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.”
On craggy cliff she stands wind whipped hair obscuring view. Brushes dampened curls away, strains to see past white capped waves searching, praying, waiting not so patiently.
She dare not disturb the keeper again. Daily this past month she’d asked news of tides and his predictions. Fresnel lens flashes bright, her beacon of hope these rushing days.
Against her pa’s advice she’d married her sailor man. Now she prays for his return. Do not allow these ocean waters to stake their claim.
Hands clutch railing, winds gust strong. Swollen belly tantrum rolls, sharp quick little kicks announce time is drawing near.
She trudges slowly up the lane, returns to humble cottage. Coaxes crimson embers to flame again. Falls fitfully asleep in padded rocking chair dreaming dreams to will him home again.
Written for Open Link Night at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe.
I will read this aloud on Saturday, October 14th, at OLN LIVE. If you’d like to join us in our 1 hour live session from 10 to 11 AM EST, click here and then click on the appropriate link for Saturday’s LIVE session with audio and video.
Photo was taken on Thursday, October 11 on the last stop of our Boston/Maine/Canada cruise. This is Portland Head Light on Cape Elizabeth in Portland, Maine. Construction began in 1787. It was first lit on January 10, 1791 using 16 whale oil lamps. The first keeper’s house was erected in 1816 and the first Fresnel lens was used in 1864. The lighthouse was totally automated in 1989.
Interesting fact:Boston Light, built in 1716 on Little Brewster Island, is the oldest continually used and only staffed lighthouse in the United States. In November 1989, just as the Coast Guard was preparing to automate the light and remove personnel from the keeper’s house, the U.S. Senate passed a law sponsored by Senator Ted Kennedy requiring that Boston Light be permanently manned. The law also required that public access to Little Brewster be facilitated and in 1999, the island and lighthouse grounds officially opened to the public. Until 1998, the keeper climbed the stairs twice a day to maintain the light. Finally automated in 1998, the light is always “on”, ending the keeper’s need to climb the stairs. But a keeper still lives on Little Brewster, maintains the lighthouse and provides tours to the public.
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.
“I left the farm for the big city sixty-plus years ago. I embraced feminism and burned my bra. Then I met a guy and several months later I was shaving my legs and curling my eyelashes again! He was an English major so I became a romantic poetry sop. One night I even recited a line for him: ‘I want to be pretty for you. I have dropped two seeds of turnsole in the dark of both eyes.” I gravitated to him like sunflowers turning their heads to constantly feel the sun’s rays on their faces. Thank god I came to my senses and never looked back. Enough of this tangent. No more questions, Miss Parkander! Please call the Vice President and tell him he has to be at the Climate Accord meeting I’m hosting at Camp David. The Secretary of State as well.”
Written for Prosery Monday at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today Sanaa asks us to include the line “To be pretty for you I have dropped two seeds of turnsole in the dark of both eyes” from the poem Garden by Isabel Duarte-Gray in our piece of flash fiction that is 144 words or less in length. Turnsole is a type of plant, like a sunflower, that turns its head or stem to follow the movement of the sun. And my question for you is, when will the US have a female President….so many qualified women out there!
Walk with me along Provincetown’s shore. We’ll stroll through ripples of time, these oft etched sands. Some days smooth, some days ribbed like corduroy wale. Some days strewn with seaweed turned black from upheaval by tides in stormy rage. Walk by children’s sand castles, knowing that by night’s end waves will fill their moats, capture make-shift popsicle wrappers turned turret flags.
Farther down the coast remnants of wharves and docks once sentinels for Portuguese fishing boats, stand ghostlike in their dampened pallor. Imagine Wampanoags and Nausets here, long before pilgrims usurped their land. Think about artistic genius in this community: Eugene O’Neill, Norman Mailer, Jackson Pollock, Tennessee Williams, E.E. Cummings. More recently, Mary Oliver lived here for over fifty years, inspired by the raw beauty of this place.
And at night’s end, watch the sky with me, painted in pastels or crimson reds. Tip a glass of wine my friend, sit now and relax. Allow your muse to enjoy every sip.
Written for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today I’m hosting and asking folks to take us on a walk in their poem! Come join us – my guess is we’ll be walking many enjoyable miles through the words of many!
Photos are from our many two-week sojourns to Provincetown – at the very tip – the very end of Cape Cod.
Listen. Tears fall like rain, the soft spring rain gentle, quiet cleansing the earth, the soul.
Rain begins like a tear beading on a rose petal trickling down to nourish the earth, one drop at a time.
Clouds thicken, skies turn dark. Rain falls harder and the earth is saturated, muddy.
Drops become streams. Overflowing banks. A flood of tears rises to wash away our dreams.
Sun breaks through Two rainbows arc across the sky Double surprise, double gift Slowing the tears.
Summer rain smells fresh; earth is nourished; tears are pierced by sunbeams.
Listen. Rain will fall again: On roses, on your parade, on Mondays. Will you walk in it or just get wet?
