The Ocean

When you live on a small island in the middle of the Caribbean Sea, the ocean is bound to have an effect on your way of thinking and your lifestyle. From your 'fun in the sun' beachside activities, right through to your 'hurricane worries', the ocean is an ever-present factor in your thoughts and everyday living. It teems with an abundance of life. It plays out its own rhythms. It sooths, comforts, rejuvenates, revitalizes...at times, it can even menace. The ocean is a constant factor which cannot be ignored. The members of the Writer's Circle acknowledged this fact through this sampling of writing exercises begun in July of 2010, and continued periodically up to today.

Nor’ wester Days

I love the wild and windy damp

when a strong Nor’ wester blows,

the sea with its white capped waves,

crash on the ironshore.

The blown spume fills the air

with mist, and scent of oceans far.

South of Hog Sty Bay,

the waves are breaking, building higher,

carrying debris from the ocean depths.

Sand and seaweed,

broken shells and coral,

carpeting the roadway,

all traffic has ceased,

only onlookers stand at a safe distance

above the road.

The sea in shades of green and aqua,

and many other hues,

nature in all its forms,

is truly wonderful to behold.

By: Brenda Quin

The Sea, a living canvas

This morning,

I watched a display,

put on just for me,

a living canvas

of so many blues,

with sprites bright like snow,

leaping up,

as joyfully as lambs.

They paused,

suspended in air,

thendissolved into mist.

The sea, inanimate?

Never.

By: Fiona Pimentel

 Image Link:  http://transitionscoachingcayman.wordpress.com/

South Sound Beach.

Small, dark coloured

birds feeding at the ocean’s edge,

clouds, feather like, above

the turquoise sea.

Casurina branches swaying on

the North East wind,

I stand upon the rock strewn

shore, lean against a drift log,

and watch small ghost crabs

emerging from their holes.

Alone, but not lonely, surrounded

by nature’s beauty. But yearning

for someone who sees as I

see, to share this precious

peaceful hour beside the quiet

sea.

By: Brenda Quin

I wish

I wish I had talent to write

About the smell of the sea,

Calling me to the cove,

How the wind lashes my face

And the fantastically huge waves

Splatter me with spray.

I wish I could swim at a hundred

Miles an hour, or surf over the horizon.

I wish I could rise up and fly.

So exhilarating….

I wish there could be no more tears…

By: Fiona Pimentel

15 Meetings with the Ocean.

I

The azure reflections call to mind

the deep sea recesses and

slow solitude of horizon, yonder.

II

A turquoise calm casts its spell

across the mirrored surface

of a windless ocean morning,

III

Lapping waters reach with

soft caress to sooth

tired body, and furtive

eyes, bringing sweet calm

of safe retreat.

IV

At three this morning

relentless pounding

of crashing waves

calls me from sleep, down

to the nearby cove.

V

I looked at her and recognized

the deep blue emptiness

of her eyes, the vast ocean

wasteland of her mind.

VI

Words sputtered out:

frothy foaming

of an exhausted ocean gale.

VII

Sounds of laughter

carry on a breeze,

good friends and small

children cavort together

on the edge of a point

of sand.

VIII

Weathered boat tied up

at the wharf, unloads

a bounty of life gathered

from the ocean depths,

men of the sea

mutter simple words.

IX

We gaze,

the ageless panorama of

a coastline scene framed

within the edges and panes

of summer cottage windows.

X

Lines of white horses

gallop over the reef

and ride up into the nestling cove

below the cliffs.

XI

My tongue circles above and below:

the salty lick of the old dog sea.

 

XII

A restlessness rustles beating beneath

my sweater; an irrepressible

desire drives my feet

across the sands of deserted

beachhead.

XIII

Fast eddies and shallow rock pools;

tidal waters retreat leaving

playgrounds for the inquisitive,

a harbour of hope for the

small creatures of the shore.

