Herd-like, glistening wet black bodies lift, hover low then soar. Migration has begun.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today De is hosting Quadrille Monday, asking us to include the word “lift” in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
Video filmed several years ago from the deck of our annual rental in Provincetown, at the very tip of Cape Cod. Amazing to see….many more and much louder ruckus than you hear and see with the video!
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.
She prefers the zone of morning twilight. Eyes sensitive to cruelty ears offended by malice, she avoids humans. Shoreline creatures know her well. Gulls flock to her side. Cormorants swim nearby. Black and sleek they duck beneath waves, pop up farther down shore.
Her dune shack stands alone away from prying eyes, her choice since long ago. She collects sea glass, gems given up by the sea. Handmade dream catchers flutter in the breeze. High tides, low tides, her only sense of time. Solitude gleaned at ocean’s shore, the gift she treasures daily.
Written for day 4, NaPoWriMo. April is National Poetry Writing Month.The challenge is to write a poem every day in the month of April.
The prompt for today is to “write a poem in which you take your title or some language/ideas from The Strangest Things in the World.” I’ve chosen the line “the zone of morning twilight” which appears in the Introduction of the book. Photo was taken a number of years ago: a dune shack on Cape Cod’s National Seashore.
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.
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.
I close my eyes face tilted to sun’s warmth. I listen with my entire being. Rhythmic ocean’s waves continually roll in. Their soothing sounds existed long before me. Will exist long after me. Sea breeze ruffles hair as closed eyes see glow. Darkness in any form cannot invade this moment’s grace. This place calms my soul. I breathe in this moment. I am embraced by sun and wind and ocean, afloat in serenity.
View from our deck in Provincetown – 23rd year we’ve rented here. Poem written this morning – and yes, it is just like this. I’ve always called it our happy place. I actually think it’s more about serenity and calm.
Provincetown’s prequel to dawn. Nature’s sky palette, her brush strokes divine. Palest of pastel pink ribbons and cotton ball fluffs, ombre into muted blues and greys. Profound quiet punctuated by gentle waves lapping shore. Day awakens as I gaze mesmerized by her calm. Her promise, a lovely day.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Lisa gives us three options as prompts for our poems. I chose the second: to write of an experience, preferably in the first person, where we’ve asked for a sign of something to come. Here in our beloved Provincetown for two weeks, I awaken each morning to watch the skies, wondering if we will have a clear, cloudy, or stormy day. No matter the weather, Ptown is always beautiful.
Photos taken this morning from our deck – those magical moments before sunrise. And it has indeed, been a beautiful day.
Mist and fog ~ marauders of the night, muffle morning’s sun. Drip moisture on decks, lush grass, drooping hammocks and once tall hollyhocks. Grey ocean meets putty sky, nature’s pall like widow’s veil. But my view today? My spirits shall not be dampened nor my view dimmed of this wonderful place called Provincetown. I know the sun is there, simply biding her time to appear.
It is indeed a foggy morning in Provincetown today. I shall simply wipe down the table and chairs on our deck and sit outside to savor the myriad shades of grey presenting themselves between ocean and low hanging sky, all the while listening to the ebb and flow of waves lapping on to shore.
I sit in darkness, blanket-wrapped against damp chill. Squawking gulls pierce my quiet, spar over fish carcass washed ashore. Dawn will present herself shortly, streak sky angry crimson-orange or smudge it gently in soft puffs of pastel pink. How will she start my day?
Written for Quadrille Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting and ask writers to include the word “present” or a form of the word, in the body of their quadrille, a poem of exactly 44 words sans title.
Photo taken at dawn in Cape Cod’s Provincetown some years ago.We treasure our annual two-week visit to Ptown. I often wrap up in a blanket on the deck, in that chilly dark time before the sun rises, hold a coffee cup in my hands to stay warm, and watch the day dawn over the ocean.
lillian the home poet 