Poetry · Travel

Long Island Adventure

As I made my way up the Cross Island Parkway to 495, I truly wondered if mine were the only Jersey plates on the road. Long Island, so close and yet so far from New Jersey, is somewhere few New Jerseyans I know will venture due to its very accurate reputation for traffic. Armed with a plan to reunite with my high school friends at our friend’s home in Hauppauge later in the day, I made sure to leave nice and early to avoid said reputation.

I have been to Long Island a handful of times before, but rarely make the journey to that part of New York. For this trip, I felt determined to find someplace new-to-me to discover in the time before I was set to meet my friends. In the days leading up to my trip, I explored the Island with the help of my most trusty trip-planning tool, Google Maps, and narrowed down my sights to two places I’d never previously heard of, Cold Spring Harbor and Huntington.

Cold Spring Harbor, NY

First on the agenda for my Long Island adventure was a hike. As I neared the parking area for Cold Spring Harbor State Park, I worried that I might not get a space. I’d seen signs for a Fishing Derby for that same day and wondered how popular such an event was out on the island. Luckily, my Fishing Derby worries did not materialize and I pulled into a space, the only one I could see amongst the throngs of cars in the lot (Phew! That was close!), and changed into my hiking boots.

Looking at the trail map and having the idea in my head that Long Island has pretty flat terrain, I made the mistake of assuming that this out and back trail might be a leisurely trek through the trees. When I eyed the first set of stairs at the very start of the trail, however, I readjusted my preconceived notions and prepared to sweat a bit.

The trail was well marked and clearly popular on a beautiful Saturday morning. Early into the trek, I passed a sign directing hikers toward restroom facilities located at the back of the Cold Spring Harbor Library, just a short offshoot from the main trail. The facilities are only open during regular library hours, so be sure to look that up before setting out on a hike, if that’s something you have concerns about.

With happy boots in the dirt, I climbed the stairways through the trees- up, down, and up again. I passed many hikers carrying trekking poles on their way back towards the parking lot and understood how poles could come in handy on this moderately challenging trail, due to the varying elevation.

After my hike, which took me just over an hour, I drove into town and headed to the next stop on my itinerary for the day- Sweetie Pie’s on Main. This cozy little bakery and coffee shop did not disappoint except for the fact that it made me want coffee pretty badly, which I don’t drink anymore. I got myself an iced chai with almond milk instead and forgot about my coffee craving pretty quickly though.

Sweetie Pie’s had a pleasant, quiet outdoor seating area around the back of the building. I enjoyed my chai for a bit in the serenity of the garden area before hitting the sidewalk again, to catch a better view of the harbor.

I enjoyed the little historical nods throughout the town. The buildings alone were quaint, characterful, and colorful. I passed by a restaurant that had enticing seafood aromas escaping from its kitchen that had me glancing at the sign to check the name, Sandbar, and continued on my way.

Leading up to the harbor was a pretty, grassy park with a moving tribute to the victims of the 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Center. Just behind the tribute sculpture were three Callery pear trees, seedlings from the original “Survivor Tree” found in the rubble at Ground Zero.

The view of the harbor from the park was peaceful and picturesque. So far, I was pleased with my Long Island adventure and I was excited to see what my next stop had to offer.

Huntington, NY

An adventure of mine rarely feels complete without a visit to a bookstore. I parked right out front of The Next Chapter in Huntington and smiled up at the classic fairytale font of the letters on the shop’s sign. Looking in the window, I knew this place would make my heart happy.

Inside, The Next Chapter was densely packed with fully stocked bookshelves, organized well with signs hanging from the ceiling that identified each section of the store. I made my way to the Staff Picks shelf and read the descriptions of a few books on display there before winding my way towards the Poetry section. I was searching for Whitman because of his ties to the area; he was born about five miles from Huntington, I learned in my research. Whitman eluded me, however, and Frost called to me instead, Frost being the first poet whose work really inspired me to practice the artform way back when.

I scoped out the children’s section next, in search of a few fun selections for a book-obsessed kiddo I know with an upcoming birthday and the offerings on the shelves did me just fine in my search.

The Next Chapter offers live music on certain Friday and Saturday nights and is also available to rent for events, by inquiry. I was intrigued by the shop’s local and independent author program and was happy to see titles by these authors featured in a designated section of the store. Very cool.

My daytrip plan led me back up New York Avenue to Six Harbors Brewing Company next. I perused the colorful menu of brews on offer and opted for a lighter option, the Founder’s Day Pilsner since I was going to be hitting the road again soon. I enjoyed my pilsner seated at a barrel inside the spacious tasting room. The brewery had a comfortable, rustic atmosphere to it that felt very cozy and welcoming, even as a solo visitor.

After the brewery, I took a walk up to Main Street in pursuit of a good slice of pizza. Main Street Huntington had such a fun, walkable, downtown USA feel to it that had me storing it in the archives of my brain to remember and return to someday. The street was a mix of independent shops and restaurants and some more well-known chains, and was packed with a plethora of dining and shopping options and convenience businesses to satisfy locals and travelers, alike. The downtown area also had a pretty park, a performance venue called The Paramount, and an AMC movie theater, all within walking distance. I’ll be back with Mike one day, for sure.

Walt Whitman’s Birthplace

Though already late to meet my friends, I just had to fit this stop in on my Long Island adventure. I drove about fifteen minutes south of Huntington to South Huntington to set my eyes on the humble home where the “Father of Free Verse” first opened his eyes on the world that would one day become his inspiration, his poem.

