October 2015

4 articles in October 2015

It was remarkably quiet on the beach the other day. The quiet time was logical because most of the tourists had gone home, so the ocean’s shore clearly demonstrated the beautiful place I call home.

I was not alone on this particular morning. All around me were men and women enjoying the same serenity I was enjoying. Having benches along the beach at York, Maine makes it especially special this time of year. Since I’ve been living here the past four decades a memory popped into my mind. Years before I remember sitting next to an elderly gentleman whose white ashen skin probably hasn’t seen the sun in a long time.

He looked frail and after I sat down next to him he appeared anxious. After a few moments it was obvious I did make him feel uncomfortable because he leaned toward his side of the bench as far away from me as possible. Maybe he was afraid of me. I decided to talk with this gentleman, so I could at least try to calm him down. He wouldn’t even look at me. He just stared straight ahead and in his mind’s eye I am sure I didn’t even exist. Or did he believe he didn’t exist.

I remember asking myself why won’t the old talk to us. Why is it so hard for them to explain their years of experience to those of us who try not to make the mistakes of those who lived before? Why is it so difficult for them to look into our eyes and explain how they got to become so old? To paraphrase Harry Truman, “There is nothing new in this world. Only the time that is not remembered.”
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Another Harvestfest is over and here I sit on a Saturday evening stuffed to the gills from eating sausage subs, baked beans, oxen sandwiches (that tasted a lot like roast beef), home cooked pies, ice cream, and freshly popped kettle corn.

One year they ran out of sausage sandwiches at which time I was actually upset because those sausages were the best I ever had. At least this is where I sat in 2002. The beauty of Harvestfest had nothing to do with the food or the crafts even though I miss them. It had everything to do with the people.

The population at the Harvestfest was filled with people I knew, I thought I knew, and that I had no idea who they were. The primary bond between them was they were all enjoying a time in a place they called home. Many images come to mind.

I watched lovely young ladies in remarkably beautiful costumes dance to what I think was Irish music, I observed beautiful women in colonial garb show off their crafts inside an historic church I assumed had always been there.

York Village was filled with costumed young men and women demonstrating we all had a heritage we should be proud of. I especially liked the man who sat by the Emerson Wilcox House caning chairs. I never talked to him and to this day I’m sorry for this fact. Continue Reading →

The leaves are finally off the trees and the clocks have been set back so we all now drive home in the dark. As to why we continually do this is above and beyond my comprehension but then again most things are.

The end of day light savings time does remind us all the winter is not far off and it is time to evolve from our summer systems to the winter ones. One of these changes includes taking out the winter wardrobe to replace the summer clothes of our closets and drawers.

Usually around this time of year my summer wardrobe consists of cut off jeans that are more strings than cloth, t-shirts that have been washed a bit too many times because they have now become translucent, and white socks that have more holes in them than white. A basic problem is the winter clothes take up more room than the summer ones did.

This makes it necessary to squeeze heavy jeans and sweatshirts into an area originally made for less bulky items. This also makes it impossible to open the drawer without tearing off the front panel. At least the price of dresser drawers has not increased over the years.
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“Peace of Mind”

Carry me out the ocean, where my drifting thoughts flow free.
Guide them to a far distant land, that only the mind can see.
There I shall paint a great portrait, of what this world should be.
A place without senseless wars, and human poverty.

“The Poet.”

Words flow onto paper like rain, forming giant rivers of unseen lands.
The very force guides us along a journey that holds of great adventure.
We are the explorers of the literary world.
We must find the courage to write what others are unable to,
with the greatest of passion.

A poet dreams and then must portray his visions upon the page
that lies before him.
It is the beauty of all things that inspires us to communicate in such a way.
A man does not wake up one day, and decide to become a poet.
It must live in the very blood that courses through his veins.

He is the creator of a world, only he has known.
He is the actor and director, of all that speaks out through his pen.
He is a man of all men, Visionary of all visionaries.
What you haven’t seen, he has.
What you can’t say, he can. For he is the poet.

Robert can be contacted at: poetic_bob_2001@webtv.net