Bass Fishing At Squibnocket

I stand as the black water

Of each wave’s backwash

Hugs my hip boots

Making little stars of light

The fish-filled night.

Early on I was hoping for a strike

Of some huge striped bass to fight,

But now, to hell with fishing,

I would rather stand here casting.

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Thaw
The ground is thawing. And now the sun has reached an angle of amber upon the bees.
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Flight Home from LAX
LAX creates somniacs or worse. Promised wifi is a lie. We lay to wait connection, a continuation home.
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A Tribute to Pathways
Winter solstice was hardly a comfort, for those of us who suffer from SAD while enduring our endless days fading daylight.
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So Much Kindness
I appreciate the prayers and kindness shown to me and my family during my daughter’s illness. So happy to be back on-Island. So grateful. The following by Naomi Shihab Nye, from The Words Under the Words: Selected Poems, captures perfectly my sentiment at this time.
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Memories of Pop Still Line the Dashboard
The following poem is by Warren Woessner, a birding enthusiast and bard who wanders the shorelines of the Island.
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Mining Poetry for Humor and Meaning

What if a deceased dog could talk? What if hippos went on holiday?

Those are some of the questions asked and answered by the former U.S. poet laureate and Island favorite Billy Collins in a reading of new and selected poems at Featherstone Center for the Arts last Friday evening. Among other disparate themes, he explored parenting, animal-human relationships, endearing soap bars and the experience of a traveler who arrives in a foreign place and is immediately told he has arrived too late in the year to witness the peak of the natural beauty.

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My Yellow Lab Floyd
He shows me the way A boy in a dog suit On a scent Innocent His marble-sized eyes Soft brown nougats Warm Black Crow centers Anchored in opposing tear drops At rest Lying sideways Between the weight of the world And a profound sense of loss He has seen it all And regrets most of it Eyes rimmed as if with kohl It’s a look, a look that cannot be denied You want to give him everything You will give him anything, Anything that will make his tongue come out And swipe his snout Or make him sweep the floor with his tail Call his name Tell him he’s good Ask him if he wants food Ask him if he wants a ride Tell him Mommy’s coming Tell him anyone’s coming For God’s sake just say hello As Quixote upon seeing a windmill, He tilts his head He pumps an eyebrow He’s ready to follow you To the ends of the earth or the driveway, Whichever comes first. “Mommy, why is that doggie so sad?” The little girl pumps her mother’s hand, Her finger wags at Floyd “He can’t help it,” I say in a sing-song way. “His eyes are shaped like sadness. His brows slope down, Like a seesaw always down. He always looks this way, Even when he’s happy And he’s always happy. Isn’t that right, Floyd?” Tilt Pump Lick Wag Giggle The little girl runs over and hugs Floyd, Squeezing his scruff with arms of grace in training. He looks at me as if to say, “Is this the ends of the earth or the driveway?”
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Acclaim Received, Never Sought for Poetic Soul

Throughout her life, Fanny Howe has consistently chosen to do what she loves most, never expecting to be compensated, much less be read or appreciated. She has lived a life of letters, writing poetry for her own enjoyment and inspiring others to do the same.

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Noepe Center for Literary Arts: A Still Place for Flowing Creativity
In the Wampanoag language, the word “noepe” means, according to one interpretation, a still place among the currents. The Wampanoag people gave the name Noepe to this Island to indicate that it was a piece of dry land among opposing tidal currents.

In downtown Edgartown, a still place exists at the intersection of three roads. It is a refuge of sorts, which has for years provided shelter and peace of mind to visiting artists.

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