Hurricane Forecast

Hurricane Forecast

We felt the wonder

of the moment. . .

standing silent, awaiting

the outcome of an event unfolding

untouched by human hands. . .

wind and sea spoke with voices far away

but touching us nonetheless.

fear and hope we held in visions of

our own device. . .

— C. Glenn Sprague

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Requiem for Little Guy

Requiem for Little Guy

Love’s embrace

Held thee

A short while — almost weightless.

Fly away

Little Soul

On butterfly wings.

Frail veil

Of human life

Slipped through love’s fingers — voiceless.

Fly high

Little Guy

On angel’s wings — all breathless.

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Portrait of My Husband Reading Henry James

Rather, it is in the shorter history of America,

not England, not Italy, that we find ourselves

in the perfect middle of a rainy, summer afternoon

inside a 1930s shingled boathouse long since

beached on a low hill out of water’s reach,

and plumbed and electrified for habitation.

No effort has been made to hide its origins.

Old masts and spars wait in the overhead rafters.

Blocks and tackle, coiled in figure eight knots,

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Remembering Dan Aronie
Michael West

Behind his eyes the part of him

That always knew the joke

Till at the end the only thing he needed

Was a smile.

— Gerry Storrow, from Requiem

Dan Aronie died early last Friday morning at his home in Vineyard Haven. He was 38. Dan had suffered for much of his life with both diabetes and multiple sclerosis.

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The Quahaug Seeker

The Quahaug Seeker By Adam Moore

Sengekontacket rippling gray

Waters had beckoned me to lay

My rusty basket rake upon

The sandy bottom of the pond.

I grasped, as did I deeper wade,

A rope with braided fibers frayed,

And with it tethered bushel wire,

Afloat in rubber tube from tire.

To quahaugs rake, to harvest reap,

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Sea Breeze

Sea Breeze

Alas! the flesh is sad; the books I’ve read already —

O to run away! To flee! I feel with birds their giddy

Flights between unknowns: sea-foams and skies!

And nothing, not old gardens mirrored in bright eyes,

Can now hold back this heart — o sea-drenched nights!

Nor, on this empty paper, lamp-light’s

Desert clarity, whose whiteness keeps it undefiled;

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Chappy Shadow Walk

Chappy Shadow Walk

I took a stroll this morning, before the sun would shine,

down Cape Pogue Ave to Chappy Road, and met a good friend of mine.

Across Dike Bridge and to the beach, we stopped a while to rest,

and each time I turned to look for him, he was always to the west.

We walked along in silence, but I had a lot to say,

past Poucha Pond along the shore until we reached Katama Bay.

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West Tisbury Library’s Limerick Winners

Winner’s Circle

I’m trying to rhyme the word “Vineyard;”

Thank goodness it isn’t a sin word.

Unlike that Nantucket

Where oaths fill a bucket,

We keep our frustrations all inward.

— Eileen Maley

A man with no key to Quansoo

His paltry investments did rue

With portfolio tanked

That bright shining bank

Could only be reached by canoe.

— Beth Parker

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Tom

Tom

They broke the mold

When he came out

One look was all

You need

A singular

Relentless soul

In every word

And deed

He fished by trade

But gifts he brought

Whenever he’s ashore

Pianos tickled

With his ways

Oysters for evermore

Bless the soul of

Tommy O

Bless his heart indeed

He rambled

And he lusted

Yo

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Paying Solemn Tribute to a Lost Lieutenant

Northeast wind blowin’ whoo whoo

Rain and sleet with wet mixed in snow

The ducks were flyin’ fast and low.

Bam, bam, I heard him down in Quenames Cove

Had to be D.P., wouldn’t you know.

Not long after in the murky dusk

A camouflaged figure with several ducks

Cold and wet right to the skin

But when he got near I could see his grin.

Said hey there you, how did you do?

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