My Poems about Our Water~

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A Poem by Josie E. Cook M. A.

Summer is gone and now reality returns…

Clubhouse Days

 

Gazing at the old wooden rackets

Among the endless sepia photos,

History of past crowds,

Tournaments long gone,

Locations changed or forgotten,

Blurry images of loving couples in fine outfits

Enjoying the elegant clubhouse dances,

Those pale, lacy dresses with close fitted

Bodices,

Parasols in the sun as they stroll in the sands,

Dashing gentlemen claim their hands,

As little girls and young boys race around corners,

People gather to share drinks at covered tables,

Their cheerful vital attachments forming during

The seaside summer seasons,

As the fluttering butterflies kiss the open roses

Gracing the porches of their rented beach houses,

Moving from sepia to black & white to colors

On the club walls as time marches on,

Nearly no one notices the changes here as the sea scents

The air and the cheerful blue sky fills their open spaces

Where attractive people lounge by the water with

Pretty drinks as their children build empires in the white

Grains surrounding them,

The focus is on fun and games while the warm season lasts

And freckles form to stretch across their sun-kissed

Cheeks calming their inner souls

And releasing positive senses to prevent old inner tensions,

Young couples watch the constellations light up while

They cuddle deep into each other around

Shared beach fires,

Burning hotly to fin off the night chill after

The sun disappears and the moonlight

Swaps it, a

Welcome replacement to neon-lit offices

And cluttered desks,

A sabbatical of free-time where young

Girls wear Jackie O sunglasses and tie

Their wet hair back in jolly ponytails,

Yachts and big liners fill the harbors

Waiting to be sailed,

Blue waters, elegant couples, members and

Invited guests circling the pristine decks,

Inlets of fascination and narrow boarding docks

Waiting for their evening return.–J. E. Cook ©2017

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Arriving at the Ocean

A Poem by Josie E. Cook M. A.

Sharing the same thoughts…and views.

 Outside my seaside window,

I watch the sky melt like a hot

Crayon,

The bright colors becoming a

Canvas for the many sailboats

On the midnight blue surface,

Their lights streaming across

The shimmering waters,

I often dreamt of the sea

From my Ohio location,

Freedom on the moving

Liquid,

Yearning for an adventure

There,

A long voyage with a special

Someone near me,

A wonderful communicator

To share my thoughts,

No soothing egos or severe misunderstanding,

Just the peace of the wilderness

Surrounding our shared views,

Two hearts and souls

In unison,

Cradled in the hands of each other

With undouble bonds,

Sorting through the world together. –J. E. Cook ©2017

 

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Waterways of Our Land

A Poem by Josie E. Cook M. A.

Water so important to us!

Our river is slow-moving

With twilight circling it

Without hesitation,

Mounds of dirt along it,

Marshes along the way,

Foaming gorges here and there,

Stone islands in the middle,

Providing

Gateways to other arteries,

Banks with forests lining them,

I think about other waterways

Like the Red Sea and the Atlantic Ocean,

The sands in them,

Do those tiny grains have

Some pink quartz inside…or any

Hard stones like diamonds.

 

Flowing water in dams

And over cliffs

Create a sound unique

Depending on the location,

Water is always needed in cultures

No matter royalty or poverty

It is a commodity,

Unlike ordinary everyday dust.

            –J. E. Cook © 2017

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Daily readings in Poetry~

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Today, I read some reviews of my poetry and revised one, too. I came across one poem I would like to share here because it is so wonderful and full of insight into another character invented in someone else’s writing. 

This poem is by Doodley,

If every journey has an ending,
And every story has a start,
Would thy thoughts remain unbending,
That the Tin Man once had a heart?

That he lived a life of leisure,
In the forests of Oz forevermore,
Where the chipmunks frolicked in pleasure,
Upon evergreen seas of wood lawn floor.

