Best Vacationers Poems
FLEEING IRMA
spotlight moon, full, like an Old Testament cloud, leading
Floridians forth, not into the desert, but away from the wrath
of Irma. bumper to bumper, neighbors from pilot to caboose,
illuminated in each other’s flood beams. testiness and pride
put aside, as fleeing cars, in camaraderie, brave the calm
before the storm. like the Israelites, they leave behind the
homes they know, put themselves in the hands of God. many
have family and friends north of their beloved peninsula,
an unintended visit, a warm haven, not a picnic nor a vacation,
but each pulls themselves up, for our Southern neighbors
are not of the craven sort. those who choose to live near the sea,
with its beauty and fortitude, know how to batten down the hatches.
hammocks left behind will tangle, and hug palm trees, suffering
the loss of their occupants. hotels, with never ending vacationers,
takes a much needed rest. God believes in rest, sometimes
a seven year sabbath, even when the soul forgets its place. we
pray, even north of the path, in stillness, we must, in gratitude,
never taking for granted, lest we too find ourselves seeking solace
elsewhere. godspeed our tanned Peninsula friends. godspeed
and bless, with safety, tenacity, and love as we reel you in.
9/8/2017
We really thought this was virgin soil
When we sailed upon this land so vast
As we drifted into a secluded cove
Thought we'd stumbled upon the past
Natives sure looked very much like us
But they wore the skimpiest clothes
With only one or two piece coverings
Not a bad looking group by jove
We motioned to them in sign language
We're friendly and we've come in peace
But much to our utter astonishment
They spoke our language with ease
Seems we had stumbled on a sandy beach
On the southwest coast of the state
These natives were actually vacationers
They thought our sailing ship was great
It was really all quite embarrassing
We played dumb and pretended we knew
Said it was our lame attempt at humour
As we thanked them and bid them adieu
So we all got back in our sailing ship
And waved them a fond farewell
We'll never forget our trip to the past
It's a tale for our grandkids to tell
La Conner is such a pretty small town
That has grown and has changed for many years.
One of the first settlements in the state,
It is so much more than it first appears.
Many buildings from the earlier town
Have been recorded as historic places.
Residents point them out to visitors
With unconcealed pride upon their faces.
The town is surely an artist's mecca.
You'll find them smocked and painting everywhere.
But no painting quite catches the aura
That permeates La Conner's ocean air.
It has become a yearned for destination,
Where vacationers determine to come.
Visitors fill its one shopping street in summer
And keep coming when the summer is done.
Some shops are stocked with finest of fashions,
Where every woman is eager to shop.
Fine art attracts through other big windows.
You'll find that each place is a worthwhile stop.
The town is perched upon wide hillside,
With channel of water on West Side.
North, South and East meet the big fertile fields.
Town of La Conner is contained inside.
Fine yachts and fishing boats drop their anchors
At docks located on the Channel side.
One can almost feel the town's slow rocking
At exact moments of incoming tide.
The lovely high Rainbow Bridge spans the Channel
Connecting La Conner and Swinomish
Indian Reservation across the way.
On either bank one could just stop to fish.
Written 8/25/14
As long shadows flew out before me
Like raven swings, fluttering
Stiff, gentle winds carry
Winters chill not far behind
Sun-lit cars are all in sharp relief
Setting slowly in the west
Clouds like cotton candy slowly drift
Across these faded and burn turquoise horizons
Seagulls screech flap and fly
Catching thermals ride high
Or tracks crisscross in the fine
White Sands, hearing their cry
The autumn beach is a vacant
White land, I’ve seen all azure & crashing waves
Of dark ruddy seas, splashing the saltwater, high
Vacationers are long gone, forgotten
We few left to wonder too and fro picking shells
Watching the moon glow as the night grows
In a fiery setting of the sun, gold
Remember orange vermilion crimson and indigo
I quietly walk into the seam of this evening
Where water washes imagery, it’s only temporary
As the moon rides new to the night sky, high
Where future lovers walking here & there
Children, dogs, kites scampering to and fro
Sunsets, drum of the waves in a fading light
Waves hitting the beach drifting back out and back in
The tidal pull of creation, feeling my memories
Total serenity as the ocean recedes
as autumn is waiting for the gray winter to come,
Then the glory of a white a coming cold fire,
I feel the bitter winds, numb…
Feeling my shadow stretch out behind me
Knowing what is to come…
Summer Solstice” (Starts June 21 ) Tanka Poem
Summer Solstice looms
hot climate of the year booms
vacationers like
longest hours of daylight
season of bird’s paradise.
