palmlike branches sway
in a late august breeze
as the afternoon sun languishes
the waiter brings my glass
of sauvignon blanc
and i feel decadent
alone at a table for four
just me and my muse
taking in the view
summer exhales its last breath
refusing to let go as of yet
while vacationers come
to accept their days are numbered
and do their best to stretch
each divine hour
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
It's not a matter of confrontations face to face.
Like most things, it's all about time and space.
Highways and roadways are designed for travelers.
The motorists may be workers or vacationers.
Lanes have their basic function and purpose,
And it's very vital that we learn to focus.
Your lane is mine; My lane is your lane.
Yielding is often the key to avoiding pain.
031624PS
stay
restful, dormant
vacating, granting, expiring
employees, mourners, whirlwinds, vacationers
traipsing, spelunking, vagabonding
truant, absent
go
Date written: 11/06/2022
I simply find out how to get two hours of sleep.
A walled bastion around your neck is steep.
Elitists commend this moderate landmark.
While visiting vacationers all around the park.
Here's the way your body will in general look.
Arms are stone squares stained with a nook.
A fleece tee lands on the body with a thud.
Despite that, late spring clothing is very scud.
They linger the same as wet palm fronds.
To the path, skirting the drain's ponds
Your toe pain is a metaphor for it anyway.
I squirreled away in a pair of boots to stay.
On the road, the eyelids are shovels.
The white line devours the car's labels.
Written: November 14, 2021
The street where I live
is where rich people
have holiday haunts,
or investors have airbnb houses to rent.
The little old lovelies are
tarted up with a lick of paint
stuffed full of
period matching furniture
and nick-knacks,
to charm the socks off
the visitors flocking to
the seaside for short stays.
Mid-week outta the holiday season
my little old street is a ghost town.
Only 5 of 34 houses with lights on
at night.
On the week-end its party time,
with parked cars choking the roads.
The kind vacationers tell me
when there's a party on
across the road,
and ask if I mind the noise.
Fortunately, though unfortunately,
I'm deaf in one ear,
and so with curtains drawn
and good-ear down,
it's sweet dreams
and memories
for long-stayer,
party-animal
on the outta,
little old me.
On the northern shore of Oahu is Waimea Bay.
Anyone can get there via the Kamehameha Highway.
The surf there is what only the bravest surfers will try.
Waves are known to crest as much as thirty feet high.
Jan and Dean had a hit song about it from yesteryear.
"Ride the Wild Surf" was what all their fans would hear.
To many vacationers, this is a popular spot.
Courage to ride those waves is something I haven't got.
Jupiter anchored high in a still blue darkening sky,
framed by dispersing contrails, vaguely pink,
the exhaust of happy vacationers,
headed south, dragging winter with them.
Ah, spring.
MS 11/20/12
Like the wind
stars love to travel
celestial
journeying
exotic vacationers
racking up mileage.
Occasionally
a brief stopover
induces
a star to
settle down in a new place
happy as a lark.
We took a chance by visiting,
Two weeks ago today,
A city known for frigid temps
But we lucked out that way.
For it was chilly, but not much,
With just one day of ice,
So we walked all around the town;
Our jackets did suffice.
The weather app that’s on my phone’s
Still set to where we were.
The temps this coming week deserve
Just one response – that’s BRRR!
The high one day is minus 4;
At night, minus 15.
Vacationers-to-be need
Common sense to intervene.
For had we been there in that cold,
No sights could quite compel
Us to venture further than the lobby
Of our warm hotel.
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
All roads lead to Rome
My neighbour’s garden wall is made of stones from the disused Roman road that had stopped going anywhere for ages; smooth stones walked over by mules and sandaled feet.
No one here used to bother about some old road, now the heritage people
want their stones back, as do the tourist board,
who’s trying too hard attract quality vacationers, away from the coast;
there is more to Portugal than it being Spain’s little sister, aping her big brother.
When the stones have been put back, a story can be spun
about a road that never actually went to Rome, but to a quarry behind the hill,
a hole filled with thorny bushes, snakes and femurs of my neighbour’s ancestors,
worked to death as slaves by men with Romanesque noses.
Friday night, the end of May,
Before the Monday holiday,
Was once a nightmare if one dared
To drive; you had to be prepared
For hours and hours of stop and go.
Your trip would be both long and slow,
But some years back there was a change,
A difference that I still find strange.
Vacationers en masse decided
By the rules, they'd not be guided,
So they hooky-played and split
On Thursday, caring not a whit
About their job or boss or class;
Just one day off - they'd get a pass.
And so, for me, my Friday trip
Was quick and easy - zip, zip, zip!
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.
A three day weekend used to mean
That roads on Friday night
Would be so packed you'd barely move -
Vacationers in flight.
But somehow patterns shifted
And the exodus began
Maybe Wednesday night or Thursday -
Leaving early was the plan.
So with fingers crossed, I'm praying
That's the way things still appear
For I'm traveling this evening
And I hope the roads are clear!
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.
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