Hydra at Dawn

 

A cruise-ship is a crib that lulls its occupants to sleep rocking them gently and then like a magic carpet carries them away to a new location during the night to awaken and be amazed by its beauty.

I awoke from a deep sea-slumber staring at the sleepy island of Hydra with the sun rising over its peaks. The town was nestled between three mountains and the houses decreased in number as the elevation increased. There were no cars allowed on the island; only donkeys or feet were the means of transportation in this pristine place. The town sat around the perimeter of the harbor in which small boats were docked. I was blinded by a dazzling display of sunlight-diamonds reflecting off the calm waves of the harbor, stretching out in a triangular pattern and engulfing the hull of the ship a quarter mile from shore. The lights were ever changing polished gems, dissipating and reappearing in a new pattern and location. My imagination wandered, refreshed by sleep, wondering if the lights were simply reflected light or possibly mermaids entranced by the island’s beauty, or maybe even sirens attempting to lull ships near the rocks. I had not packed wax into my suitcase, so I did without it. Maybe the lights were the souls of Greeks from ancient history swimming up from the afterlife to look again at their beautiful land and remember their exploits and accomplishments reminiscing of when they possessed a corporeal body to walk the land and breathe in the crisp clean air. Homer and Socrates, Euripides and Aeschylus, Plato and Aristotle, Herodotus and Thucydides, Clea and Aspasia, Pythagoras and Pericles all numbered among the throng in my vision, remembering and revisiting the past before returning this vista to the living.

 

Jim -Sept 23’

The Siren

A Musical Writing Prompt:
Listen to Debussy's nocturne titled "Sirens". Write a short piece while you are still under its spell.

When life gets to be too much, and the sounds of the city overwhelm me, I return to the waves. I live in the city, and my entire life is here, but my body craves the salty air and caress of the sand on my skin once the exhaustion sets in from the mundanity of daily routine. My passion for the sea was inherited from my mother, who escapes to the beach every chance she gets in the summer. When I was only three months old, my mother brought me to the beach in Montauk, holding me close to her chest in a light blanket to keep me cool and protected from the blazing sun. This was the first of many more family vacations to the sea, a brief abandonment of the life we shared in the city. Although I could not form memories, the solitary experience of the sea seeped into my small, undeveloped infant bones, forever changing my very being.

Despite my love for the sea, I dislike boating because of my sea-sickness, the bane of my existence. Instead, I prefer to float in the sea, absorb the water like a sponge, swim, and merely dip my toes. Just this is enough to satisfy my longing for the sea. It’s the experience of being near the sea and touching the water that truly lights my soul afire and washes away the worries on my mind. The sounds of the sea - the repetitive crashing of the waves, the cries of the seagulls, and the crunch of seashells beneath my feet - calm my mind and quell the fears that I carried with me from the city to the coast. When I stand at the shore, I recognize the darkness that the sea holds. It has the deceptive ability to call us in, tempting us with calmness, but threatening us with drowning in its depth.

On my father’s side, I descend from the hills of Sicily, an island inundated by three seas that give it fertile farmland, fresh seafood, and a blend of Mediterranean cultures. Sicily is characterized by its otherworldly beaches that have warm, turquoise-blue water and white sands. When I visit my family, my first request is to drive to the beach, where I sit and take in the natural beauty that surrounds me. It just exists, and that is enough for it to be beautiful. I am rebirthed after a visit to the Sicilian coast, where I spend hours swimming and letting the rough sand smooth my sunburned skin like sea glass. After a day in the sea, I emerge from the water with a new perspective on life, like Venus brought forth from the sea foam and waves.

Lexi

Favorite Poem(s): Based on a "Writing from the Heart" Assignment

 

“There’s A Hole in My Sidewalk: Autobiography in Five Short Chapters” ~ by Portia Nelson

Chapter I

I walk down the street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk

I fall in.

I am lost … I am helpless.

It isn’t my fault.

It takes forever to find a way out.

Chapter II

I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I pretend I don’t see it.

I fall in again.

I can’t believe I am in the same place.

But it isn’t my fault.

It still takes a long time to get out.

Chapter III

I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I see it is there.

I still fall in … it’s a habit … but,

My eyes are open.

I know where I am.

It is my fault.

I get out immediately.

Chapter IV

I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I walk around it.

Chapter V

I walk down another street.

This poem is a metaphor of our habits, our chronic beliefs, our dysfunctional need to act out unconscious messages. This poem explains that we may have to go through many attempts in figuring out what we need to do to change our lives for the better to live up to our true potential.

Change is hard, self-reflection is very uncomfortable. Coming out of the fog of living mechanically and repetitiously and habitually can be painful and excruciating.  

Chapter one and two shows what happens when we are struggling with denial, murky trance, daze and state of confusion when we are in ignorance and unawareness.

Chapter three and four shows the beginning of awareness. The beginning of refection. The beginning of thinking in new ways. What is able to be done, feasible, and achievable.

Chapter five is nirvana, peace, free, wide open new sidewalk with new experiences and possibilities. This is now your way, your street, and your life. Self-agency, will power, autonomy, ability, confidence restored.

This poem is a powerful reminder that we all have the power to change our lives. It may take time and effort, but it is possible to break free from our old habits and patterns and create a new path for ourselves. The first step is to become aware of our own blind spots and limitations. Once we see where we are, we can start to make changes. It may not be easy, but it is possible. And the rewards are worth it.

This poem also teaches us the importance of self-responsibility. We cannot blame others for our problems. We are the ones who create our own reality.

This poem is a call to action. It challenges us to wake up, take responsibility for our lives, and create the change we want to see.

