Tag Archives: maine

Sensing Twilight

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sunsetCharred-black silhouetted
pine trees against
the blue-grey dusk.

The sound of rhythmic velcro
as my flip flops kiss
the damp dirt road.

Cool air brushes past my arms,
and the first flickering stars emerge
from behind the dark cloak of clouds,
that still retains the moon,
prolonging her enterance
into the magnificent night sky.

The lazy barking of a dog
gives way to the
quiet whisper of waves.

With the taste of salty humidity on my lips,
I inhale the scent of stillness,
after a sudden summer rain.

Walking Poem

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rocky Maine shoreThe Sea breathes gently in my ears
as the light surf strokes the rocky sand
in an ancient song that began before the invention of time.

It was not long ago that I mastered the art of scampering
across this rugged Maine shoreline,
first carefully testing each step
then hopping from rock to rough patch of sand
to slippery seaweed covered ledge.

It was here I first learned about beauty,
that the pulse of nature that surrounds us,
is the same that sustains us from within.

Today my feet skip and spring in graceful memory
of the rhythm I have danced so many times gone by.

Today I find new meaning in this timeless,
perpetually shaping coast.

Today I understand the wisdom
in the lessons learned here.

For it is honest and wise to be cautious before stepping,
But there will come a time we must trust in the dance,
and only in letting go do we learn to leap.

Solitude

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As I crossed over the Portsmouth bridge into Maine this afternoon,
I saw a flock of white seagulls fly over the deep blue river.
They dissipated into the grey winter forest,
somehow making me feel at home,
along with the muddy patches of melting snow,
and the vivid shifting sky,
over permeating stillness:

Solitude at peace with itself.

I used to see it all as a trap, an icy prison,
of timber and water.
But today there are moments,
in my messy world of cement and tangled bodies,
that I long to disappear,
like the gulls,
into the wisdom of these ancient pines
and crispy thawing streams.

Maine

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The cold granite stones beneath our feet made us taller,maine

Elevating us above the ordinary cobblestones of Post Office Park,

The moon shinning over our pre-pubescent crew of misfits.

One step closer to the sky.

 

It was on nights such as these that I felt my first creative pangs.

They began as fleeting impressions like witnessing a shooting star,

At first you are not sure of having seen one,

yet there is a sensation of awe that lingers.

 

Then came the tremors,

electric and charged,

pushing me to put words to the haunting beauty that surrounded me.

I dramatically tried to verbalize what I was experiencing,

the sound of wet snow falling on the churning winter ocean

or the scent of wild roses in a thick salty fog.

 

By the time the earthquake hit at age 15, I was armed with the art of words.

Poetry became the valley through which I channeled my raw, turbulent emotions.

At the time I did not understand what was happening,

nor the power I had found in my falling;

I would be saved time and time again

by a blue Bic pen and a white wide-ruled notepad.

 

Life would pull me through twists and turns.

Poetry would make me stay the course.

Hardship would not find me helpless.

 

I often think of the young girl gazing at the summer stars over Exchange St.,

Sipping a cappuccino at Java Joe’s,

Dreaming of what the future would offer.

 

Although 6000 miles and a lifetime away,

not much has changed.

I am still dreaming, still longing, still learning

to be, to love, to create…