Travel Muse

Joey

lillian4 Comments

Marsupial babe
cramped tightly in pouch,
leaps out to stretch his legs.
Wobbly, directionless,
returns to mama’s world
snuggles deep within her folds.

Jostled and pushed about by son
mama lies her frame upon the ground
belly flat on dirt, ready for a rest.
Joey’s head suddenly appears
as if to loll about before their nap,
fresh air, elixir to sweet dreams.

img_2589  img_2606   img_2610   img_7274-001

Shared with dVerse, a virtual pub for poets. Bar opens at 3 PM Boston time.
Photos and video below are from our recent trip to the Australian Wild Life Sanctuary outside of Sydney. These are wallabies and they roam free on the grounds. In the early morning, we saw this mama and her Joey’s tail and feet were sticking out of her pouch. We decided to go back to see her in the afternoon, right before we left. I was feeding her the special food you can buy there – it’s in an ice cream cup. After the food was gone, we just stood there and watched her for the longest time. Everyone else had gone on to other parts of the park. All of a sudden, her joey jumped right out of her pouch!!!  Apologies for the blurred photos — we were so shocked. It was amazing to see this gangly little creature hop about — we couldn’t figure out how all that could fit in her pouch and suddenly, the joey jumped back in!  We watched a bit more and mama decided to stretch out for a nap….Joey was no where to be seen…just a lump and then, out came his head! Earlier in the day we’d had our photos taken with a koala….but this was truly the “icing on the cake” to an amazing trip!!!

Australasian Little Penguins

lillian17 Comments

Europeans settle rugged land,
in truth, unsettled. Balance disturbed.
Predators introduced to cure a plight
became the plight.
Land and species suffered
well-meaning mistakes.

One man saw and understood,
wed himself to land and a special mate.
Rejuvenated forest. Fought for,
and won, two marine sanctuaries.
Nesting birds depleted,
retreated to his cove.

Aptly named, Helps worked.
Natural burrows plundered,
extinction threatened,
he transformed bits of wood and rock
into havens above the ground.
Feathered flipper friends prospered.

Mrs. Helps built predator traps,
nourished wounded birds to health.
Children count and document.
Pale blue chicks hatch and grow,
march each year into sea,
return to breed again.

We are privileged visitors,
two among sixteen this day.
Ride rugged roads cross mountain tops,
marvel at miniature ships below.
Hills and seas, aquamarine and greens,
panoramic challenge to peripheral skills.

Sheep scamper as we descend,
his valley tall with forests proud.
We peek into nesting havens,
met by quiet, watched by trusting eyes.
Some sit upon their eggs,
others sit, little ones wedged beside.

And we witness this miracle of life.

Because one man and his wife,
dared to say enough.
Sacrificed wealth as many know it.
live a simple life upon and with the land
guardians to an eco system.
Their love given to generations.

Come take their tour and see their work
and you shall leave with wonder in your heart.
One extended family
in New Zealand’s awesome land.
Protectorates for nature
as it used to be.

On our amazing journey; now in New Zealand. We had the privilege of spending an afternoon at the Pohatu Penguin Sanctuary, located in Flea Bay near Akaroa, NZ. Mr Francis Helps and his wife (and children now; and eventually his grandchildren) do amazing work to protect the land and insure the Australasian Little Blue Penguins continue to survive. They also have 1,000 sheep on their land – have planted and are guardians of native forest. Such an amazing day. Such a dedicated family and a truly meaningful mission. This narrative poem is their story and dedicated to them. These small creatures are now thriving rather than disappearing.

Sydney Haibun

lillian31 Comments

Last night we sailed beneath the promise of a full moon. Standing on our deck above the ship’s wake, black diamond water glistened in lunar sheen. We awakened to a new day, hearts filled with gratitude and love, in Australia. We stand now, feet firmly on the ground, spirits soaring as we gaze together upon Sydney’s iconic bridge and opera house. The journey continues.

full moon graces sea
waves alit with wondrous glow
lunar toast to love

Shared with DVerse. Apologies again to my readers as we continue on this amazing journey: Oct 25 to December 2. Two cruises back-to-back with very little time or ability to connect to the Internet. Thus I cannot read from my dVerse poet friends’ posts. Once back to Boston, shall be in my normal writing AND reading pattern. Hoping you will excuse me.

Bali Haibun

lillian11 Comments

There is a place where one man has made all the difference.

The people’s Bali lies far from glamorized honeymoon Bali. In Banjar Guliang Kangin, three hundred+ villagers survive. Men toil in hot humidity tending rice paddies. Trek barefoot in muck, guiding bovine through shin-high waters as they pull hand-carved rakes, furrowing mud. Others stand in water, backs bent, sticking rice plants in wet soil. Women rise daily at five AM. Walk to village market and buy day’s fresh food supplies as mangy dogs and cocking roosters run underfoot on dirt road. They use firewood to boil rice, cook fresh chicken and vegetables in clay pots. Weave flowers and seed as offerings to Hindi gods three times per day. Balance bundled lunch on heads, walking into fields toward hungry men. Children, who can afford books and uniforms attend free school through tenth grade. Farmers make $7 per week, Their children work in fields and family gardens.

We are among the privileged few taking a cooking class from Chef on this hot Balinese day. He meets us at market and humbly explains vegetable names and uses. Takes us to his village, walks us though rice paddy fields to open air school he built with bamboo poles and thatched roof. Teaches us Balinese cooking and at class end, smiling broadly, serves us foods we’ve prepared. “This is not my school. It is my community’s.” Chef left this village as a young man. Traveled to Australia to learn English and culinary arts. Worked in kitchens, ultimately a Hyatt, saving monies. Two years ago at age fifty, he returned. Built this school.  Established relationships with cruise ship lines and hotels. He buys food and teaches multiple cooking classes every day. His work has literally built a bridge, improved homes, and insures that each village child attends school. As women toil at home and men plant fields, he is feeding a village, dish by dish.