XIV

Dark clouds line the sky;

at water’s edge

my eyes meet the surly mood

of a stormy North Atlantic Sea.

XV

Within the glow of setting

sun, the tentative touch

of lovers in the evening hours,

a quiet walk along the

shoreline sand.

By: H.M. Peter Westin

Stars

At night, sometimes we look up into the vast sky and gaze at the stars and other heavenly bodies. It helps give us perspective on our lives. The immensity of nature is so strikingly apparent. Our cares and worries pale in comparison to the scope of the rhythms of the universe. We are so small, so seemingly insignificant, yet we have assurance that we are important and that our creator has knowledge of even the number of hairs on our head. Members of the Writer's Circle tackled the topic of 'Stars'. Here are some of the related efforts.

STARS – essay/story

Just as there are many hundreds and thousands of people on this rock we call Earth, so there are many hundreds and thousands of other rocks, some just like this one, many not, scattered through the wide canopy of the sky.

Hundreds and thousands of rocks reflecting light for their many suns and it is these luminous refractions which cause them to glimmer and shine so that creatures, like us, who live on this rock, and those, unlike us, who live on other rocks, can see them and wonder.

Now, we being human, tend to live in clusters, firstly of family, secondly in societies, and stars being scatterings of shattered planets and rocks, live in clusters called constellations, all gathered in fractured groups of individual lights forming a mass, making a cosmos.

Like in our societies and groups there’s the big boss, the Sun, the one that is fierce and deadly brilliant and the world revolves around them. Then the North Star, a constant point from which we take our bearings to venture out into the world, then, the dependable one, the who watches, like Venus, a planet which is also dependable and faithful and has the brightness of true love – coming early, way before anyone else, and staying way after all the others have gone to sleep…

Just as there are those in our world who can’t or do not survive, so too are there reflections of this star world. Some, like us humans, fall into black holes and never emerge from that depression, other stars released from the orbits which kept them grounded, release themselves from all care and throw themselves with abandon into the night, going out in a blaze of glory. Which, from the distance of the observer, is always much paler and insignificant.

By: Juliet Garricks

Sun – haiku

Ra; father of earth,

Lonely Daystar marks time and

Chases Mother Moon.

By: Juliet Garricks

THE STAR

By: C.G. Wilson

I’m like a speck of dust,

Just a ray of light

Shining on Earth’s crust

Only seen at night.

I sparkle like a diamond

A magnificent precious jewel

Around me all is darkened

Encasing me in a capsule.

I twinkle when I shine

Looking down on you below

I even see the coastline

Where the sea reflects my shadow.

I proclaimed the birth of a baby boy

Thousands of years ago

Who brought you peace and much joy

Though some thought Him a foe.

When next you look up in the sky

And see the thousands of stars

Somewhere amongst them I lie

I’m the nearest to planet Mars.

“Night Fall”

The night falls silent,

moon and stars illuminate,

the ocean peaceful, sleeps.

By: Brenda Quin

Haiku 3

Starlight shining down:

Heavenly reminder of

watchful angel eyes.

By: H.M. Peter Westin

Treasures

Life is full of 'treasures'. What one man treasures, another takes for granted, or sometimes looks down his/her nose at. Oftentimes, memories are some of life's most precious 'treasures'. These treasures we can carry with us through life, and beyond. They become part of us, shared trophies that help us summon up the warmth of friendship, or the beauty of one of life's moments amidst the grandure of nature. Writers have their own 'treasures' and ways of experiencing and reflecting upon them. Here is a sampling of some of those from members of the Writer's Circle:

The Ancient Relic at Boatswain Beach.

It stands perhaps grotesque in

its antiquity.

Root bound to the ironshore,

bereft of branch or foliage.

The massive trunk sun

bleached to shades of driftwood

grey. Scarred by fires, eroding

from termite trails. Broken

pieces lying scattered in the

surrounding scrub.

This monument, to ages past, its

history unknown.

