Tag Archives: boats

Art Love: Rain on the Docks

rainy day pastel painting

Before just the daylight
Come and I stand by
Waiting to catch the quickest plane
Fly me to nowhere
it’s better than somewhere
That’s where I’ve been and nothing’s changed –

“Angel of Mercy,” One Republic

Travel: Amsterdam

Amsterdam canals

 Amsterdream, by Romain Mattei

Amsterdam is ripe for rambling, its compact core laced by atmospheric lanes and quarters. You never know what you’ll find: a hidden garden, a shop selling velvet ribbon, a jenever (Dutch gin) distillery, an old monastery-turned-classical-music-venue. Wherever you end up, it’s probably by a canal. And a café. And a gabled building that looks like a Golden Age painting. – from Lonely Planet’s Guide to Amsterdam 

Boats on the Shore

sarah breese boats on shore

rt Sarah Breese

It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live

-J.K. Rowling

River

river sarah breese

rt Sarah Breese

“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

– F. Scott Fitzgerald

Wish I Had a River

I miss you the way I miss mooring docks and bright blue boats

and the fine frizzled fray of a slip knot; or a wooden bowl
worn smooth by the daily spoon and cloth,
all the ways we did and didn’t cotton.

It’s on the frozen Thames I sometimes dream you,
skating your way around apple carts, hand-presses,
coal-heaped sleds. Once I saw your beautiful bald head
as you handed your cap to an old woman, limping, fast, after her dog.

That day we flew over the Potomac, you said, here,
take this; and it wasn’t a matter of life or death
but the clamor of their conversation as I pulled
back or pushed forward on the yoke

like the honeysuckle branch you brought close to our faces
that night we climbed two fences to be alone. You said, here,
smell this; and when you let go,
I heard the sound loss makes—the way a thing going away slices

the air. Maybe it wasn’t a dog the old woman was chasing
but a fissure edged with ice;
and though she spent her whole life not knowing you,
she made, within her bony fist, your woolen cap her last soft thing.

-Annette Oxindine, Waccamaw

%d bloggers like this: