Roswila's Dream & Poetry Realm

SEE ALSO: TRYING TO HOLD A BOX OF LIGHT (photos, realistic to abstract)

Thursday, June 15, 2006


[North Light, Block Island, R.I.; I think the flowers might be salt mist roses, which have the most heavenly smell.]

With the return of lovely weather, I've found myself yearning for Block Island. I fell in love with it on my first trip there in 1985. I returned each year for many years thereafter. Always in what they call the "shoulder season," either before Memorial Day or after Labor Day (in my case, to avoid the tourist crowds).

I have not been there for at least 10 years. With each passing year the craving to visit intensifies, but finances and other issues have kept making that impossible. So, I visit the internet Block Island sites I have bookmarked and savor the pictures instead. I'd plan a trip to Block Island for after this coming Labor Day, but don't believe my finances and knees will be in proper shape yet. However, I certainly intend to visit in Spring or Fall of 2007.

I'm not a driver -- never did learn how to -- but even if I were I can't imagine I'd ever do anything but hike around that beautiful island. I used to fill my backpack with various necessities (water, bandaids, snacks, aspirin, sunscreen, rain slicker, notepad and pens, mini-Tarot deck, bamboo flute, sweater, towel, etc.) and take off. The series of images below were recorded on my first trip there.


I have deserted my branches
for the roots: a twin to shadows
to the underside of things


Room number five overlooks
the swaying marina
and has two doors:
one through which to come and go,
the other a locked
and barred fire door.


Even in loneliness I am not alone.
something trips on pebbles
in my wake, stirs dust
like small clouds of incense,
startles me with three-toed
footprints in deserted places.


Roses are said to bloom
in The Hollow even in December.
I fear its lush summer beauty,
its cup of forgetfulness.


At the spit of the island
I stand between two pounding tides,
nailed to an impossibly narrow
shelf of life by past and future.


Through a huge wound of distance
the sea appears calm.
Up close, great fists of water
fling rocks and broken shells
at my feet like jewels.


I follow a sea bird with a broken
wing that drags in the sand.
It flaps wildly into the water
from a belly take-off.
Then sails serenely along
in its element,
useless wing tucked neatly.


A light rain sketches
tentative circles on the surface
of a lily pond
and taps at the yellow
of my slicker.


Fog strings invisible spiderwebs
with lights. Pine needles dangle,
each with a perfect iridescent
globe at its tip. I lean closer,
hand out. The globes shed swiftly
and disappear into my palm.


A half dozen cows kneel together
in a field that rises
slowly into green.


I fling onto my back
in a patch of sunlight.
I am a five pointed star
within the wheel of the world,
an Ace of Pentacles,
a Wheel of Fortune.
For a space sharper than a blade
of grass, the sun burns
at the bidding of my belly.

* * * *

Resource: Scenes of Block Island.

‘til next time, keep dreaming,


[aka: Patricia Kelly]

****If you wish to copy or use any of my writing or poems, please email me for permission (under “View my complete profile”)****My other blog: ROSWILA’S TAROT GALLERY & JOURNAL.


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