Sunday, February 25, 2007


I can't believe there are no more poets out there in our reading audience. But, alas, I've received only this one submission in response to my call for verse. Thank you, Clem!

(For Jerry and Norma, With Love)

We're not quite O'Cockers yet, I reckon,
But we're workin' on it.

The good old boys next door, Jeff and Beaver,
Make torpid flails at their fishnet
With sticks, in the manner of parochial beadles
Grown weary of their God-given commission
To correct the lazy
In the buzzing blaze of midday.

We sit here in the heat.
We feel in our own hot blood why their flailing's torpid.
Our dozing kitten stretches her skinny bones full-length,
Passive, yet alert for a breeze; life itself
Heats up and slows down in these parts come July.

We sense our inbuilt clocking devices shifting
From chronometer time to calendar time
(measure by tides, stars or phases of the moon).

But, in spite of ourselves, our wishful thinking,
In spite of this tidal pull toward the languid,
We still think about the day's schedule, don't we?
What must we get at the store?
What shall we make for supper?
What shall we do next?
Do we have time to go to the beach?
We can't just sit here idle, can we? And...

When (why?) do we have to go home?

Nope. We're not quite O'Cockers yet.
But it’s workin' on us.
— Clem Page
Ocracoke, July 24, 2002.

This month's Ocracoke Newsletter tells about island customs relating to death & dying. You can read the newsletter here.

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