Where the canopies teemed with birdsong,
And cicadas serenaded the night,
And the Lunar Queen on velvet throne,
Bathed the land in pearly light.

Tangerine beams of Sun’s contentment,
Polished his soul to silver sheen,
And the mist of disenchantment,
In his life, was nowhere to be seen.

And he reveled in joyous solitude,
In his home deep in the woods,
Where his apple orchard gave gratitude,
With unending ripened goods.

Then one glorious tranquil morn,
In the depths of florescent Spring,
Was his covert nurturing faith reborn,
When he heard the voice of an Angel sing.

For there beneath an apple tree,
Stood an emblem of Love divine,
Such a beauteous Nymph as there could be
Caressing the fruits upon its vine.

With cascading falls of golden locks,
And eyes a misterium of onyx hue,
She sang and whirled to emerging flocks,
That flew down to rest from the azure blue.

In the silent whoosh of Cupid’s rush,
There amidst the scores of Turtle Dove,
Their gaze did meet through crimson blush,
And they fell to depths of torrid Love.

And there amongst the swelling throng,
They twirled together entwined as one,
As Nature’s bards took up the song,
And the Lunar Queen embraced her Sun.

As daylight wilted to twilight gloam,
And starlight shyly twinkled through,
He guided her to his simple home,
Where Life and Love was born anew.

Through the fertility of the Springtime,
And all through the Summer’s swell,
Did their heart’s converse in Love’s rhyme,
In wondrous bliss did they both dwell.

But when Old Man Autumn in rustic fawn,
Encroached the serenity of this place,
Had the creeping tendrils of restless dawn,
Shone ill light upon their Love’s solace.

For the Wood Nymph had ambition,
She was no patient Eremite,
And she rebelled in true sedition,
Lured by the Emerald City’s bright.

One night under veiled star-fall,
While in dreaming did the Tin Man lay,
Did the Wood Nymph pack her belongings all,
And stole his radiant heart away.

And when he awoke to sunlight stream,
That shimmered his glossy face,
His world collapsed to nightmare dream,
She had disappeared without a trace.

He trawled through the woods in panic,
Let loose cries and desperate pleas,
That reverberated fleetingly manic,
On the gossiping Autumn breeze.

When his calls echoed in silence,
And stirred no sleeping ghost,
He lapsed into despairing violence,
For loss of things he loved the most.

He wailed in tormented grieving,
Like a baying Hound of Hell,
And struck his chest a-heaving,
His now heartless empty shell.

Then his trusty axe he took to hand,
And Cut! And Chopped! And Sliced!,
Decimating his orchard from the land,
In a whirlwind of rage and vice!

When his madness had abated,
He stood alone under gleaming sky,
As sorrow’s waves invaded,
On the breath of his longing sigh.

With his soul now torn asunder,
And with his hope ground into dust,
He hearkened to the distant thunder,
Then cried himself to rust.

All the forest joined to mourn him,
Shed their leaves in solemn prayer,
As the Solar King dialed down to dim,
In respect for the Life lost there.

And the passing days did wither,
Under first frost of Winter’s kiss,
Delayed by the Ice Queen’s dither,
In her fear of discourteous remiss.

And the Tin Man remained there frozen,
Through all time and Love’s decay,
‘Till a young girl and Scarecrow chosen,
Walked the Yellow Brick Road his way.

I admired his creative vision of this character inside his words…I also thought about his review about one of my poems, and how he seemed to want more information on my character in my poem because she was the POV inside it.

Therefore, I revisited it. I decided I must revise it and make it more complete in structure and thoughts.

Here it is after being revised:

Molly’s Musings

A Poem by Josie E. Cook M. A.

Daydreaming and thinking about the time and space of the past… 

Gazing out at the faraway islands,

She imagines the handsome faces

The British killed,

Buried here, leaving behind young widows,

To assess the ocean alone.

 

Her eye on one point on the horizon

As she thinks about reckless pirates

going to the Indies

Or Charles Town.

