Well, I turned down a boating activity on a 35 or 40?' yacht. I could have had breakfast or a cup of tea or Kobos decaf coffee at Marks on the Channel while waiting for my 'ride' to pick me up, and head to Astoria. I reconsidered last night, after remembering my last boat ride, in Mexico. I went on a deep sea fishing trip, took my Dramamine too late, and lost it from both ends. My boyfriend's son and I had to be dropped off on the docks, making everyone's trip a bit delayed. I never knew land rocked under ones feet, like the ocean waves.
Since even looking at a floating restaurant from the wrong angle can bring nausea, I decided a shorter trip to test out my resilience on a river, might be a better idea.
Well, I woke this morning to rain in Oregon. It's mainly sifting, but the deck is wet. The sun will come out some time, and I'm guessing it will be a bit humid. I hope my friend Charlie and his boating company have a great time. He went hiking with one of his sons yesterday, feels exhausted (probably trying to keep up with the younger generation-I heard him huffing and puffing on a phone call) and upon waking, grabbed shorts to meet his friends. When I checked with him this morning, he said he went from feeling overheated yesterday, to freezing his buns off today, and was napping as they headed towards St. Helens.
For myself, I have organizing to do, in preparation for a possible move. Tomorrow I'm going to deliver some 4th of July surprises to a few friends of mine. The picture above is my gift idea this year-a root beer float in a mug.
As is so common for me the last few years, I find myself alone on a holiday. A friend of mine helped me cut a couple of trees down yesterday and we went to dinner, and I'll be delivering my 4th of July gifts (minus 1 I guess, as I accept moving on...) tomorrow morning. The poems below were written in rough draft, together, a couple of days ago. In sharing them, you may be able to gather something for your own life, or know this traveler, better. My best...Pamela
The Captain’s Coffers…
Sometimes no matter how hard we try to make it work.
No matter how badly we want to be with them
It will never be written on the tablets of time
Not how, why, or what, if only or when.
How dangerous the warmth of touch,
The recognition of softest ever lips
A chest and chiseled waist, the perfect curves
The satiety of flesh and hips.
Familiar smells of soap, and oils and sweat
Immersion seared into their memory
Of a forbidden love, one never meant to be
The graduation to alone, the hardest disappointment yet.
The awkward sharing, shy, anomalies
The feet his mother said that she saw first
Around a corner, Oh the thirst
As past acceptance, attention turns, to please.
Those Viking shoulders, broadest back
The golden curls have softly turned to gray
The moustache still proudly blonde
A muscled vortex to his small derrier’.
At 62, he found the best lover yet
Resurrecting the man of twenty five
Craving her, yet scared to death,
Unsure if he’d keep love alive.
Sometimes regardless of our grasp,
Time tears our fingers wide apart,
For blind, he let fear say she was too poor
When she could have filled the coffers of his heart.
Pamela Cohen
6-30-11
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