Rising sun creates shimmering shine on the ocean’s surface. A lone gull floats illuminated in sun’s path, as waves softly lap the shore.
I sit alone during dawn’s arrival, in awe of what is unfolding. Above me, the sky’s bluing gains brightness. I smile and sigh in contentment, thankful for another day.
Written for NaPoWriMo day 26. The the prompt is to “write a poem that involves alliteration, consonance, and assonance. Alliteration is the repetition of a particular consonant sound at the beginning of multiple words. Consonance is the repetition of consonant sounds elsewhere in multiple words, and assonance is the repetition of vowel sounds.”
Photo from some years back at our beloved Provincetown, on the very tip of Cape Cod. View as seen from our deck on the unit we rent every year for two glorious weeks in September.
Ah, I understand now. You never cared for the name Mount McKinley. In your earliest years, and many years after, native peoples addressed you as Denali. Translation: the tall one, the great one. They recognized your power and majesty.
How difficult for you to share a name with an American President who never set foot in the shadow of your magnificence. After all, you rule over six million acres of wild land intersected by one road, ninety-two miles long.
You watch over taiga forest, high alpine tundra, amazing wild life, beautiful fauna. You are the highest peak in North America, towering over magnificent landscape.
In 2016, on the eve of its 100th anniversary, the National Park Service righted a wrong. Your name was officially changed to what it should have been all the years before. Denali. For you are the mighty one.
William Shakespeare, you had it all wrong in Romeo and Juliet!
Written for both Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe and for Day 16 of NaPoWriMo.
The Prompts:At dVerse, Sanaa asks us to write a poem in a conversational mode of address. In my post, I’m having a conversation with Denali. The NaPoWriMo prompt is to “write a poem in which we clearly describe an object or place and then end with a more abstract line that doesn’t seemingly have anything to do with that object or place, but which, of course, really does.“
The great mountain Denali would disagree with William Shakespeare’s line in Romeo and Juliet“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet.”
Photo is from our trip to Alaska some years ago when we did indeed travel through Denali National Park and see this magnificent mountain!
. . . these Norwegian trolls are kind of creepy souls. But with you by my side as my trusty guide, I’d concentrate on the fjords and never be bored!
It’s day 7 in NaPoWriMo, National Poetry Month where the challenge is to write a poem every day in the month of April.
Today’s prompt is to “write a poem titled “Wish You Were Here” that takes its inspiration from the idea of a postcard. Consistent with the abbreviated format of a postcard, your poem should be short, and should play with the idea of travel, distance,sightseeing.“
Photo taken two years ago on a wonderful excursion on our Celebrity cruise to the Norwegian fjords.
From this vantage point, looking up, like looking back. Contours evident. Cracks, crevices, smooth edges, veins streak across surface. Planar sedimentary laminations mark periods of sustained times. Strength, resilience, past layered upon past, weathered but still tall. Pulpit Rock in Norway metaphor for life.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today we’re asked to write a Quadrille (poem of exactly 44 words, sans title) that includes the word “contour.” Will also use this poem for the first day of NaPoWriMo, National Poetry Writing Month, where the challenge is to post a poem every day in April!
Photo taken two years ago, on a Celebrity cruise where we visited Norway and took a boat trip down the Lysefjord and saw Pulpit Rock.
Hours ago, we were walking in Provincetown’s center. Raucous, crowded. Bicyclists weaving through pedestrians on Commercial Street. The Lobster Pot’s neon sign flashing bright. Drag queens in stiletto heels enticing folks to come see their shows. Owners walking with dogs of all sizes, bejeweled in tiaras, on rhinestone leashes; some sitting pertly, watching the crowds from baby strollers.
Now, with skies darkening, we stand alone on our deck. We’ve rented this special place for two weeks every year, for the past twenty-five years. A twenty-minute walk into town, it seems like a world away from all that we were in the midst of, just an hour ago. We listen to the silence around us. We watch with incredulity and awe as the sky darkens and a full orange-red gleaming orb rises. “Hold your hand, just there,” my husband tells me. He takes the photo. It’s the closest I’ll ever come to touching the moon.
civilization believes itself so clever full moon knows better
Frank is hosting haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. We’re to write about the full moon. According to Frank, in February, the full moon is called the Snow Moon. I’ve taken the liberty of writing about an experience we had one September. I believe the full moon was called the Blood Moon at the time. Photos from two different years in Provincetown, Massachusetts, which is at the very tip end of Cape Cod.
Foggy mist hovers. Murky white veil, nature’s hide-and-seek touch.
Glacier calves, cracks sharply. Blue tinged icebergs float aimlessly, shrinking in time.
Numbed cold rouged cheeks. Breath’s visible trail hangs in cold crisp air.
I am witness. I understand now. Warnings of dire disaster.
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse. Today we are to include the word “touch” in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title. Photos from our cruise some years back to Antarctica.
Dahlias dazzle, lemon yellows, sherbet orange, cranberry reds tipped in white. Clematis clings to trellis, bees climb petals, pinch membranes slurping nectar as they hover. Towering sunflowers turn their heads to always face the sun. Honeysuckle scent delights. Provincetown gardens garnish our daily walks.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today De asks us to use the word “pinch” or a form of the word, in our quadrille (poem of exactly 44 words sans title). Photos were all taken in Provincetown, located at the very tip of Cape Cod. As many of you know, we spend two weeks there every year and one of its great delights is walking in to town from where we stay, looking at all the wonderful gardens on the way.