I visualize a seed ripening,

falling from its mother tree

on the banks of the mighty

Amazon River. Tossed,

swept away by the current,

always towards the ocean sea.

The seed, fertile, seeking a

place to grow, mature and

reproduce, finds its home,

but the seed, still unknown,

resides on the shore

of Grand Cayman.

By: Brenda Quin

Life

By: C.G. Wilson

A peck of seed

A grain of dust

A drop of rain

A ray of sun

A breath of air.

Life needs all these

And more

Life struggles

To survive

It does.

Too much of one

Is as bad

As too little

Life itself

An act of balance.

Where did it all start?

Will it all come apart?

Is there a God?

Why should we be good?

Is evil so bad?

Why do we make friends?

Why do we have enemies?

Why do we come and rescue persons in distress?

Why do we make war upon them?

Why do we try and blow up this world?

We use 4 letter words

Most disgust

A powerful one is HATE

But the most powerful

The most beautiful one

Is L-O-V-E.

At Miss Lassie’s House

I stand beneath a massive group

of sea grape trees.

Their gnarled and tangled growth,

survived over countless years.

Their roots, buried deep amongst

limestone rocks, and sandy soil.

Enduring nameless storms, but now

supporting young, new growth.

I look up at this magnificence of

Nature, the awe-inspiring

natural art forms –

knowing that without them,

there is no life, hope.

These we cannot create,

but nurture them we must.

The air perfumed by fallen

purple fruit. New seed will sprout,

the circle of life continues,

endlessly.

By: Brenda Quin

Colour of Love

What is the colour of love?

Is it the deep blue-black of the

ocean depths, or the dazzling bright blue

of a cloudless Caribbean sky?

Perhaps it is the brilliant red of the

Poinciana blossoms at the start

of the rainy season, or the

deep red drops of precious blood,

spilt in a sacrificial rite?

Then again, it could be the lush

gracious green of springtime meadows

and fields, as new life fills the

void of winter emptiness.

Or perhaps it is the blinding yellow

of streaming sunlight, that

basking glow that surrounds and

holds us in warming rays of promise.

But I think it is most likely

the splash of rainbow colours

streaked across the misty sky

after life-giving rains;

puncturing the atmosphere and

seeping into the parched soil;

the promise of “never again”.

By: H.M. Peter Westin

ENCYCLOPAEDIA AND CYCLOPAEDIA

By: C.G. Wilson

My father kept very few “treasures” except for two very old “huge” books kept in the side shelf of a wooden black cabinet with glass door kept in the hall of my first house. I say first house because it was the house I grew up in until I was nine years old and then it was a procession of always moving. By the time I married at the age of 23 we had moved another six times! What happened to the two huge books in the moving process is a mystery. They just disappeared and I have not thought anything about them until this exercise at our last Writer’s Club Meeting. And when was that? It seems a long time ago. Two, or was it three weeks?

I am digressing, as I always do, and just a few lines become a book! Well, books – huge books. To me, as a child they were huge. Just two of them filled the shelf in the cabinet. I had great difficulty in getting them out and for a number of years I would sit or lay down on my belly upon the floor by the cabinet and read them. Not really read them at first – just turn the pages and look for pictures, and they both contained plenty of pictures. Coloured ones, glossy and there was yellow faded transparent paper between the leaves. In fact even the printed pages were yellow. To me, that was even more of an attraction.

I learnt to read at a pretty young age and I loved reading so it wasn’t long before I moved from just viewing the pictures and read the text. The books were of similar size but one was a greyish blue and the other was a burgundy red with gold lettering and lines. This book was an encyclopaedia and the other was a cyclopaedia. To this day I don’t know what the differences are and a check online and dictionaries hasn’t helped. They seem to be the same. However, these two books were very different, or so they seemed to me, at least physically. The print, the style, the binding and the thickness of the paper was as like as chalk and cheese.