Composed by Dr Ko Ko Thein (a) Martin Chan
Salt Lake City
A fire was burning in a previous day.
Now, just ashes and charred fixtures remain today.
In just a brief incidence, it has all gone away.
Somehow, good things are not here to stay.
This seashore town certainly had a lot.
Now, there are only memories of this spot.
Vacationers loved the boardwalk, the surf, and the sand.
The sun and the salty air made everything so grand.
What was once a lovely place for a summer vacation
has been victimized by a massive conflagration.
All we see now is blackened devastation.
I can only go back in time with my imagination.
To be fair, it was the end
of a long day and a large drink
we called Screaming Jesus
nothing more than watered-down
vodka, grape soda, and a stalk of rosemary.
We were dug in near a sandcastle
at Ormand Beach. My skin shrieked
against the heat, but all I heard were the angel's
murmurs between the eternal slosh
of loamy, gray-brown waves.
Eyes salty with dehydrated sea,
considering an impending trial
separation, my anonymous angel said,
"The keys to the kingdom are reserved
for those with an appetite for interpretation."
My husband had no idea
what it meant. Even I still remain
areligious, despite the evidence—
the seraphim's calligraphy across hot sand,
carved into my skeleton.
We shed ten layers of epidermis that week,
Ohio bodies exposed to a new slant of sunlight.
Hotel housekeeping kindly hoovered up
the sheets of our leftover skins.
My husband still jokes about it,
volumes of our DNA collected,
discarded vacuum bags of vacationers
rotting at the bottom of a Florida landfill,
how I sat with an angel whose graygolden halo
was a rusted-silver carabiner secured to a spike
driven into the hands of heaven.
"Commit to the bit," were the last words
I heard before the horizon turned orange.
Everything since is a hidden scripture, bewitched
in red and yellow, fragrant as pestled ginger.
A path of revised perspective, sifting sand
through sunblistered fingertips until the memory
of it settles—
like a beachside angel on the fence, manufacturing
meaning in her downtime for desolate humans.
The list of destinations
Seems to shrink 'most every day
For when planning a vacation,
Fear should not come into play.
From the Zika scare in Rio
To most islands with a beach,
Sounds like tropical escapes
To many will be out of reach.
ISIS is another story,
Bombing airports and cafes.
Who needs travel filled with worry?
Extra caution always pays.
Now another horror's happened
With an awful truck attack.
Some vacationers in Nice
Will, sadly, not be coming back.
Though of course it could be anywhere
That people choose to roam,
All these stories will make many
Spend vacations safe at home.
Hidden Beneath the Rainbow
Guatemalan villages have rainbows of dreams.
Magical thought whereupon each soul gleams.
Locked by a culture engraved on the soul.
Harvests where births’ golden customs unroll.
Living antiquated amid pompous brochures
Sleeping upon mats on plank beds or hut floors.
Boys and girls may not date or co-mingle.
Marriages arranged without knowing lust’s tingle.
In homes of adobe an empire is stayed.
Within those four walls, the future is laid.
Bounded by mountains and winding footpaths
Encroached by the world, walking different paths.
Families stay warm around a hearth of three stones,
Braving the simple life without moans and groans.
Stunning people clad in colorful handmade clothes.
The earth is their friend, their skills, and maestros.
Milling their coffee, chili peppers, and corn.
Homegrown products produced feed these freeborn.
Harvests of sweat and self-satisfaction
Hand worked acres and strength still in fashion.
Hidden near volcanoes; tucked in God's hands.
Generations of peoples have loved on those lands.
Glowing beauty shines beneath heat and straw hats.
Faces aglow, tourists hoping for chats.
Gleaming simplicity knows modernization's foes.
That exploited attraction where vacationers go.
Escaping the fast pace and the greediness flow.