Provincetown’s harbor, fishing boats at rest in midafternoon sun. Low tide walks beneath brightly blue cloudless sky, heads down, staring at sidling hermit crabs. Dining in Mews Restaurant’s downstairs room, her favorite place, ours too. Full length windows frame tall wispy grasses rooted in sandy beach, its rippled ridges solidified by swirling waves. We spend two weeks every September in this place we cherish, this place she called home. We walk its narrow lanes, marvel at Captain Stormy’s dahlia garden, step aside for bicycles’ jingling bells. And I journal, humbled to know this was where Mary Oliver found delight.
Provinctown by dayDawn of a new day
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Dora asks us to be inspired by a poet or author who has died. Photos taken during our past twenty-five years of spending two-weeks annually in Provincetown. Yes, the Pulitzer Prize winning poet Mary Oliver lived in Provincetown for many years. Many of her poems were about nature as she viewed it on Cape Cod.
Coming Home by Mary Oliver
When we are driving in the dark, on the long road to Provincetown, when we are weary, when the buildings and the scrub pines lose their familiar look, I imagine us rising from the speeding car. I imagine us seeing everything from another place– the top of one of the pale dunes, or the deep and nameless fields of the sea. And what we see is a world that cannot cherish us, but which we cherish. And what we see is our life moving like that along the dark edges of everything, headlights sweeping the blackness, believing in a thousand fragile and unprovable things. Looking out for sorrow, slowing down for happiness, making all the right turns right down to the thumping barriers to the sea, the swirling waves, the narrow streets, the houses, the past, the future, the doorway that belongs to you and me.
We left October 2nd on an eleven day fall foliage cruise from Boston, sailing up as far as Quebec, Canada. Stops heading north included Rockland, Maine; St. John, Bay of Fundy; Halifax, Nova Scotia; and Quebec City.
I learned about the process of autumn’s becoming from my science classes way-back-when. As temperatures cool and the sun lessens in intensity, trees stop making chlorophyll and leaves begin to change. Metaphorically speaking, I always thought they took on the look of Mother Nature’s cancan skirt! But sadly, in Boston and on this cruise, those magnificent crimsons, oranges, lemon and sunflower bright yellows were nowhere to be seen. Summer’s record high temperatures and extended heat-soaked days delayed the process. Finally, sailing into Quebec City along the St. Lawrence Seaway, disappointment turned to delight and quickly to awe. The coastal views reminded me of fall scenes from the October and November months on my grandmother’s wall calendars. I oohed and aahed at the glorious landscape. This was fall foliage indeed!
pumpkins sit on porch apple cider warms on stove leaf peepers delight
Written for Haibun Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Frank asks us to write a haibun about the autumn season. A haibun is prose that cannot be fiction, followed by a haiku that includes a word or words that denote a season.
Photos taken two weeks ago on our fall foliage cruise, sailing up the St. Lawrence Sea Way into Quebec City.
We are the baby-boomers, celebratory births conceived and born after World War II. We lived in our all white world, walked to elementary school in Mary Janes and white lacey ankle socks.
We were the oblivious ones riding from Chicago to Florida. Family vacations to grandma’s excited to buy Orange Blossom eau de cologne and praline candies at rest stops.
We had no idea Black families used The Green Book for the same trip. Dog-eared pages marked “friendly” towns. Listed cafes, motels, and gas stations where Negroes were welcome.
We didn’t know anybody named Jim Crow. As young kids, we blindly sipped from white-only fountains, sat where we wanted at diners along the route.
But we know now, or do we? – How many of us have seen or read the children’s book, Ruth and the Green Book by Calvin Alexander Ramsey?
How many of us have read The 1619 Project? Written by Nikole Hannah-Jones, winner of the Pulitzer Prize and a #1 New York Times bestseller.
What are we afraid of? We may not be Bible readers but we’ve all heard John 8: 31 and 32. “The truth will set you free.” Now is the time the truth be told.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Bjorn is hosting from Stockholm, Sweden and asks us to write a poem in the “collective” voice — we, our. Given the movement so rampant in parts of the US to ban books, I thought it important to write this poem. If you’ve not read either of the books I mention, they are well worth the read.
Quoting from the Calvin Alexander Ramsey at the end of his book: “In 1936, an African American living in New York City named Victor Green wrote a book to help black travelers. He made a list of all the hotels, restaurants, gas stations and businesses that would serve African Americans in his city. There was such a high demand for his book that he decided his next edition would include other towns in other states, as well. The Green Book was sold for a quarter in 1940 at black-owned businesses and at Esso stations, which were among the only gas stations that sold to African Americans. Esso was owned by the Standard Oil Company, which eventually provided funding and offices for Victor Green. The Green Book quickly became very popular and helped many businessmen on the road, as well as the families who needed and wanted to travel by car. By 1949, the price of the Green Book had grown along with its size – it cost 75 cents and was 80 pages. It covered all the United States, Bermuda, Mexico, and Canada! In the 1950s and early 1960s, civil rights leaders like Martin Luther King Jr. brought national and international recognition to the injustices suffered by African Americans. Jim Crow’s days were numbered. On July 2, 1964, President Lyndon Johnson signed the Civil Rights Bill into law. Among other things, this act made it illegal for hotels, restaurants, and gas stations to discriminate against customers.
Victor Green published the final edition of the Green Book that same year – 1964.”
lillian the home poet 