The cyclopaedia’s paper was thicker and the print style was clearer to read. There weren’t so many photographs as the encyclopaedia but there were more drawings accompanying the words. The words in bold type were in alphabetical order. Then, there was the date, 1856. Almost a hundred years older than me. The encyclopaedia had a date of 1920. Even that was old. As a child, twenty years was very old and did not seem a long time away from an hundred.

These two books fascinated me until I grew out of them, I suppose, and when they disappeared I didn’t really miss them until now.

Collections

Seashells, small select shapes,

interesting bits of colour.

I gather and carry them

home; placed in a bucket

on a shelf, amongst

a thousand others:

faded, washed out

without the water.

By: H.M. Peter Westin

Putting it in Print

Various members of the Cayman Writer's Circle have taken steps to have some of their work put in to a printed form.

C.G. Wilson writes editorials and articles for the iNews paper which has both a printed form for sale daily, and an online site. Editorials can be viewed at the following site location:

Site Link:  http://www.ieyenews.com/category/editorial/

Brenda Quin and Peter Westin co-authored a book of poetry, published in paperback in August 2010. Book information is available at the following location:

Site Link: http://thatstillsmallvoicepoetry.weebly.com/



Amazon has Kindle versions of this book for a very reasonable rate. The Amazon site address is as follows: (Note - Site says cost is $5.99 but actual cost is $3.99 USD)

Site Link:  http://www.amazon.com/That-Still-Small-Voice-ebook/dp/B006HIR3YU/ref=sr_1_cc_1?s=aps&ie=UTF8&qid=1334367064&sr=1-1-catcorr

Joan Wilson authored a book of poetry published in August of 2008. It was available in local bookstores and from Colin or Joan Wilson directly.



Support local writers. Ask at one of the local bookstores if they carry these books. Peruse the books. If you like them, support a local writer. Give them as gifts to friends.



Imagination.

Imagination is a key tool of any writer. Sometimes we start with an idea, sometimes we begin with a character, real or imagined. We open our minds and creative juices flow. We weave words and ideas into poems and stories that take us on fantastic journeys that touch our emotions and elicit responses.


In January 2010, the members of the Writer's Circle engaged in one such writing adventure. We talked about the idea of 'waiting', and we introduced a fictionl character, Dorothy, and waited to see what fabric we might spin from those threads. The following are samples of our efforts.

Waiting for Dorothy

Who is Dorothy?

We wait, speculation rife;

She does not arrive.

By: Brenda Quin

Waiting …

“She’s back…” One upon a time these words would have filled me with joy, signalling the return of my mothet as I once knew her: alive in mind, feisty, and independent, a terrier of a woman, ready to take on anybody to make the best life for her daughters, afraid of no-one. Now, she was alive in body only. Now, these words spoke of pain, a slow torture and perpetual, unrelenting loss. The single, despondent look from my sister made my eyes close and the breath hurt in my chest. I felt older, wearier, and sadder. Pre-warned, I slowly pushed the door and entered my mother’s room. Robbie hurried away down the flickering light corridor. I wished the frail, hunched woman with scared eyes was a stranger to me as I was to her but this disease was not merciful. Mt mother looked nothing like the woman who’d brought me into the world. I felt the breath in my lungs start to flutter as I looked at her and fought my feelings.

“Mama? It’s me, Lynne” I bent down so as not to scare her into the chair that she had sunk into. “Tell her to say hello. Why doesn’t she say hello?” My mother stared deep into the mirror in front of her, too anxious to see me or register my entrance. “She never says anything. She scares me. Why is she doing this to me? I’ve never hurt her. Have I? Have I? Help me, nurse, help me”.