The poem is a reminder that we are not alone. We all struggle with our own challenges. But we can overcome them together.

Georgia

Finding the Right Gadget

 

My hunt for a chopper/slicer was initially disappointing. I tried a dozen or so choppers/slicers that were name brand and no name brand. Each either broke or didn’t perform as advertised.

When I sliced a huge piece of my right-hand pinky finger and ended up in the emergency room and needed a bunch of stiches, I was ready to give up. Maybe there will be no chopper/slicer that will work for me.

I was in Bed, Bath and Beyond one day and found the Vidalia Chop Wizard. It is a chopper and has a separate mandolin slicer. For twenty dollars I decided to give my search for a chopper/slicer one more time.

To my amazement the chopper had two sizes of blades placed over the vessel that held the veggies. I tried it, perfect potatoes, perfect carrots, perfect onions, and perfect peppers. This was it.

Finally, I had found my chopper. I tried the mandolin slicer very carefully. The slices of onion were paper thin. Perfect. I don’t use the slicer often because I fear slicing my finger into paper thin slices and landing in the emergency room again.

I tried to chop cheddar cheese and broke the vessel part. I pushed too hard. Ugh. Off to Bed, Bath and Beyond for another twenty-dollar Vidalia Chop Wizard. This time I used my twenty percent off coupon.

I have broken a few of these choppers trying to chop food items that were way too hard to chop. I am on my fourth chopper. The one I have now is three years old. Fingers crossed it will last a very long time.

Bed, Bath and Beyond is closed now so I can buy directly from the manufacturer if need be.

The message here is don’t give up on finding those handy gadgets that you really need in your kitchen.

Georgia

Rainstorm (Revised)

 

A phalanx of powerful rain drops fall from the unremitting charcoal sky. Each drop propels itself down onto the car hood with such ferocity that the surface of the vehicle reverberates, as if under attack from a battery of bass drums. Each raindrop then jumps straight up for a small measure to land again in a timpani of lighter drum beats. Little rivulets leap over the edge of the car to merge with comrades on the flooded road. My eyes watch, mesmerized by orchestration and choreography, the beautiful ballet of the inundation.

            Then my brain interrupts, warning my consciousness of the drenching danger. My hands grip the wheel, and I force my eyes to focus on the deluged road. Through the windshield and the thick mist ahead, I can just make out the indefinite blinking taillights of the car in front, and through the fogged-up rear view window, the vague headlights of the car behind. Our brave convoy slogs slowly, single-file down the diminished highway.   Other drivers, perhaps with more discretion, have pulled over. There are two semis and a dozen cars pulled off to the side of the road.

            I am too frightened to pull over. Images from recent newscasts sequence through my head: newly formed rapids rushing down Main Streets, cars carried away by the whitewater, drivers air-lifted from the roofs of cars, head-shots of people who drowned in the torrents. Also, the memory of driving home in the middle of a surprise spring blizzard decades ago, still haunts me. My sister, peering through a fogged-up windshield, cautiously navigated the snow-clogged road. We watched in horror, as almost every car that tried to pull slipped or flipped against the trees and rocks on the side of the Thruway. Today, at this risky moment, I resolve to forge ahead, tense but alert, just as my sister had.

            Finally, in the distance, I see a clearing in the threatening skies, a patch of shimmer. I can see the low forms of the Berkshire Hills on the horizon, contrasted by a dull glare above them. As the rainfall lessens, and I drive toward the brightness, I feel my shoulders drop three inches and a gasp of relief escape my lips. My beloved Berkshires are revealed again. There is a whisper of promise ahead.

Marsha H.

August Pleasure

 

The last two weeks in August are the best time of summer. This is a transition period of the hot weather cooling down; many folks take their vacations at this time resulting in less traffic, no crowded stores and the feeling of energetic vacancy.

The mornings are cooler, the days are hot, and the nights are refreshing.

The beach gets quiet; the earth has moved on its axis making the days shorter and shorter by the hour. There’s a leaf here and there turning brown, yellow and red on random trees hinting at what is to come.

There is a gap at this time between the beginning of the new school year and buying school supplies and the anticipation of fall with cool wind and falling leaves.

Most people have their own idea of ending their summer. For me it is these last two weeks of August. Meteorologists and Climatologist say summer ends on August 31^st. I have to agree.

There will be an occasional hot day for a few weeks and that is OK. I will reflect on my summer activities and remember the roar of the ocean and the sea gulls stealing food and the hot sand in my toes and quietly look forward to the fall.

Georgia

Rolling on the River

 

I can hear Tina Turner right now signing this tune.

Big wheels keep on turning 

Proud Mary keeps on burning 

Rolling, rolling

Rolling on the river

Rolling, say we rolling

Rolling on the river

I feel incredibly lucky to live very near the East River where day and night I can take a ferry to midtown Manhattan or sit on the Long Island City Piers and watch tankers, blue sailboats, boys on jet skis, barges pushing coal, orange sightseeing yachts, the police guarding the United Nations in their boats.

I can hear the wave’s crash onto the manmade walls, the wakes quickly rippling sideways resulting from a passing nautical vehicle.

I have been to the river at four in the morning listening to the current. The current has no conception of time. It moves at its own pace. I have been to the river in storms. White crested fast-moving streams of cold black water well over eight feet high are common.

On moonlight nights when the tide is low there are gushes and occasional avalanches of smashing water on pointy barely hidden rocks.

As I take a ferry ride to Manhattan, I know this closest watercraft to a Mississippi River Boat I will ever see in New York City.

Happily, I sing: Rolling, rolling, Rolling on the river, Rolling, say we rolling, Rolling on the river, do, do, do, do…………………………………

Georgia