Cape Cod The Way it Feels

I’m doing another physical therapy to improve what the drunk driver messed up years ago. The new doctor recommended I go to a “healing place” while he worked on some bad spots. He mentioned an example of tropical beaches... That is so far away from the place I like to think about. I spent many of summers camping out on Cape Cod. The beautiful kettle ponds lined by wind swept pine forest. The air filled with smells of salt breezes and pine needles.

In my Sept 25, 2007 blog I mentioned this poem was posted by my friend Jay. His site has many beautiful photos of the Cape and other places he has traveled.

Jay Pulli’s Cape Cod Photos

Cape Cod The Way it Feels

© 1997 Merrily Wolf

Oh, those lazy Cape Cod days . . .

Sitting beside a peaceful pond,

Reading a good long novel . . .
Or playing chess on an old soft wool blanket,

Brightly painted damsel flies darting about . . .
Dragonflies stirring up the smell of drying pine needles,

The soft sudden sound of fish jumping . . .
Or a swimmer's stroke breaking the water's surface,

The chorus of croaking frogs. . .
As they leap from the shimmering green lily pads,

Walking along the pond's sandy shore . . .
Picking sweet indigo berries off high blueberry bushes,

A glass of cool tart lemon aid . . .
A cold tuna fish sandwich on a hot summer's day.



Oh, those lazy Cape Cod days . . .
Kite flying on the breezy Beach,

Soft white clouds drifting high above . . .
Seagulls gliding in gentle salt water breezes,

Perched pine trees gently molded by the wind,
Rolling white dunes topped with swaying beach grass,

Bright red rose hips bobbing to and fro . . .
Grains of white sand sliding down the face of the dunes,

Collecting gritty sand and smooth stones . . .
Making sandcastles and mermaids just beyond the waves. . .

Sandpiper charging and retreating from the surf . . .
Their sanctuary marked by conch shells and sand dollars,

The waves breaking on the sand bars . . .
Scattering the crying gray and white herring gulls.



Oh, those lazy Cape Cod days . . .
Walking along the old wood pier,

Tall weather faded wood pilings . . .
Decorated with clusters of bumpy barnacles,

The gentle splashing of the waves . . .
Against the buoys as their bells chime,

The low bellow of a lone fog horn . . .
Through the mist a beckoning light guides the seaman ashore,

Worn fishing boats laying silently on their keels . . .
Flounders gliding by with the out going tide,

The fishermen gathering in their nets . . .
And sorting their day's catch with great care and pride,

The luring smell of the fresh fish market . . .
Bulging blues, thick tunas, lively lobsters, and more