I knew my sister Roberta had already gone to alert the night nurse that Mum was getting increasingly agitated. When Mum’d first come into this place, I’d been alarmed by the high level of sedatives she was given. Although I felt guilty about it now, I was increasingly grateful for them. They seemed to be the only thing to smooth the deep worry lines on my mother’s face; the only way of lessening her anguish. I had another go, “Mama, it’s OK, I’m here. She won’t hurt you, I promise…” I reached over to tentatively stroke the soft skin on her hand, knowing as I leant closer that she would more than likely pull away from me, another stranger in this baby pastelled room. Surprisingly, she didn’t this time and I felt even sadder that this woman who had once carried me had no recognition that it was her daughter talking, her daughter touching her, skin to skin, pain to pain. This cruel illness robbed families; it took everything and left only unrelenting anguish.

Hoping to distract her and stop the inevitable escalation of anxiety, I looked at some papers on her dressing table and asked, “What’s this Mama? A shopping list? Robbie said she’d help you make one. I’d love to get you some things to brighten this place up, we both would…” My mother’s screaming stopped my rambling. She had half-risen, I don’t know how, and was pointing at the mirror, her legs shaking. “Get out! You bitch! You…” the effort of standing, the strain of this strange woman invading her space sapped her energy and she fell back into the chair, covering her face, a dry, unearthly keening coming from her mouth. I knelt down and put my arm around her little, bony shoulder. It took every effort not to sob, every effort not to escape. “Mama, it’s OK, I’m here. She won’t hurt you. I’ll take care of you, I promise, I’m here for you. I won’t let her harm you, I promise, I’m here.” No reaction. Robbie and I had tried everything to sooth her, to guide her to whatever part of her brain that could still make links, still recognize the truth: that the stranger she was so terrified of, the alien she saw in her room, the woman who she screamed at for not saying hello, was her own reflection.

By: C. Pilgrim

Dorothy, a dear old Black Lady.

(Inspired by a photo seen at

Creekwood, Nashville, Tennessee.)

Dorothy sat in the long used chair,

on the sagging veranda of her

little shack.

But Lord ! How she smiled

and her eyes lit up,

and the most  beautiful words

that she spoke, were the ones

that came, as she gazed lovingly,

up at the evening sky.

“Child,” she said, “I think

a star fell on me when I

was born, and that’s why life

is so good.”

By: Brenda Quin

Movement

Being alive means undergoing change. We grow, physically, spiritually and mentally. We move from one place to another, from one level of understanding and consciousness, to a higher level, a deeper understanding. We perceive at greater depths. Back in early 2009 the Writer's Circle looked at the topic of 'arrival'. Here are some of those efforts:

Learn to Move From One Experience to Another.

At the end of the day I sit and look with wonder at the feast that lies before me on the coffee table. Not an edible feast, but a visual one, of treasures from the shore, gifts from the ocean, carried here on crests of surging foam and spume, blown by the North West winds of winter.

Fragile and colourful, bereft now of the occupants who worked so laboriously to create them. But beautiful still, they live on, and so I look at them and thoughts rush in. Of the hand who fashioned the beauty that surrounds us everywhere if we see, not only with our eyes, but our heart’s also.

I stand in awe as I hold these treasures in my hand daily, I carry them home gently, to enjoy for years to come.

A perfect Sunrise Telling, two (halves) yet one, each half perfection, joined by so small yet so strong a link. Streaks of palest yellow, pink of sunrise, sunset too, and white – separate but each (half) an integral part of the whole. All unique, individual beauty, part of all there is, today, yesterday and tomorrow.

I stood on the small rocky beach in town this evening, expecting, looking for something of beauty – and there, right before me, a wave deposited a wonderful Murex brown glossy fluted edge, so perfect, a safe haven for the little creature who once lived within.

My thoughts are – a safe haven is fine, but it leads to a dull existence, a life without change, a life of stunted impossible growth – no newness, only routine. I believe we should all live, accepting change, taking risks, and learning in the process, from our mistakes. Live with a passion for learning and change.

My thoughts skip as a stone across the calm water to continuity in all – the sun that rises and sets each day, the moon in its cycles. Continuity of friendships, of love always, these are forever – we are eternity.

