The liquid sunlight fuses with the morning fog that rolls up and over the hills along the petticoat coastline. Inexhaustible waves bring forward new objects for a young tail-wagging Lucy, while an ageing Jonty soon gives up the chase; their paw prints erased by the incoming tide. It makes me wonder; what if my own footprints in life had been left in concrete? I’d be ashamed to see all those places left; the loves voiced and the goodbyes never spoken.
Sitting on this rock, Jonty panting at my feet, his belly wet with salt water, tail limp and no longer brushing the sand, we watch a youthful Lucy…run…run…run.
I am completely at peace within myself. No more the horror of those midnights, the whisperings of the celestial tide bringing me those five minutes of midnight uncertainty. God nor gold could move me from this place, north or south. Here I shall remain; the wanderer, the adventurer, the gypsy in me spent. No more inns with their green doors, harbors left, or ponies ridden on the carousel.
I’m just a man walking with his dogs on this summer shore, treading ever onward with no history of my passing through.
mcullen Post author
The word choices and pacing of this writing reflects and invites introspection . . . evocative of someone looking back on his or her life, feeling at ease as the mind meanders.
Kathy Myers
This piece is evocative of a specific place. Full of sensory details braided with internal narrative. The use of ellipses with run, run,run is a clever way to add to the visualization of a dog scampering down the beach. I will no doubt steal that at some point, but don’t forget imitation is the greatest form of flattery. This would be an engaging start to a longer story, as the narrator sets the scene, a blank slate if you will, almost anything could happen and I’d buy right into it.
Ke11y
I feel deeply complimented to receive these two responses. Thank you both for taking the time to write such positive and encouraging comments.
mcullen Post author
Kelly, I remember how much I enjoyed your writing in Christine’s class. I’m so glad to be reading your writing again!
mcullen Post author
SUMMER TIME by Muriel Ellis
How is it, that when I was young
A child in school, confined nine months
That summers flew so swiftly?
So many things I’d I thought I’d do
Too bad–time’s up–forget it.
Why, when childhood years dragged on forever
Did childhood summers fly?
And then who knows? who counts?
I sent my children off to school in warm September
And December, Christmas came next week
And summer starts so soon?
And why, then, does it go on so long
Those days of “What is there for me to do?”
“I’m bored?” “Can I have ice cream?”
My mother used to tell me, “Mildew!”
When her summer days were endless.
And suddenly–how can it be?
Those years that seemed so long drawn out
But surely they–yes they were sweet and short
Winter, summer, another year
Five years ago? Impossible.
It must have happened just last —
Last when?
Winter, summer, cold or hot
What’s one small year out of ninety?
— Muriel Ellis. “I just turned ninety, but who’s counting?”
Ke11y
Hello Muriel:
Congratulations on being ninety-years young. How incredible and inspiring it is to know that your mind contains all those tricks and treasures of summers past, and winters faced. You truly are remarkable. I loved reading this piece. Thank you for posting. I willingly sweep my hat from my head and bend my torso in respect.
Kathy Myers
Muriel you are a master of plain spoken poetry. You capture the fickle nature of time— or our perception of it anyway, sometimes moving too fast and sometimes in slow motion depending on the season or activity. The variation in the lengths of the lines in this poem mirror that characteristic.
As the earth’s north pole tilts towards the sun on its annual seasonal swing, I love being north. June 21st is fast approaching. “The days are getting longer,” as my mother would chime every morning of the new year, though by June 1st, her voice already carried the wistful regret of June 22nd.
I grew up in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, where long days meant going to bed before the sun and waking long before parents. I would go out into the wild sassafras forests, trees with root-beer smelling feet and large, three-fingered hands, lowering their vines to invite me to give my best Tarzan cry. Deep in the forest hid the old log cabin, rotting, where I would scratch for arrowheads while keeping an eye out for Indians. Called home by the Ivanhoe cry of my father at the doorway, I would quickly eat to go out again. And if it was Friday or Saturday night, I would wait for dusk to chase and bottle lightning bugs.
mcullen Post author
I love this! I especially like “root-beer smelling” and the image of scratching for arrowheads. What a lovely ending “Friday or Saturday night, I would wait for dusk to chase and bottle lightning bugs.” Delightful!
Ke11y
I, too, really enjoyed this piece. Being an Englishman I had to look up what a lightning bug is! Ah, yes, I know it better as a firefly. This short piece is a firefly in its own right. Thanks for posting. Oh, and by the way, I now have to go out and buy a bottle of root-beer for my first experience of its taste and smell.
mcullen Post author
🙂 Kelly . . . try a root beer float. . . root beer with vanilla ice cream. Yum!
