Reflections on Summer’s End

I’ve been rummaging through my old writing folders, with hopes that one or two will set the creative sparks flying. I found this little poem from 2008 and thought I’d share it, along with this gorgeous painting by one of my favorite artists, Guy Rose. A California native, Rose studied under Claude Monet and eventually settled in the art colony of Giverny. When Guy Rose returned to the West Coast, he rendered many coastal landscapes with the windswept brushstrokes and luminous palette of his California Impressionism.

Like a ship with ruby treasure

Was my summer by the sea.

But, oh! Of all the merry seasons

Which should my favorite be?

The Midas touch of autumn,

The fairy kiss of spring,

The crystal notes of winter–

All are gifts from God the King.

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Fear Not the Tempest

There was an era, not so long ago, when the spirit of exploration and adventure roamed the high seas.  Oil lamps burned on tables at home while men battled with monsters upon the waves.  From the Great Lakes to the uncharted wastelands of Antarctica, each journey evoked uncertainty, as sure as a roll of the dice.  Yet classic poems, sea-songs, and narratives reveal a burning spirit of hope, the kind that prevails against unspeakable odds.

“The Sailor and His Bride”

                                    by Isabella Valency Crawford (1850-1887)

“Let out the wet dun sail, my lads,

The foam is flying fast;

It whistles on the fav’ring gale,

To-night we’ll anchor cast.

What though the storm be loud, my lads,

And danger on the blast;

Though bursting sail swell round and proud,

And groan the straining mast;

The storm has wide, strong wings, my lads,

On them our craft shall ride,

And dear the tempest swift that brings

The sailor to his bride.”

“Fear not the tempest shrill, my heart,

The tall, white breakers’ wrath;

I would not have the wild winds still

Along the good ship’s path.

The ship is staunch and strong, my heart,

The wind blows to the strand;

Why tremble? for its fiercest song

But drives the ship to land.

Be still, nor throb so fast, my heart,

The storm but brings, betide

What may to ship and straining mast,

My sailor to his bride.”