Written by dear friend, Lindsey Ein, for Tuesday Poetics at dVerse, the virtual pub for poets. Today I’m hosting and asking people to take us on a walk within their poem.
My kaleidoscope memories, colorful because they feature you and me. Time before you sepia toned, indistinct.
Like a deeply embedded sliver tender to the touch, fear festers as you sleep beside me.
I need longer days and many many more, to continue being us.
Written for dVerse where today it’s Quadrille Monday. Kim is hosting and asks us to include the word “sliver” in our poem of exactly 44 words, sans title.
Excited citizens rush through archway thirty-three. They take their seats on marble slabs, cool to the touch this sweltering summer day. Lions roar. Giant bear paws rattle cages. Slaves strain, work a pulley system, lifting up beasts on stone slabs. Trap doors open. The crowd gasps, then screams approval. Eighty thousand men lusting to see lion against tiger, grizzly bear against bear, or prisoner against beast. These to-the-death spectacles, the opening acts.
Last bout of the day, stirs the crowd to mad frenzy. Two gladiators trained to fight, slaves by night, warriors by day. They leave their training complex across the road, make their way through dark, dank tunnels connected to the Colosseum. One a slave with wealthy master, fights to earn his freedom, bout by bout. The other slave, a wealthy man’s business investment, simply tries to stay alive.
Entering the arena, they pause, adjust to glaring sun. The adjudicator signals and the battle begins. When deep wounds pore blood and exhaustion sets in, one man is declared a winner. Both barely alive, they are carted off the field as the crowd roars its approval. Back across the road, medical treatment given, they collapse in their cells. Crowds file out of the Colosseum. A day’s respite with excellent entertainment. Who can ask for anything more?
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe, where it was Open Link Night on Thursday, August 24. I’m a day late posting. BUT, it’s also Open Link Night LIVE, coming up on Saturday, August 26th from 10 to 11 AM EST. Hope you can join us! You’ll find the link to on the dVerse home page,HERE!
We already had OLN LIVE on Thursday and had folks from Sweden, the UK, Jerusalem, Pakistan, Michigan, Iowa, Vermont, New Jersey; Portland, Oregon, Missouri, Washington, and Trinidad Tobago reading a poem of theirs aloud, and chatting with each other. We’re a friendly and appreciative bunch! So do join us on Saturday if you can!
Yes, these are PHOTOS from July when we were on our month-long trip. First stop was Rome and its antiquities. We had a day’s tour with an archeologist which began with an extensive visit to the Colosseum. Everything I’ve written about here is what it was like back in the day! And yes, you can still see the original XXXIII on the archway where folks who had seats in this area entered. The photo bottom left shows part of the floor rebuilt, and you can see the circular shape with the tiers of seats. Photo bottom right shows the partitioned off “rooms” or “cells” where the animals were kept. And yes, there were trap doors in the floor and animals were raised up to suddenly appear on the colosseum floor. It turns out that animal to animal fights were always to the death of at least one animal. Animal to prisoner would most likely end in death to the prisoner. But the real gladiators, unlike in the movies, who fought here, never fought to the death. There was an adjudicator who called the contest and named a winner. The gladiators were actually slaves and had a “school” literally across the road from the colosseum where they trained by day and were locked in their cells by night. As slaves, they were a business investment, owned by wealthy people. When you learn that, you understand why they didn’t fight to the death. Some slaves had the opportunity to earn their freedome by winning X number of battles. Sometimes they managed to do that, but not often. An incredible place to see.Construction on the Colosseum, the largest amphitheater ever built, began in 72AD and was completed in 80 AD. It held 50 to 80,000 people. And there was indeed a “gladiator school” across the road. There was daily entertainment here, provided to the citizens free of charge, and sponsored by the Emperor.
i On the street corner used and discarded needles, broken bottles too. The downtrodden neglected, Mother Teresa long dead.
ii Bottled up feelings like a Molotov cocktail, stuffed and volatile. When circumstances throw him, he’ll blow his top like Etna.
iii Bottle tipped over, red wine stained white tablecloth. Lipstick on glass rim, her perfume scent still lingered. The filthy slut betrayed him.
iv Glass milk jug bottles, Wonder Bread pb and js, Father Knows Best, Roy Rogers, saddle shoes and bobby sox. My fifties and sixties life.
Written for dVerse, the virtual pub for poets around the globe. Today, Grace asks us to write about bottles.
The Tanka form is a 5 line poem with the following syllabic content in each line: 5-7-5-7-7
Roy Rogers and Father Knows Best were very popular tv shows in the 1950s. Roy Rogers vied for viewers with Gene Autry and also the Lone Ranger. We always got glass milk jugs from the grocer….no such thing as waxed cardboard containers in those days. Wonder Bread is a spongey white bread, still sold in groceries today. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on Wonder Bread were always in my tin Lone Ranger lunch box!
lillian the home poet 