Thursday, September 15, 2011

We survived vacation and made it home just in time to catch head colds. But we are indeed overcoming sickness and mountains of laundry. And fondly holding on to the good memories from the trip.

Like drinking hot chocolate and watching the rain on the ocean, late night boggle games with my little siblings, and watching Margaret and William dance to a jam session between my brother, husband and two cousins. Listening to my grandfather lead a home church service out of the common book of prayer. Hiking my old beaches from the shorebird monitoring days. Singing rounds in the low-tide cottage. Kayaking around Wickett's Island in the fading glow of a lovely Cape Cod sunset.

We won't mention the other list, the comedy of errors - like the lost driver's license (found later in Clay's boot, just before arriving at the airport), the smashed coffee pot, or the laptop fried by pickle juice. But I've already said too much.

 Somehow Cape Cod always brings out the artistic creativity in a person. Maybe that is why there are so many poets and authors and artists from there. Or maybe, for us, it is just the pressure to get published in the Onset Island Update. At any rate, Clay and I did a couple more submissions this year. And fortunately  for you (or unfortunately, you can decide), we will share them here as well. Since not everyone is lucky enough to get the OI Update publications.

Starting with my doodlings, which my cousins were kind enough to include:

Clay wrote a mystical poem, to suit the nature of the island when we arrived:

Shrouded in mist, the isles
Arise from the calm of the bay
Wicketts first, stolidly standing
High above the masts of silent ships
Whispering secrets of past glory

Onset is then sighted,
A mound of green and cottage frames
Rising from the gray waves
Rain clouds silently soaking the beaches
With heavy waters of mystery

The sounds of harbor bells
And the solemn call of a loon
Penetrate the dense air
Signaling our arrival at last
We have found our Avalon


I also tried my hand at poetry. To break the spell of poetical silence that I have had since my last great verse six years ago, also on Cape Cod, about the poetical Piping Plover (With halting step and tilted head, "peep-lo, peep-lo" was all he said... you get the idea). It is all very poetical.

This was written after carrying our children across the island to bed late at night, after the Saturday night contra dance and festivities.

Sandy paths, heavy bundles
Sleeping children, arms relaxed
Heavy eyes, heavy breathing
Worn from making sandy tracks

Watching lights reflect on water
As the waves lap on the shore
Reflections spark my inner thinking
Of all the children here before

Laughing, swimming, shivering, digging
In the sand at the lagoon
Dancing, skipping with excitement
Childhood passes all too soon

Music floats across the island
Generations joined in song
Passing on the joy, the wonder
Down the line, the path goes on


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