Tag Archives: writers

Morning at Keystone Harbor

Mast-high pilons root deep in the harbour sand

and slapped by bickering waves

abrupt and cold, as if salt-crusted sea cow’s tongues

washed the creosote, lapping the rough black skin

cringed in retreat at the horrid tar taste

and swelling again hunched their wet shoulders

A stadium wave pummels the shore

incessant and rough

stretched and rolled beyond limits

potential velocity breached and broken in foam

while terns and kittiwakes play on invisible currents

spearing the air with their descending cries

high wire acts on daredevil wings

flickering from kohl to silver

shimmering white then back to black

frontside to backside, fishschool patterns

flocking and swirling their silhouette like smoke

dissolving against the cyan blue sky

Two terns in the harbour mercilessly tease

a solitary grey-winged king of the pilon

the glaucous gull, the beggar bird

Detached and rooted he cries

tasting the aromas of

fresh baked bread and buttered crab legs

Across from the harbor

a broad windowed café gazes at the sea

surrounded by flowering weeds and dancing climber roses

red against white beside weathered ash benches

There, a writer sits in her windproof jacket,

intense and frowning

lost in the force and dimension of imagine

her broken stories mended by a smooth wooden pen

while, gathering the morning sun,

the oil of rose wafts subconsciously

into her work

Beyond her a mocking ghost fence

groans in the breeze and rattles in the wind

and traverses the meadow grass beside the coast road

a wooden signboard, wearing time-peeled paint,

hangs upon rust-bleeding screws

Chipped and blistered

it tells its own half-dead

but still kicking story

in black on white with three simple words

Private, it says.

No Trespassing

gulls painting may be purchased from:  http://www.carolthompson.com/seabirds/harbor-gulls/index.htm

Entered in: http://promisingpoetsparkinglot.blogspot.com/




April 1, 2012 · 5:03 pm

Disturbed lover

Sometimes my relationship with writing disturbs me. It drags my mind into such focused attention that the rest of me gets lost.  If I sit this morning to write a couple of sentences, for example, will I remember to change out of my wet dog-walking grubs, have a much-needed bath and wash my sleep-ironed hair?  Will I notice my lunchless tummy grumbling at 2 pm, or my feet turning blue with cold from lack of movement at 4:00?  In spite of myself I go ahead, start the first two sentences, and before I know it, another tome has risen on the blank sheet like a rock tor on the moors – Alone in the silence. 

But not alone. 

Always – the lark, whose thumb-sized body disappears in the heights of sky,  whose voice fills acres of wind, surrounds me.  Always – the mesmerizing drone of winged heather and gorse pollen-gatherers; Always – the clop or thunder of hooves chasing trail; or the soft sound of muzzels nudging and munching the nourishing vegetation on the next rise, assure me that I am not alone. Amongst my moor-misted companions, I forget tedious responsibilities until the chill damp sends me home to a hot bath and a cold sink full of yet-to-be-washed dishes.

The writer in me struggles with this daily conundrum: Which life is real – the sink that calls my name more than three times a day demanding attention?  Or the screen and keyboard that replaced the broken pen and beckon, promising thoughts that drift from golden gorse to purple mounds and summer dew on silver webs?

Libby snores in answer behind me, her golden sides rising and falling with contented dog-walked sleep, bringing me back to the moment. My two intended sentences are complete and grown into several, and I realise with a satisfaction like a heroine-lover’s relief, that I’ve had my injection of words… yet, I want more.


Filed under Non-Fiction, Uncategorized