Barley on the Bluff

Summer crops on the prairie,

Form strata in various hues.

There is nowhere else in the world,

Offering up these colorful views.

The crop of barley on the Bluff,

Is a prime example of gravity…

It holds you close to the island rock,

Because it’s where you want to be. 

Island People

People living on an island,

Find their world very small…

They can drive in any direction,

And eventually circle it all.

Non locals seek prescription drugs

To ward off chronic ennui,

They spend Friday nights in ferry lines

Thinking the boat will set them free.

These “Renters” missed the lightning,

The rainbows, and storm clouds in the sky,

Eagles, bunnies, hurricane winds,

The seaplanes that we fly.

But, mostly we walk one hundred feet

To discover a brand new beach,

Secret forests, fern lined trails,

Our important things within reach.

Sipping wine at local parties,

We discuss our new found places.

Retreating daily to our homes…

Our individual sacred spaces.

A Moment on the Water

Tonight I spied a little boat

Full sail in a furious fog,

Blowing in like a forest fire,

Concealing every shore and log.

I hope they’re enjoying the scotch,

Their flask, a future treasure trove,

Found a generation later,

When it washes up in the cove.