SENSING MONHEGAN
With eyes closed
I sense our approach
seas churn beneath and
the boat nears the hidden harbor
ensconsed behind Manana’s looming cloak
I sense her enormity on the right as we slip past,
smutty nose off to portside
the dock is near
we come clumping up to the boards and hit home
with eyes closed, I wait for the small crowd to disembark
and I savor my own private exultation, waiting
until I can make my way quietly onto the pier
and slip through the mystified lurkers
waiting for what I’m sure I don’t know
with eyes closed and my bag slung over a shoulder
I climb the hill
sensing roses and lilies in bloom
the meadow’s sweet, broad haven calls,
its song soft and sultry in the early morning sun
that warms my shoulders as I round the corner
heading toward the place that will be my home for a while…
the rumbling trucks sound their calls
and I step gingerly aside
an island cat seizes the opportunity to say hello
with a tentative ankle rub
I pause to stroke his ears
and wonder if he’ll follow me
then I wonder what my little room will be like this time,
will it be all white and soft and wonderful
will the lace curtains float like laundry in the breeze
when I fling the window wide?
I will take pleasure in unpacking my few things –
an extra pair of jeans, a couple of old flannel shirts
and lots of socks
my journal and a sketch pad, binoculars
and a good book to read
and I’m home in my little island world – this is all I need
when I live here
so free from all that is cumbersome
and eyes closed
I head out into this beckoning world
sensing sea & sky
sensing the firm anchored rootedness of sun-warmed rocks
sensing emerald green grass on the highlands
soft, cushioning moss blanketing the forest floor
sensing patches of blue beyond the overhead lace
of myriad branches above
sensing the kingfisher as he alights on the wire
that spans the ice pond
sensing the simple joys that are all around me
for as long as I’m here and yes,
long after too.
Sensing Monhegan
Lucia Weinhardt
CHILDHOOD MEMORIES IN BLACK AND WHITE
This old black and white photo
has ignited my imagination,
to thoughts racing,
of island children, home grown,
and temporarily transplanted,
to Summer seasons long ago.
There they sit, unaware they have taken root
in the rich field of Time that will grow
the most cherished memories of childhood.
a moment in time,
captured forever to hold,
to study, to recall.
Even in black and white,
I feel the special wonders
of this island playground.
Boundaries clearly marked,
by periphery of sea,
surely didn’t stunt imagination.
On the contrary,
it enhanced,
tickled, encouraged and nurtured
fertile young minds, I am sure.
Oh, what a glorious treasure of memory
those children must have stored!
For, even I,
born landlocked,
now in the Autumn of my years,
“feel” and “recall” their childhood days.
Even though they are not my memories,
I have received them second hand,
and now,
immersed in full color of remembrance,
I, too, am an island child,
captured in a moment in Time.
R.A. Szostek
The Heralding
The two of them came running
in from somewhere off the sand
And said together, a voice that
spoke for both of them.
“There’s a boat of glass tipped
down there on the tide and
No one is in sight, except the two
of us; the sun is shining
Through the stern, the oars are
missing, the seat is gone.”
They tumbled out the story to me
as when they bring me pocketsful
Of shells; then I smile and sort
the shards of broken things,
Lives poured out of trumpet shaped
homes, the sea’s domestic bric-a-brac.
But those two seemed ablaze with
visioning, they quite outgrew
The displays of chalky surfaces we
had marveled over yesterday.
I must go down, of course, they had
my hands, but make me close my eyes
Until we should reach the place.
I had such terror for them-
for me-for yesterday I had told
Them just such a tale, an Arthur
coming back to be king again.
Not afraid of their inventions, not
that, but of what they really
Meant, and how I might interpret
and escape deceit then find a way
To hear again the storm winds brewed
up in shells laid against my ear.
Raymond Stineford
DID MOTHERS KNOW?
Did mothers know
about the schemes of children
about the secret places,
about smoking cigarettes,
about climbing slippery high rocks
on a foggy day,
about cooking periwinkles in rusty cans,
prying them out with rusty nails,
and savoring them with our unborn palates?
Did mothers know
about stories shared,
about tears shed over going home?
Did they know we were
blood sisters and brothers?
Did mothers know
of our parallel lives,
one where we sat at the table,
eating fried hot dogs and chips,
the other, running with friends
along winding paths
into familiar places,
like Fairyland,
the deep crevice at schoolhouse,
the special stoop at Lobster Cove,
the kissing place facing Manana?
Did they know of our world?
The world of reality,
of facing fears
like heights, snakes and walks home
without moonlight, where the wind
made the shadows dance.
Did mothers know
how brilliant our lives were,
with selling seashells,
making things out of nothing,
making each other faint,
turning kelp to dresses,
and starfish into hats,
and seaweed into hair,
and life into magic?
Daphne Stern
by Marjorie Mir on January 24, 2010
STITCH & BITCH
The women settle, their needles
click in thick air. At the
window one heart-red geranium
lists toward light, three paper
whites wrest from fisted bulbs,
their roots worm about the small
stones. The coffee steams, cakes
slant on the sideboard beside the
china plates and cream, spills
of yarn pool in russet and brown,
threads tangle in their wicker
baskets. All afternoon tales
twirl in many colors, births and
deaths, orange, maroon; all afternoon
the woodstove crackling, fingers
flying, while the sea toward the
mainland raves in fury. Foam on the
shore rocks, spittle on the panes.
Jan Bailey, from Heart of the Other
Reprinted by permission of the poet