 

Her mind on

The sandy shoals between Beaufort,

And the Atlantic waters,

She once visited a place on Bogue Island,

That had a decaying fort,

And an inlet where old ships came to visit

frequently,

They were rumored to be the protection

Against Indian bandits,

The army camping there never completed

The southern walls,

Musket balls could be

lingering in the dirt,

Along with buried wreckage,

Summer is ending,

And she often thinks about the dead

regiment in

The fall,

As her garden dies,

What haunts this land

are the lingering ghosts

Of those men and boys that left Beaufort,

Promising letters to their waiting ladies,

However,

All they became were moving targets

for the British invasion

As their muskets fired,

Local uniforms were covered in crimson stains,

Dark holes and charred souls linger

In old passageways,

Their ladies long dead,

After sleepless nights thinking

Deeply about their lost kisses.

 

She doesn’t like loving these trapped

ghosts

Anymore,

As she stands at her open door

Watching the glint of the rising moon

On her moving sea in front of her.

 

She would rather think of a tranquil location

In sunny Beaufort,

Where a meadow is filled with grazing cows

and full

Pecan trees. Green apples are brought to them,

As a bluebird

Moves from branch to branch

Above the herd,

And the pecans fall and fill the open air.

 

Now she sits on her porch swing,

Thinking of a studious painter, she loves

Living in New Bern,

Where he works on detailed miniatures and his

Art will be moved weekly

and arrive in distant places,

She longs to pose for him again soon.

 

Her knees draw up,

And she twists her hair slowly

Thinking about him and his socked feet

Smiling at her as he hands over

A little painting of her.

 

Her secret treasure, in an ivory frame

And the size of a thumbnail

Her having a picnic with him,

Born from a hastily drawn sketch in ink,

Now, vibrant in flowing oils,

She leaves 1782 behind with a fleeting

Thought about a lost letter

She discovered yesterday morning

While cleaning the crowded attic,

She Imagined the smell of it,

As her eyes read,

About somewhere inland,

And a Sunday camp filled with pain

Over lost cousins,

And a sweetheart missed with

Hopeful desires,

The miles of unknown

Pressing into her mind

A whistle of a Cherokee arrow

Breaking the silence

Of the frontier there inside

Her daydream,

Would the island slaves solve anything

With the Lord’s prayer?

The gilded-edge scene is buried

In her thoughts

As she watches their sun disappear

Leaving the colors of her fall behind to

Hide in the shadows of the casting

Boughs among the flowing hills

Beyond the seas and distant shores.–J.E. Cook ©2017

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~Painting with Me~Art Therapy~

~Painting with Watercolors~

~My mermaid with wild hair~

 

mermaidwc2A gift for my daughter

 

Painting with Acrylics 

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Then, I added to this:

mypaintingreworkedThis is the finished product.

 

On September 16th, I finished this one:

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The Happy Topless Mermaid 

 

Completed  this one on September 19th, 2017:

 

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Working with Mixed Media

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This one is titled, The mermaids in the channel.

My Painting Adventures continue…

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These three paintings are framed and matted for display in our new Paint Room above Roxy’s Hair Studio for reference and enjoyment while we hold our painting parties.  They’re my Autumn Trio.

 

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Harvest Moon is my most current work of art. I used a stylus to form the tree blooms. 

 

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This one is Autumn Waterfall and it is waiting to be matted & framed.

 

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This is called Pick your Potion. It is a combination of spray paints and acrylics using some round sponge brushes to make the bubbles.

 

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Here is a fun one called Celebration in Love~ I used some pointillism in it.

Pointillism reached a peak in the 1880s through 1890s after the artist Impressionist movement. Many of the same concepts and ideas; however, continue to be used by artists now. Here, I only used it on the heart shape and around the glasses and the sides of the heart for a glitter effect. George Seurat and Paul Signac were the main artists using this technique years ago to form an image on their canvases.  It is not as easy as it looks to do either. Depending on the size of the dots, the overall look will be different. Being consistent in the dot size is difficult, depending on what the artist uses to form the dots. Above, I used a round paintbrush to form the dots.

