The Poet's Perspective

Late winter photo essay

Welcome to the latest edition of The Poet's Perspective.

My camera has been restless these past few weeks. Wonders abound across hill and dale. I'd like to share some recent photos taken in Yarmouth, Brewster, Eastham and Provincetown as well as some scattered verse.

We anxiously await the daffodils!

Visiting a  cedar swamp in Yarmouth provided interesting material.

                             Ice formations in the cedar swamp

Did the DPW worker notice his own art?

A Writer’s Prayer

 I’ve just found a notebook, uncluttered and clean,

On which to denote only that which I mean-

To leave no page besmirched by words of novel urge;

To tread merrily where parity and destiny diverge-

Perhaps to you it seems foolish to treat mere textiles with such seriousness.

By as of late, I’ve felt precious little purity of purpose.

At times the depths of little things multiply.

When desire devours hours, muses mystify.

So good-bye I say to the tides of dismay.

Through mere words I may lay an enticing display.

Through mere ink I may drink from the cup of forever.

If I yield ends I intend, you’ll be feeling much better.

For mine is an itch that burns from within.

Entwined in the riddles of virtue and sin-

We’ve no other choice than to heed our inner voice.

Which we will to be wary of with cause to rejoice-

And God knows I wasn’t born with angel’s wings.

But I’m nonetheless wary on the morn that angel sings.

I’ll prick my ears out to the whisperings of many birds and trees.

With an eye towards the tides as they rise and recede-

A joyous eye to the children as they frolic and play-

A jaundiced lens towards governments who deny and delay-

Romantic regard for all things natural-

One hand tending the critical, the other the practical-

For pursuits such as these are as dust in the breeze.

Wee little ghosts we entrust to release.

To worlds of uncertainty, ecstasy and avarice-

Idealist hopes lean towards a  broader sense of purpose!

Ice persists on the bank of Mill Pond, Punkhorn, Brewster

A tree succumbs to the wind-Eagle Point, Punkhorn

 The next photos are from the Penniman House and Fort Hill area in Eastham.

Sharpening Stone

Champlain dubbed it “Port de Mallebarre”

The Natives simply knew it as home.

Through muddy inlets of Nauset.

The Wampanoag once did roam.

One lone stone, perhaps more aptly termed a boulder.

Sat firmly tuck in the tidal muck of Nauset’s northwest shoulder.

Passers-by came to recognize that the sloping stone did abrade.

And through simpler commerce and truer communion, sharper implements were made.

Sharp eyes paired with sharpened tools.

Led to even sharper ability.

Soon their arrows and spears flew true.

Fishhooks set decisively.

But then came the visitors who cursed simplicity.

Embroiled in the fervor of well-intentioned epiphany.

They forged a whole new context.

One of glory and viral virility.

But in contrast still stands the lonely stone.

Which bears evidence today of its utility.

Parallel grooves, long and deep.

Suggest age old grace and patience.

A simpler definition of progress.

A trait so very un-European.

The late afternoon sky at Race Point 

Always Remember...

                         When uphill battles become the norm.

                         Level ground takes unusually attractive form.

                        When so rarely in life doth stability afford.

                       Those things that are earned do seem a reward.