Confucius is credited as the first to say, “Wherever you go, there you are.” Since I’m taking off blog time until October, I’d like to share moments captured in a handful of poems … when I was “there.” I am pleased to present such moments in paintings by my husband, Vincent Mancuso. Happy summer!
Tisbury, Vineyard Garden, pastel by Vincent Mancuso
Leaving the World
Massachusetts, (Circa 1990)
Children, dogs and seagulls!
Who could be more up
on the yuppie cruise to the Vineyard,
our first Friday bound for Oak Bluff?
Babies bounce in dad-packs.
Infants set to breast.
Toddlers ready for "All fall down”
as hounds cross paws for a rest.
Ferry slip to creaky dock
under Cotton Candy clouds,
over white caps tipped for jaunty sails and
the straw hat, flower-brimmed crowd.
Off island rules surrendered.
Island rites abide.
Past Vineyard Haven's Five Corners.
Done best if one does not drive.
For a glimpse of Gayhead splendor,
of Edgartown's prim grandeur,
of West Tisbury Granary hopping,
or Oak Bluff's gingerbread tour.
Weekends slide toward dock lines,
packing a ferry or barge
as a sobering crowd on the mainland run
stands consoled under seafaring stars.
Edgartown, Sitting Pretty, pastel by Vincent Mancuso
Watching Jenny Mow
Connecticut (Circa 2005)
We’re all watching.
The lazy bees,
the pale flies on the deck,
the wetland’s chatty critters.
Jenny takes her first loop
on the sitting mower.
Like her first ride on a bike
at five, near six.
Jenny dares.
Jenny braves.
She takes her licks.
I’m under a golden yellow
Pier 1 umbrella
with a cut glass vase of
Queen Anne’s Lace.
We all share
the sweet smell of
fresh cut grass,
blue sky and
skirt of draping
August limbs.
The triumphant
lawn bride rides.
The beaming groom grins.
I heard
nothing really matters.
Nothing lasts.
Still, all of nature chatters
as our Jenny cuts the grass.
Candlewood North
Connecticut (Circa 2015)
A little life.
A big splash.
Race to the float,
but, first, better ask.
Watch a medic on Survivor's dock.
Wipe extra photos from the
Solstice fire.
Click, click, tock, tock.
The buzz of voices
turn a row of
tanned young moms.
The line of Adirondack chairs
gleam - as seen from the seaplane.
Trees cast shadows
as night gently falls.
As one by one,
the children call.
"Mommy, watch me!'
echoes across the lake.
"Not my circus.
Not my monkeys."
Charmed life,
for the kids' sake.
Stepping Out: A Dream Excursion
France (Circa 1995)
Crossing shadows and cobble as
centuries of former lovers,
to the ramparts of Montelimar,
we hug vin, pain and fromage
past Inspector Concierge.
On a terrace in the twilight,
we breathe in the nectar of summer,
hear mothers calling children,
toasted children straggling home.
Miles to go before Paris,
flambé in our feast of France.
We blow kisses to beckon nightfall,
to bed in a moonlit trance.
Crossing fields of lavender and sunflowers,
we shrug off thunder showers.
We yield a tour day to a sidewalk café.
Memory preserves a flutter of lace.
Farmer aristocrats, vineyard bronzed,
pocket our francs in a marketplace.
Arm-in-arm to Paris,
shedding all such country quiet.
Beguiled by a city where bistros await,
we twirl up the tower,
scanning lights upon lights.
Anchored at heart,
as the Seine River flows,
to revel in love's awesome depths,
fearless heights.
Note: The dream became reality in 2011.
Lake George, watercolor by Reggie Morrisey
Lake George
New York (Circa 1980)
What is wrong with this picture?
Incongruous lawn table and flower vase
competing with fronds in giant cups?
On the top of a triple-decker boat?
Such conspicuous consumption
has no right to float
in a tropical heat wave
above Lake George.
On a night like this,
all is cinema:
flowers, water, chairs flecked
with lights, cameras, action.
Laughing women and cursing gents
commence their show of fun
while boardwalk spectators eye
a needle fit for no camel and
a townie waitress shrugs off her despair.
