The Poet's Perspective

The Many Moods of Scargo Tower

Photos From the Northside

    Welcome to The Poet's Perspective.

              I will be making a pilgrimage of sorts this weekend, venturing to New Hampshire. The last time I visited there was to get the last of my father's belongings when he died in 2002.

    I will return to pay my respects.

No doubt I will return to The Cape with some scenic photos.

     Today's post consists of several recent photos from the North side, Yarmouthport and Dennis, as well as a seasonal montage of views from atop Scargo Tower. I've also included some  poetry.

                                            Scargo Tower-Summer View

Autumn View

                                                                            Winter View

A real pumpkin patch!( Taylor-Bray Farm)

           Orphan Keys      

I have amassed a shrine of orphan keys.

And wonder what secrets are held in these.

What lockets lay rusting on ocean floors?

What padlocked hasps will creak no more?

What Packards and Hudsons no longer roar?

        What key used to open the woodshed door?

        As I am too an orphan, I appreciate their subtlety.

I therefore hesitate to dispose of them prematurely.

For orphans know more of what’s in store.

Than those outsiders judging so quickly.

        For orphans may seem cast in dust.

Apparently bathed in lasting rust.

But invisible dimensions exist. 

     I urge all to discover this.

 Highbush Blueberry takes peculiar form.

(Paths near Gray's beach.)

 Taking flight in Cape Cod gray.

(Almshouse Rd.)

 A burst of light obviates the thicket

(Almshouse Rd.)

Roots take hold-paths near Gray's Beach

 Water and Stone  

Over endless eons water drips upon a stone.

 Neither water nor the stone know that they’re alone.

But I am cast, by contrast, in awareness of solitude.

Yet like water and stone my life has been construed.

By incremental strains and seasonal change.

By knowing more of pain before maturity came.

By knowing life forces’ flows, both deliberate and astray.

And seeing living glory fade into a somber shade of gray.

And many drops upon the stone occur unnoticed.

When airs of worldly numbness do befall us.

‘Till the world deals unexpected punishment.

And invisible strains  prove apparent.

A depression in the stalwart stone.

A furrow in one man’s brow.

Yet they who stand outside themselves can never truly be alone.

As a raindrop can never be divided over stone.

So we should celebrate ourselves as water and stone.

For there’s no need to navigate when souls feel at home-

Clutch whatever comfort that comes to mind.

For the ties that bind aren’t so easily defined.

 Photos and text Copyright 2009 Jonathan Mayo