlescent cream,
nature’s demarcation divides the sky.
Storm cloud tier looms,
like heavy horizontal quilt
atop matte-dull strip of bright.
Ocean broods below,
accentuates smudged palette
in film noir scene.
Cape Cod indecisive morn.
dares the gazer –
define the coming day.
Photo taken several days ago from our deck in Provincetown, Cape Cod. This is in color. I did not photo shop to black and white. The day did turn into a blustery one, as if the sun had taken leave.
Oh yay! Oh yay!
Deep sounding voice
booms on the square.
Bell clangs loudly
swung in an arc,
beckons tourists
gather ye ‘round.
Voice of St. George,
the place, not the man.
Dressed in short britches
historical garb,
he transports us back
to the ways of the times.
Town Crier by role
he riles up the crowd
condemning a woman,
the gossip of town.
Punish by dunking
those times were cruel,
we applaud them today
for the sport of their play.
Historical town
island country.
Maintaining its past
by living today.
David Firth, the official St. George town crier, and the woman on the dunking chair, reenact history for delighted tourists. David Firth participates in international town crier competitions and works hard to perfect the voice and look. He also serves as a council man in local government. This is day three of NaPoWriMo and rather than follow the prompt, I wrote this “travel poem.”
*Tanaga – part of an oral tradition going back to the early 16th century. Stanzas of four lines, seven syllables per line; rhyming each line of a stanza on the same rhyme sound.
Just my tanaga and me
watching the dawn blissfully.
Sailboats rest upon the sea
kiskadees sing from a tree.
Fingers tap relentlessly
counting sevens, never three.
Overhead the gulls fly free
soaring, flapping gleefully.
This place holds a history
many a catastrophe.
Shipwrecks buried ‘neath the sea
part of lore and memory.
For all things Bermudaful
for friendships and nature too,
my spirit ever grateful
sadly I must bid adieu.
I shot this panoramic at Horseshoe Bay on the south shore of Bermuda, said to be one of the most beautiful beaches in the world. We’ve spent at least a month of our past four Boston winters in Bermuda and have come to love the beauty of the country and its people. This is our last year here — as we move on to other adventures next year.
Posted for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where Frank introduces us to the Tanaga form. He indicates it comes from the Tagalog language of the Philippines, and does say we may take poetic freedom with the rhyming scheme, which I do in the final stanza.
Transplant from concrete city,
hustle-bustle and blaring horns,
she loves all things Bermudaful.
Smitten by color
red flowers peek from handlebar baskets,
her rusty bicycle now a sky-blue.
Today, just as every day
day after day, week after week
she tries to begin a letter home.
Sea breezed salt-flavored lips
gnaw tooth-marked pen.
Mind searches for appropriate words.
The ocean here is so . . .
cerulean, cobalt blue,
aquamarine, azure hued.
Page littered,
crossed out words.
How to write what she sees?
Try again. First words flow,
White-capped and undulating,
turquoise ultramarine waves . . .
sapphire, Prussian, pastel blue.
Mesmerizing . . . royal blue waters.
Nature defies the dictionary.
Stationery crumpled and set aside,
sun glasses off, wine poured
she makes the long distance call . . .
and simply says two words.
Come see.
Bermudaful — another way to say beautiful in Bermuda! We have 10 days left of our month-long stay in this beautiful island country.
It’s Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. I’m hosting today and provide folks with a number of images to peruse….all of which, in some ways, evoke the feelings of spring. “Think young, take the energy of the spring season and think fun, new life, possibilities. Sunny side up, everyone.” Poets choose one image from those provided in the prompt. (I selected the bicycle). Poems should be motivated by the image, which should be cut and pasted into the post. The poem does not need to be about spring, but it should take us away from the cold and dreary.
Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. Come see the other images available for this prompt….and put a spring in your step with us!
Elusive spring
buried beneath snow.
Monotone whitened rural scene
minus crocus, lilacs,
and red breasted robins.
Brightened only by weathered barn
and newly painted crimson birdhouse,
daredevil cheerful bracelet
on snow laden tree limb.
Old man winter,
still balking at retirement.
Photo by Sari Hacker, my former Iowa Valley High School student. Fond memories of our days in Marengo, Iowa.
Liquid joy
blues beyond belief.
Gaze on her,
feast your eyes.
Aquamarine, royal, teal,
sea colors, her crown.
Kiskadee
yellow warbler sings.
Loquat trees
bear gold fruit.
Island nation taunts my pen,
tell them if you can.
History,
railway trails of old,
limestone ruins,
painter’s muse.
Twenty-two miles, end to end,
only half-mile wide.
Soul soother
slower pace of life.
Welcome rain,
next day’s tea.
Bermudean tapestry,
your blues steep my joy.
Amaya is hosting dVerse today, the virtual pub for poets. She asks us to write a shadorma: a poem with 6-line stanzas with the following syllabic count for the lines: 3-5-3-3-7-5. We are in Bermuda for a month — our fourth year to do this. The waters surrounding this beautiful island country really defy description in terms of their colors. And the yellow kiskadee’s song is exactly like its name: kiss-ka-dee, kiss-ad-dee. Because Bermuda has no aquifer, rainwater is collected in a ridged white-roof system that drains into each home’s cistern located below ground. That water is then pumped up into the house, into the faucets, washing machines etc. Hence, my tea this morning is made from the latest rain storm! Pub opens at 3 PM Boston time. I’ve also published a second shadorma today, more in line with the term itself…in the shadows of a grave yard.
Bermuda mesmerizes.
Breeze ruffles tall grass,
erases footsteps.
Timeworn calcarenites protrude,
seaside sentinels
revealed in low tide glory.
I stand gazing.
And somehow
in this raw natural place,
understanding dawns.
You are with me,
my forever love.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets, where today it’s OLN….Open Link Night. Post any one poem of your choice. Yes, we are in Bermuda, until April 6th. Photos from Tobacco Bay, one of our favorite places here, about a 10 minute walk from our rental in St. George. Bermuda never disappoints!
dissonance
changing times
veins frozen still
warm love disappeared
vapid space adrift
begging please
alone here
Poem inspired by personifying the huge, monolith icebergs we recently saw in Antarctica. It seems to me that sometimes people feel like this.
when you marry your best friend
knowing he is the love of your life. . .
when your heart expands
as your family does the same. . .
when your love is so strong
that together, you could travel
to the end of the earth
and back . . .
and you do.
Photo from Antarctica. Days before we rounded Cape Horn and ferried to the last light house on the earth. An amazing journey – through the last almost 48 years with this man . . . and to the end of the earth!