San Pedro la Laguna, hidden beneath the rainbow –
© August 3, 2010
Dane Smith-Johnsen
REFERENCES: http://www.artemaya.com/artist_life_bp.html
http://www.bootsnall.com/articles/05-12/a-taste-of-tranquility-life-on-the-shores-of-lake-atitlan-san-pedro-la-
laguna-guatemala.html
Memories as sharp as diamonds,
keen as knives, the smell of
train smoke burns their nostrils still.
Chilly mornings, misty, magic,
gleaming rails so full of promise,
lumbering Leviathans,
wheezing, roaring, bound for Scotland
or the local seaside towns,
vacationers anticipating.
Dewdrops glisten, hush and listen
for the storied 8:09,
ready with their pens and journals.
Now steam and smoke are gone
along with locomotives' potent majesty,
would-be engineers who once were young,
with memories as keen and sharp as diamonds.
Baldwin, Michigan is a fascinating town to see.
It is the county seat of Michigan’s Lake County.
Just over a thousand residents call Baldwin home.
Many summer vacationers come here to roam.
The town is a great place for camping and hunting.
Others come here for the canoeing and fishing.
Lake County has many lakes and rivers here.
The Manistee National Forest is near.
The “Blessing of the Bikes” is an annual festivity.
“Troutarama” is another great activity.
The Pere Marquette River is a Blue Ribbon fishery.
Another great attraction is the Shrine of the Pines.
If you want to get to Baldwin, just follow the signs.
There’s a lot to see and do in this town in Michigan.
It is a place worth visiting again and again.
http://www.michigan.org/City/Default.aspx?city=G2791
We thought we'd landed on virgin soil
When we sailed the ocean so vast
And drifted into this secluded cove
Thought we'd stumbled upon the past
Natives sure looked very much like us
But they wore the skimpiest clothes
With only one or two piece coverings
Not a bad looking group by jove
We motioned to them in sign language
We're friendly and we've come in peace
But much to our utter astonishment
They spoke english with total ease
Seems we stumbled on a sandy beach
On the southwest coast of the state
These natives were actually vacationers
They thought our sailing ship was great
It was really all quite embarrassing
We played dumb and pretended we knew
It was just our lame attempt at humour
As we thanked them and bid them adieu
So we all got back in our sailing ship
And waved them a fond farewell
We'll never forget our trip to the past
It's a tale for our grandkids to tell!
© Jack Ellison 2013
Standing in line at a gas station,
Waiting on my turn to pay,
There were two african women ahead of me,
They seemed filled with joy that day,
People were enjoying the first fruits of spring,
Many vacationers lined the roads,
The truckers were eating breakfast
Taking a break from hauling loads.
The line was moving nicely
The african women stepped to the till
What happened next i could not believe
Left me with a sickening chill.
The cashier told the ladies to step aside
While she tended to the white mans needs,
I immediately told her that these people were next.
But she just wouldnt listen to me.
The two women turned and looked at me,
I apologised for what transpired,
They smiled and said it was ok
Man i wanted that cashier fired
I thought about it afterwards
It bothered me for many days
How can we ever get along in this world,
If we cant see past our own race
In the wilds of my heart I dream of bliss.
The summer sun will proclaim this.
The shade of trees would circumvent
the heating that the skies have sent.
A mist of rain will feed the thirst
of gorgeous blooms in color burst.
The land has grown so lush and green
where fruits of summer can be seen.
The aroma of some barbeque
in some backyard is rising too.
Kids splash in swimming pool delight
while fishermen wait for a bite.
A happy smile lights up the faces
of vacationers going places.
This is a time without a care
when coats are shed and feet are bare.
Such is the joy of summertime
with warmth of spirit so sublime.
People were busy looking at the monitor in the airport.
Newly-weds, vacationers and some hoping for a chance
found their seats and settled down for a long trip.
The airplane ascended until cars resembled ants.
Exited, some of the group had never flown.
Some passengers napped while a child cried.
Hours passed and a regular flyer questioned,
“What’s going on? This is not right!”
We know not the rest of the events.
A mystery may not ever be solved.
Panic-stricken families, baffled friends~
The only emotion that may remain is love.