Like a child shaking chills
on a winter's night, skating,
the only one there
when thirty miles of ripples freeze.
Still as the cash register.
Long as the line at welfare.
Like an idle cook stewing in his juice,
a new boy over his first fist fight.
Seems nowhere to go but up.
In such a "have and have not" world,
couldn't one deck be enough?
Free Fall at Sherwood Island
Connecticut (Circa 1985)
The kites are moored above the beach.
All is quiet by the Sound.
But there is a buzz of fighter planes
careening toward the ground.
The boys thrive at the landing strip
beyond the tall marsh grass.
White haired, gray haired, balding boys.
Victorious at last.
The beach head’s theirs
and all the clouds.
The parking lot
without the crowds
as yonder in their wildest blue,
a dog fight howls
and nose to tail,
the toy planes spin.
Diving, rising, diving again
to end in split-second saves.
What brushes with destruction
for the tiny motor blades.
What close calls for the fine wood wings.
What glory for each flag decal.
Few could resist the spoils of a war
this autumn among ace flying pals.
Remington, The Raptor
New York (Circa 1990)
I have but one bare mews, and
I am not fooled by
the shadow of window bars
that creep across its walls.
I keep my own counsel,
waiting for a wing or
whisker to fall.
I awake for the hood
to cover my eyes,
for the glove and
then the leash.
For the human voice
caressing me
in its whispered,
soothing speech.
I wait for
the humming engine,
the whinnying horse,
the panting hounds,
the pointer’s yelping cry.
I wait for the jingle of
my bells to shake the sky.
To part from the earth,
rise above the mews and fly.
Lake shore, watercolor by Reggie Morrisey
Life Challengers Approaching Dusk
New York (Circa 1985)
Their rowboat bounds
for blindly glistening waves.
Lurching from the shore,
they bicker and spin
into the sun's path
till at last
they are lost to my sight
like the first astronauts
gone behind the moon.
Speed boats,
bellowing motors and dudes,
now leeward, starboard
bow-to-stern loom.
Hooting teen seamen
guzzle a six pack or two
Hot dogging it for dockside pals.
Like mindless comets
they spear a wake.
Asteroids,
ready to forsake the wheel.
All I hear are engines
and squeals
as the mad dash into the sun.
Given the turbulent liquid space,
the day's end voyage
now seems a mistake.
Re-entry cannot come too soon
for my daring explorers,
my two young daughters.
"This is mission control.
Come in, please.
Tell me what you saw.
Bring samples
from the far-off shore.
Row here victorious
and nonchalant...”
The sun drops to silhouette
their boat into view.
At peace in a cove
riotous with crickets.
Bent over lilies
bundled up for the night,
the girls are all right.
My eyes pull their oars hard,
will them to this shore,
passed macho vessels,
intoxicated with power.
As they dart across the lawn
and toss down the oars,
I wonder
who wills the wild boys home
at this bewitching hour.
My Rondout Creek, acrylic by Vincent Mancuso
The Last Sweep of Cottage #4
New York (September 2014)
With a child-sized broom,
I stoop to sweep through rooms,
past our cozy, creaky bed,
full, not queen.
I cross the wooden planks,
both dull and rich with age.
Peer at windows to my worlds,
to woods and an office screen.
To where the cat scratches a post
and a sleeper couch plays host
to kids and grandkids
every now and then …
for hugs and laughs
after shivering swims.
Past the glass-faced pantry,
so like the window sill,
once filled with fruits of the season
and a smiling plaster chef,
saintly patron of our bounty.
To the side door,
draped and sprayed
thick with Home Defense,
where I cupped all moths to exit
and coaxed their nightly flights.
Onto the screened-in porch,
our paradise of sorts.
For breakfast, rain or shine.
For dining in candlelight.
Here, I sweep what's left of wasps
downed in "us" or "them" fights.
I will not sweep the Skytop view
of sloping lawn and towering trees.
The path into the forest,
or hummingbirds on a breeze.
I hold fast northern creature songs
till once again we call this home
next year.
Chef on Sill, Cottage #4