Rock intrusion




Feather, shells


En Route


Cliffs, fog




Trap Day Video

(Whoever deserves credit for this, let us know in comments and we’ll post. Video by Rich Vial. YouTube member name is: hoalawman)

South of Gull Rock


Museum and Dory


Andy’s Shadow – Bonnie Enes

Epigraph: I think it’s what you take out
of a picture that counts. There’s
a residue. An invisible shadow.
—Andrew Wyeth, 1917-2009

Andy’s Shadows

Christina’s World
In the left corner
a woman in a faded pink dress
thin black belt
sitting twisted in the meadow
her back to us
black hair sliced through with gray
askew from the bun
face turned upward
arms like legs, hands like feet
heading in the direction
of the weathered farm house
on the hill in the upper right corner
set in a circle of mowed grass
no windows painted
onto the left side of the house
even though there are.

face of an elderly woman
her wheelchair
her legs polio-ravaged
her drag marks across
the floors of the farm house
the overwhelming stench
her lobster-red geraniums in a kitchen window
her tenacity
her world
her brother’s selflessness
his dory put to bed in the barn.




Monhegan Cached by Gus Bombard


The island is always there, imprinted,
a fluid, moving backdrop for the planned
and daily gestures enacted before it.

Miles from the coast, Port Clyde,
the Elizabeth Ann, and the ever-changing sea,
I read and reread poems written by acolytes
who are there in its strong embrace.
Their literate, graphic pictures catch in my throat
with recognition as the words
fuse together in focused images–

And–I turn to the pictures themselves:
they repeat the loving descriptions that I
not only remember, but wrote about.
My legal pad, fountain pen, and I,
tied to the shore, immerse ourselves
into our communal, esoteric passion.
We write about distinct well-worn shadows.

Gus Bombard

Burnt Head – Betsy Bunn


The surface of the ocean
Ups and downs itself,
Foams white and stops to sparkle
Then does it all again.

I peer and blink and peer again,
Moving small binoculars, tightening the view.
So much foam. So many bumps and downs.

“Please be a whale,”
I pray to the bumps. “I want to see a whale.”
The sea goes flat.

Out on the farthest rocky point,
There’s a man and a tripod and some small white shape I can’t make out.
It’s probably a painter with easel and paints. Maybe a white jacket.

“Precarious,” I think,
“especially for the tripod and the paint.”

I lift my glasses once again.
I was wrong.
The tripod is a telescope;
The white shape is a woman
Huddled low against the rocks.
Surely they are looking for a whale!

I set my sights in their direction.
I watch; she points.
The sea goes flat again.

“Oh God of all the blessings of this glorious day,
Would it be too much to send a whale?”

Betsy Bunn
September 2009

Oct. 16 photo

Whale on the back side

Whale on the back side

Oct. 15 photo

Fire Tool Box, Lobster Cove

Fire Tool Box, Lobster Cove

Oct. 14 photo




(In Memory of Mandy)
The cat wants in and
The dog wants out
A summer resident from Boston
pops in to catch up
The cat slips in but
The dog curls up
A day tripper from Kittery
wants a cappuccino, sweet
The dog finds her frisbee
The cat gets stroked
By a mother (babe in backpack)
sitting down on the steps
The cat claws the screen
The dog wants out
Two year-round island women
plan a party tonight
The cat slips in as
The dog slips out with
The gal behind the counter who
slings the toy across the green
The cat — wait, it’s another cat…
the dog snags the frisbee
The weekly renter in Treetops
buys a tiny lobster boat
The new cat wants out
The old cat wants in
The dog biting the frisbee
gallops back to the store
The cat sits, undecided
The dog licks the cat…then wants in
Ten birders with binoculars
buy Monhegan trail maps
The dog wants out
Now the cat wants in and
The dog wants out
Another customer with a smile
checks the postcards and books
Matt Kiell

October Morning – Douglas Wray

October Morning - Douglas Wray

October Morning - Douglas Wray

Zimmie – Matt Williamson


sign by the door said “if you MUST
have your sunday times, the boat leaves at noon.”
and  he wasn’t ever sweet,
that i saw.

except in those fine little picture postcards,
musta been hundreds of em, took em with a brownie,
i heard, when brownies still had
the good optics.

i once lost a lens cap, and he rooted round
under his counter until he found one to fit.
never a hint of smile,
that i saw.

zimmie was vinegar, in my memory,
but that mixed well with the sweetness outside,
white hair and brows, eyes hard and clean,
like they could cut.

and the coffee smelt as good as whiskey,
and the talk was warm and funny in that store
in the morning but never sweet
that i could tell.

Matt Williamson

Monhegan Chart