By: Brenda Quin

We Arrive Without Seeing

I know to be careful…told too many times.

From the eager adolescent, through the wandering years and

to the onslaught of age.

We know it, we hear it,

forward, side, behind and again;

repetitive, monotonous, boring.

Is it looking or seeing?

I always look.

But what of the obvious, the clearest and important things?

My mind is elsewhere, racing ahead;

making connections I have not yet seen.

Today, right now, the lines are connected.

The 2 by 4’s just off the side,

standing proud, naked against the bright sky.

Coming close, they shift and step out as if to surprise;

 I count them, too many.

All I see is symmetry and equal spaces.

Eyes drop back down.

Line, space, line, space…mesmerising.

How many are there? How long are they? Do I count the lines or the spaces?

Too late, too fast to judge.

A blank canvas stretches out in front,

shadows cast from the side;

abstract sketch or an irregular heartbeat?

Again, something is there.

I should be seeing, but find myself pulled away;

that roofline with the sharp pencil points,

children on bikes meandering…blindly unaware;

stray dogs praying, following their noses.

A colour, a noise, a thought, all enough to break my glaze.

Knocked back to reality and a moment’s sudden dread…

Arriving, not knowing what is missed.

We know to look, but forget to see.

It happens, we reluctantly accept it.

Subconscious or instinct; it’s all right then!

And mostly it’s fine…yet…

a spin of the wheel.

And today,

the dog caught a scent on the air…a sudden change in direction…

A stone is sent spiralling, its angle awkward.

An old man catches the curb, twists and stumbles.

The child on the bike tries ‘no hands’.

This world has just changed…

as the larger continues on its own path;

the games or roulette are afoot.

 Time is a series of moments,

each moment a second…

all are precious.

A new reality inevitable,

maybe not for me, or you…but someone.

The price of not seeing…

another moment in time.

By: J. Mark Bailey

Image Link:  http://0.tqn.com/d/graphicssoft/1/0/a/L/1/wcleaves.jpg

Autumn Rumblings

I

Summer on

Price Edward Island

ends

abruptly.

A few cold nights

shake out

the blankets.

Summer warmth

sneaks back

for short daytime

interludes.

At night,

frost claims the

windshields

of dormant vehicles.

A deep quietness

settles.

Mornings,

a tinge

of autumn

stands defiantly

in the air,

circling a mug of

steaming

fresh brewed coffee

in the hand

of the observer.

II

The fields

have turned

hard and metallic.

Their copper tones

signal

the coming of winter.

Colours clash with

the evergreen mantle

of the woods.

Birch and maple

trees splash

vibrant leaves

across neighbourhood

yards,

and throughout

countryside lanes.

III

Driving the highway,

the land is alive

with activity,

and feeding.

Fat geese

lift suddenly from fields

in wedges of winged

formation.

Startled,

the sight stirs

ancient instinct

within.

Eyes transfix

in awe.

The majesty

of the creation:

cold blood

spills across

my spine,

hairs rise

in salute.

IV

Soon

bare trees

with outstretched arms

will call to the

cold moon,

bereaved at the loss

of flowering youth…

I will tramp the woods

searching out the

partridge, asking

companionship

in the fading light

of an early October

afternoon.

The smoke will flatten

as it rises from

fireplace chimneys.

Lingering in the air,

scented memories

of bubbling open vats

of Maple syrup

in the springtime

sugar woods.

V

The squirrels and

chipmunks

have ceased their

incessant raids,

to lay store

provisions for the

interminable winter months,

the fallen acorns and

chestnuts

of my front yard.

VI

The vegetable garden

is long ploughed under.

Leaf, moss

and twig debris,

removed from eave

gutters…

the wood shed

swollen

in anticipation

of definitive purpose.

VII

I wait quietly

for the return

of winter’s

descent;

the long settling.

An ache inside,

hunger building;

and Autumn rumblings

erupting

in nature.

By: H.M. Peter Westin