Tag Archives: outdoors

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creche

I visited the creche yesterday. It’s always a wonderment to see the young getting ready to hatch from the rocks. Since we are not native to this planet, our ancestors visited eons ago. The young are terribly slow to develop in the rock, but this one is very close. I am just one of the lizards who go to check it. I am awaiting the call for when it is ready to hatch. The vibrations will call me and all the other lizards who are close. That will be a joyous occasion.

When I visit, I hum and the eggs hum in response. It helps them to remember and to develop.

I look forward to the hatching.

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For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: wonderment.

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The brim of the ocean

The beach is the brim of the ocean
we dabblers play at the rim
The tide overflows up the land
What to a whale is a sin?

We walk at the edge of the ocean
we run from the waves rolling in
we swim in the sea or float in a boat
What to a whale is a sin?

Leviathan live in the ocean
breech sprays to breathe at need
the brim of their home is the land
The sea is the place that they feed

The land is a tide to a whale
Boat islands sometimes approach
Do whales wander and wonder near land?
Wonder why land must encroach?

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For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: brim.

I think I need a tune.

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not really, right?

I ask a male friend of mine, older and perhaps wiser. “Um, the guys I have dated or even just hung out with are only interested in their interests. They are not interested in me or what I am doing. For example, I mention that I have a blog twice to two different males recently and they completely ignore it. I mention that I just did a poetry reading and one whips out his phone and shows me a family member’s poem. What is it with that?”

“Well,” he says, “Men are only interested in what a woman is doing, if they are in love with her.”

“Really?” I say. “Holy crap.”

“Absolutely.”

I am still chewing on this. I have dated various “gentlemen” for a couple of years each since I got divorced. One of them is still a friend. Last month he said, “I think you like writing better than I do.” Um. He has known me since 2008. Powers of observation, like a hawk in flight, heh.

I can think of seven guys since 2007, when my divorce was final, who really showed very little interest in what I was doing. Ok, one of them did read my blog and another admitted to reading at least one post, but refused to EVER comment. What the hell? Meanwhile they want to talk about their collections, their jobs, their lives, their interests.

And so I reexamine my ex-husband. He actually DID listen and WAS interested. Mostly he laughed at me, but medical school and residency were off the scale dysfunctional and ridiculous. And in turn I listened to his golf shots and watched Payne Stewart dress in NFL colors and plus fours.

But I don’t get it. Maybe the younger generations are a lot smarter and I think they are darn smart to say who cares about the XX or XY or XO or XYY chromosomes! There are lots of other chromosomes! Let’s get over race and gender! That stuff is shallow unless you are interested in someone in the pants zone.

And then men complain to me that they do not understand women. Really? I ask if they have ever read a romance novel. One said, “Those are for women. I wouldn’t do that.” So one romance would take away your man credentials? I say, well, you might understand what our culture indoctrinates women with if you did read a romance. Not to mention notice that Disney animation glorifies virginal princesses, but gosh, queens are either dead or evil. Doesn’t seem like a good career choice, breeder for the ruler. Especially if you’ll die in childbirth or turn evil.

I hope my male friend is wrong, but I am paying attention. And noticing if a man is not.


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The cliffs erode

The cliffs erode and trees fall. This tree is still alive, but not for long.

Chunks of clay and rocks are washed by the tides. Is the water rising?

I find beautiful rocks, as a consequence of the waters that seem to be rising.

Confidence and cliffs eroding.

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For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: consequences.

Taken on Marrowstone Island, March 8, 2023.

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Sailing with my father

Sailing with my father
after I’m divorced
we take my two children.
They and I are small.
My father is frail,
55 years of Camel cigarettes
in his lungs.
“Papa,” I say, “How would we
pull you in if you went
overboard? We aren’t strong enough.”
Nor is he strong enough
to pull me in.
My father thinks. “You are right,”
he says, “We’ll make a Go Bag.”
A 3 to 1 pulley, with a clip.
We can clip it to the boom
and push it out over the water.
Attach the pulley to the life jacket
and I can winch nearly anyone aboard.
Maybe. We have it in a dry bag,
with towels and chocolate
and a set of sweats,
a space blanket
because the water is cold here,
45-55. My father knows, I’m sure,
that if he falls in, he’d be unlikely
to survive even if I did reel him in,
an unlikely catch. We wear our life jackets
and the kids do too.

One time we hit container ship waves
when my son is on the bow.
He is thrown up and drops, flat,
prone on the bow, holding on.
This boat has no railings
but my children pay attention.

We never have to use the pulley.

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At first my father said that we could unhook the haul down and use the boom, but I said, if it’s me and two little kids and I have to drop sail and get back to someone, that is too hard. How do we make it easier?