Pale female cardinal
daily builds nest, stick by stick
winds of change blow by

Wonderful day in Bali. So very glad we did this excursion, experiencing Balinese culture and helping this village by working with Chef. Such a humble, giving man.

Singaporean Haibun

lillian33 Comments

There is a point in our emotional being when one crosses over to another place, even if for only a moment in time. Such was my experience last week. We happened to visit a Buddhist temple at their time of worship. Golds and deep reds dazzled my eyes as carved wooden panels, candles, supplicants and monks came into my sight line. Peripheral vision seemed to disappear. Chanting and soft rhythmic bells calmed in this mystical place. I found myself kneeling, head bowed, hands folded, sensing an other-worldness of supreme thanksgiving for life. For those few moments, I was in an inward place, so deep inside myself. Very hard to explain in words. . . and then it was time to leave. I walked out into sunlight, to talk and live, in the now and here again world I normally occupy. 

mountains disappear
clouds bridge to earth as fine mist
then lift in sun’s light

image

Posted from Singapore for dVerse where Grace asks us to write a haibun incorporating the word “bridge.” JUST A WARNING to dVerse readers: I am traveling for 40 days. We board our ship Monday and will be at sea for two days (no internet) and then in Bali – internet questionable. This means although I may be able to write and have someone at dVerse link in for a prompt, many times I will not be able to reply to comments or read and reply to others’ poems. It is not at all because I am  ignoring your poems. So–do take that into consideration on any of my future posts — except for the last five days in Sydney. I will totally understand if folks choose not to read my posts during this time. I also am operating with an iPad instead of my computer and can’t figure out how to highlight a word and link it to a URL or to make it italics – excuse the all caps. PS: Singapore has been glorious!  

Orchid Garden Wonder

lillian18 Comments

Singaporean national treasure,
color profusion midst verdant green.

Spider orchid spins tendrils
from delicate parasol top.
Lemon veined apricot petals.
Two-toned purple-whites.
Violet spattered faces
with sweet white noses.
Beauties preen in mirrored path.

Come ye visitors, cross land and sea.
This orchid splendor shall mesmerize thee.

Photos taken yesterday at Singapore’s Botanical Gardens, a UNESCO World Heritage Site, in their National Orchid Gardem section. Singapore is one of the leading orchid exporters in the world. On a personal note, asking my readers to bear with me. Using an iPad while traveling — not as adept at posting with it.

Bermuda

lillian61 Comments

…and I shall imbibe her beauty…
shape-shifter clouds, wisps and trails…
lemon sherbet sun with melting rays…
pink sand beaches beguiled by sea glass…
aquamarine waters, clear and bright…
yellow kiskadees sing to dawn
as loquats plump for picking…
oh Bermuda, I do savor thee

Photos taken in Bermuda this past February and March. Here, the loquat are just ripening. Posted for Open Link Night at dVerse, a virtual pub for poets. Bar opens for OLN today at 3 PM — stop on over and read what others have to share!

Oh Provincetown!

lillian42 Comments

Gulls squawk, shout high pitched squeals,
breaking through the silent calm of early morn.
Waters so still at low tide, there is no lap
as sun glistened ripples lie mute in their beauty.
Are these the sounds of long past voices
altered by time, soaring above your land?

Norman Mailer, Tennessee Williams, Eugene O’Neill.
Were their bare feet marred by these rock pebbles,
these shards of shell beneath my feet,
tumbled through years of artistic waves?
Indigo waters turn cobalt blue, ombré into sky.
Like one canvas piled upon another,
easels left for another day.

Muse to Jackson Pollack, Jack Kerouac,
Tony Kushner and Kurt Vonnegut.
Given voice by the calm and eloquent words
writ by Mary Oliver, resident of these dunes,
this town at the very tip of Cape Cod,
crooked arm of land surrounded by sea.

Leave the ocean and stroll into her streets.
See bawdy painted lips and swinging narrow hips,
drag queens, moving costumed forms,
tourists, gawkers, art and food afficionados,
hawkers outside beaded doors. Lovers of every kind.
hold hands, strut, saunter, smile and banter.
Sixty-thousand revelers by summer’s tides
ebbs to three-thousand in quiet snow encrusted streets,
appreciate winter palettes of whites and greys.

Oh Provincetown! Town of complexities.
Pilgrims’ pride rejected, settled by Portuguese fishermen
and wives who waited for their return from sea.
So many have claimed you.
So many have walked your streets,
marveled at your cinnabar setting suns,
danced on your sands of time.
And still you offer more.
More palettes of dawn and dusk.
More ocean tides and raucous waves.
More low tides that reveal your under life.
I revel to return again and again.
You hath cast your spell on me.

Our jetty – appears and disappears with the tide

Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets where today, I am hosting and asking folks to write a “travelogue” poem. Take us somewhere! Pub opens at 3 PM Boston (eastern) time. Provincetown is located at the extreme tip of Cape Cod in Massachusetts. In November 1620, pilgrims on the Mayflower landed in the west end of Provincetown and wrote the Mayflower Compact there, before journeying on and settling across the bay in Plymouth. The Governor of the Plymouth Colony purchased the land of Provincetown in 1654 from the Chief of the Nausets for 2 brass kettles, 6 coats, 12 hoes, 12 axes, 12 knives and a box (see wikipedia). Provincetown has been the summer home for many fringe and reknowned artists and writers. Twenty-seven year old Eugene O’Neill produced his first play here in 1916 and spent the next nine years of his life in Ptown.