An Unexpected Summons

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Come, you fragile poets filled with the sea’s liquid.
Come and leak your speech upon our parched beaches!
Come and sing with the ocean’s primordial influences.
Come and sanctify our living dictionary.
Come and listen to our seas–rivers–the many lakes.
Come and offer a levy to our tributaries.
Come and accompany us.
Come with your mask of shifting personas falling away.
Come with your torches burning.
Come add your bouquet to the existing aroma.
Come bring your artfulness for our sake of the art.
Come with your lacerations, tender, and red.
Come with your heart brilliant or obscure.
Come with your words for the distinguished dead.
Then go to the notorious graves and remember their souls.
And recite all of your remembrances.
Yes, come and find your passion; your true natural ability:
The marriage of thoughts to be esteemed hydration.

–J. E. Cook ©2016

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Spring Tides in Salty Water

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Spring Tides in Salty Water

Chirping and singing fills the air,

Tides peak on the border of a shoal

Beach grasses protect the Dolly Varden–

A crab that moves toward the muddy land.

It has a light colored shell covered with red spots and they are darkly outlined.

This is why some refer to it as a calico crab.

Remaining hidden with a thin rippling layer of water across it

At the low point of the ebb,

Here the water is so glassy,

And every detail is revealed.

Crystal clarity to the very bottom,

A little school of minnows flickers like silver sparks,

Bigger fish wander in along narrow passages and between the shoals.

Beds of Sunray clams rest in the deeper areas with whelks preying on them.

Crabs swim and bury inside the sandy bottom.

Life comes out of hiding with horseshoe crabs and a toadfish that hides in

A clump of eelgrass with neat black spirals and a banded tulip shell.

Others glide rapidly with a clear track in the sand,

Minute plant cells are a principal food of each new generation.

Pea crabs and ghost shrimp are alive, too.

Many of these effectively deceive the human eyes by being covered with seaweed.

As the tide ebbs away,

Great whelks are exposed and they glide across the surface in search of clams,

Microscopic plants are gathered inside as seawater streams from their bodies.

The stone crab is their enemy with a massive purplish body and two brightly colored

Claws; they lurk in caves and among the jetties with the rocks.

Gulls seize and carry channel whelks away,

Then, they drop them on a hard surface and the shell shatters,

 Their treasure is recovered leaving behind bits of shell.

It is a world of force, change,

And constant motion as the sand acquires new sea creatures

From the heavy pounding surf.

            –J. E. Cook ©2014

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Exploiters in the Sea’s World~

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*Exploiters~*

A mole crab uses nets so efficient that they obtain
Numerous microorganisms in which whole cities
Live and where the waves break and splash.
In a spectacular movement an area of bubbles; like of a flock of birds
Emerge with crabs digging into the sandy shores with a magical ease
By way of a whirling motion, they dig into wet particles and wait for
Returning water.
They are flat with paw-like appendages and their eyes are mostly useless,
Depending on their sense of touch to guide them through the surf.
Sensory bristles and their gnome-like faces appear in a floating instant in the
Liquid glass stream—fading back.
There is a magical quality in these curtains hiding a world containing shifting sands
And foaming water.
They begin life as an orange colored egg, however, their life span is short.
Towards a summer’s end,
Transformation to an adult is complete.
Young crabs can be carried as far as 200 miles off shore in a current they may travel
Further…
Remaining active in the winter season
And spring brings their mating.
By July, most males are dead.
Females carry the eggs for several months until
They hatch before winter these females die.
A new generation lives among the coquina clams,
Screw shells, and Terebra.
                                                                                                     
                                                                          –J. E. Cook ©2014~Revised~2017
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