Ke11y
Mendocino Summer
The liquid sunlight fuses with the morning fog that rolls up and over the hills along the petticoat coastline. Inexhaustible waves bring forward new objects for a young tail-wagging Lucy, while an ageing Jonty soon gives up the chase; their paw prints erased by the incoming tide. It makes me wonder; what if my own footprints in life had been left in concrete? I’d be ashamed to see all those places left; the loves voiced and the goodbyes never spoken.
Sitting on this rock, Jonty panting at my feet, his belly wet with salt water, tail limp and no longer brushing the sand, we watch a youthful Lucy…run…run…run.
I am completely at peace within myself. No more the horror of those midnights, the whisperings of the celestial tide bringing me those five minutes of midnight uncertainty. God nor gold could move me from this place, north or south. Here I shall remain; the wanderer, the adventurer, the gypsy in me spent. No more inns with their green doors, harbors left, or ponies ridden on the carousel.
I’m just a man walking with his dogs on this summer shore, treading ever onward with no history of my passing through.
mcullen Post author
The word choices and pacing of this writing reflects and invites introspection . . . evocative of someone looking back on his or her life, feeling at ease as the mind meanders.
Kathy Myers
This piece is evocative of a specific place. Full of sensory details braided with internal narrative. The use of ellipses with run, run,run is a clever way to add to the visualization of a dog scampering down the beach. I will no doubt steal that at some point, but don’t forget imitation is the greatest form of flattery. This would be an engaging start to a longer story, as the narrator sets the scene, a blank slate if you will, almost anything could happen and I’d buy right into it.
Ke11y
I feel deeply complimented to receive these two responses. Thank you both for taking the time to write such positive and encouraging comments.
mcullen Post author
Kelly, I remember how much I enjoyed your writing in Christine’s class. I’m so glad to be reading your writing again!
mcullen Post author
SUMMER TIME by Muriel Ellis
How is it, that when I was young
A child in school, confined nine months
That summers flew so swiftly?
So many things I’d I thought I’d do
Too bad–time’s up–forget it.
Why, when childhood years dragged on forever
Did childhood summers fly?
And then who knows? who counts?
I sent my children off to school in warm September
And December, Christmas came next week
And summer starts so soon?
And why, then, does it go on so long
Those days of “What is there for me to do?”
“I’m bored?” “Can I have ice cream?”
My mother used to tell me, “Mildew!”
When her summer days were endless.
And suddenly–how can it be?
Those years that seemed so long drawn out
But surely they–yes they were sweet and short
Winter, summer, another year
Five years ago? Impossible.
It must have happened just last —
Last when?
Winter, summer, cold or hot
What’s one small year out of ninety?
— Muriel Ellis. “I just turned ninety, but who’s counting?”
Ke11y
Hello Muriel:
Congratulations on being ninety-years young. How incredible and inspiring it is to know that your mind contains all those tricks and treasures of summers past, and winters faced. You truly are remarkable. I loved reading this piece. Thank you for posting. I willingly sweep my hat from my head and bend my torso in respect.
Kathy Myers
Muriel you are a master of plain spoken poetry. You capture the fickle nature of time— or our perception of it anyway, sometimes moving too fast and sometimes in slow motion depending on the season or activity. The variation in the lengths of the lines in this poem mirror that characteristic.
James Seamarsh
Northern Latitudes
As the earth’s north pole tilts towards the sun on its annual seasonal swing, I love being north. June 21st is fast approaching. “The days are getting longer,” as my mother would chime every morning of the new year, though by June 1st, her voice already carried the wistful regret of June 22nd.
I grew up in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, where long days meant going to bed before the sun and waking long before parents. I would go out into the wild sassafras forests, trees with root-beer smelling feet and large, three-fingered hands, lowering their vines to invite me to give my best Tarzan cry. Deep in the forest hid the old log cabin, rotting, where I would scratch for arrowheads while keeping an eye out for Indians. Called home by the Ivanhoe cry of my father at the doorway, I would quickly eat to go out again. And if it was Friday or Saturday night, I would wait for dusk to chase and bottle lightning bugs.
mcullen Post author
I love this! I especially like “root-beer smelling” and the image of scratching for arrowheads. What a lovely ending “Friday or Saturday night, I would wait for dusk to chase and bottle lightning bugs.” Delightful!
Ke11y
I, too, really enjoyed this piece. Being an Englishman I had to look up what a lightning bug is! Ah, yes, I know it better as a firefly. This short piece is a firefly in its own right. Thanks for posting. Oh, and by the way, I now have to go out and buy a bottle of root-beer for my first experience of its taste and smell.
mcullen Post author
🙂 Kelly . . . try a root beer float. . . root beer with vanilla ice cream. Yum!