Old Ben?

     Growing up on the coast brought me many old stories, legends and strange tales.  My Grampa Les was quite the story teller, and often sent chills up my spine, so I wrote this to him:

                                  The walk in the daytime

                                   was lovely, for the sun
                                   caused  the tiny ripples
                                   on the water to sparkle
                                   like some rare gems from
                                   the sea,
                                   But at night, the tall trees
                                   seem to block out the moonlight
                                   that might have kept the jewels
                                   sparkling if I could have seen
                                   them.
                                   An eerie moan comes from the wind as
                                   as it tries to part the branches to get
                                   a better look at what is happening
                                   below.
                                   Perhaps Old Ben will make his rounds
                                   to seek out the one who had cheated on him
                                   so long ago.  I quicken my pace now
                                   for my grandfather had once told of Old Ben
                                   searching and mumbling words that
                                   only the wind can understand.                        
                                                        

Coastal Fog

Fog has always intriqued me after living on the coast of Maine  where fog could be very thick and mysterious.  It can be dangerous when one ventures, but it seems to have a mystique  of its own:



                                                   Fog
                                                          wrapped
                                                                          its cold
                                                   damp
                                                          arms
                                                                         around any
                                                   nearby
                                                           traveler
                                                                        walking down
                                                   roads
                                                           that once
                                                                        had been
                                                  the
                                                          center of
                                                                        the town.
                                                  Fog
                                                          can be friend,
                                                                        or enemy.
                                                 Only the
                                                           traveler's destination
                                                                         would determine
                                                 this.
                                                 

Stroking Waves

Growing up on the coast on a small farm, I often went to my favorite place, and today I write about it:



                                                                                  Blue, green
                                                                                    yet, gray
                                                                                          is also
                                                                                  a color
                                                                                     of the
                                                                                               sea.
                                                                                  Gulls punctuate
                                                                                    the surface---
                                                                                         white, showing
                                                                                  above the
                                                                                    blending in
                                                                                              of gray.
                                                                                 Seaweed,
                                                                                       newly green
                                                                                             fingers reaching,
                                                                                 stroking waves
                                                                                        as  one
                                                                                            would pet
                                                                                 a purring cat.
                                                                                        I come
                                                                                          to the beach
                                                                                 waiting for
                                                                                       the colors
                                                                                          to speak
                                                                                                to me.