This was not a popular activity, apparently, and I was one of only two cars in the lot when I pulled in. The house was concealed behind a high, wooden fence, separated from public access by a pleasant looking visitor’s center. Entering the visitor’s center, I was greeted by two guides who told me that in order to explore the grounds, I would need to take a tour. I paid the entrance fee of $10.00, and explained with regret that I didn’t have time for the full tour. One of the guides led me outside to the grounds and provided a brief overview of the house’s history. Whitman only lived there until he was four years old. Still, I had chills knowing that this humble building, these pretty surroundings must be where the artist stored his first memories of the America that inspired him so well.

A short distance from the house were a statue of Whitman and a circle of benches called The Poet’s Circle, dedicated to the museum’s poets in residence. I could see how this place would be inspirational to poets and, if I’d had more time, I would have liked to sit there in quiet reflection and draft a few new verses of my own.

I explored the little museum in the visitor’s center and was interested to learn that the first edition of Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, published in 1855, did not feature the poet’s name on the cover or the spine. Instead, the green, leather cover showed only the title in gilded lettering with golden leaves sprouting from the letters. The cover page also did not indicate the author’s name and instead offered the reader only a rendering of the poet, a young, bearded man in workman’s clothes, his hat tilted, his pose relaxed. According to the information on display in the museum, Whitman set the type himself for the first edition and less than 800 copies of the book were printed.

I purchased my own copy of Leaves of Grass containing the original twelve poems in their original form from the gift shop onsite. With my souvenir in hand, I headed back to the car to continue on the final leg of my journey, late as I was.

An Overdue Reunion

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. I’m not the best at keeping in touch. Sometimes, years go by where I don’t exchange a word with some friends from high school. Despite this, it always amazes me how when that reunion finally comes, amid those hours spent in the company of people around whom I can be my true, quirky, silly self, the time lost is erased, filled with the updates and the news, the laughter and the inside jokes, the long dormant personalities of friends who came together at sixteen and before. The bond is strengthened once more, prepared to withstand the next pause, however long and we are left with our pride in each other, our mutual sense of inadequacy, our truths, and our hope that it won’t be so long till the next time.

Long Island, you impressed me. Thank you for the fulfilling hours and adventures for this solo traveler. And thank you for the light traffic early in the morning and late at night, despite my white-knuckle driving on the Belt Parkway in the rain.

Until next time.

Poetry

Unseen

Today, as I walked, you were with me,

but you weren’t really there,

faces from the past,

old friends,

bonds lessened with time,

with silence.

I wondered what you’d say,

what you’d look like today

in the green, gold light shining through the leaves,

beneath the eaves of the forest.

I like to think I’d recognize you,

but I just couldn’t say.

My thoughts roam free when I walk.

They soar up to the up-most branches,

rooting out roosts where the owls hoot,

nestling in crooks of lightning-darkened bark,

looking down on the path below,

out of body,

out of mind,

close behind

the wandering girl

in her world of green,

unseen.

Nostalgic Posts · Poetry

The Adventurers

We live for adventure, you and I.

We live for it here,

for each step, each breath, each song

sung along to in the kitchen, the shower, the hallway,

doing laundry and dishes that have to be done.

Life is a beautiful mess with you.

The mess just means we’re living.

We wear out our shoes and our jeans,

our socks and our old tee shirts.

There’s sand in the bath, hair on the sinks, and trash in the waste baskets.

We live and it shows.

It sounds and it looks and it smells like us here,

as it should,

as we’d live it.

We crave the smiles and expressions,

the weekend mornings spent lounging,

reading books and articles,

watching shows and “content” and DVDs,

playing games about planes,

even booking tickets on real ones, every so often.

We capture little moments throughout the day

and keep the ones that stick to make us smile later on.

We savor quiet nights, cooking aromas, and sampled tastes,

the smell of sunscreen and oatmeal in the mornings,

cold cream, soap, and toothpaste at the end of the day.

We capture visions from hilltops, from mountains, 

climbing up the little bumps on the world

to soothe our hunger to explore.

We store them in our heads and in pictures,

file them away for use in our dreams, our memories.

We make shadows in the sun,

heat at our backs, giants on pavement, 

their footsteps synchronized with our own,

tagging along on our meandering journey.

We set our sights on now and tomorrow and the next day, 

only looking far ahead when it’s practical to

which, let’s face it,

you do for the both of us, oftentimes.

We are an amateur cover band with no audience, 

singing bluegrass, indie, rock, and pop

to the tiles, the walls, the car windows.

We are background noise you only get on the hundredth listen,

wandering a broad and varying soundscape.

The music is often on, it seems,

but sometimes there’s silence and we like that too.

There’s sleep 

and days full of nothing

but sitting with you on the big blue couch

in this place where we live for the adventure that’s living,

in this place where we live,

you and I.

Mental Health · Poetry · Social Media · Travel

On Crickets and Fireflies

I was reminded last week, by some truly lovely friends, that a handful of people actually read this. They brought up that I’ve been “pretty quiet over there” for a while. I was surprised that anybody noticed, to tell you the truth. I’ve been a little blocked with the personal stuff lately, see, or maybe just a little more reluctant to share for worry that people aren’t interested because that’s how it seems when you send personal writing out into the world and get crickets back. It’s pretty quiet from where I sit too sometimes. That’s just part of the process though, I tell myself. If people want to engage, they will. If they don’t, they won’t and that’s just fine. I need the outlet either way sometimes, the one way radio, so to speak.

The inspiration for the stuff that seems to do well with my readers on here, whom I don’t actually know- poetry (which still surprises me) dried up soon after I nixed coffee over two months back, which I don’t really understand, other than to know that I’ve never felt more emotionally stable than I do these days. Wouldn’t it be nice if the urge to write some rhymes or freeform comes back and I get to keep this nice, calm brain? Is life that good? I sure hope so.

It’s been hot here in NJ for the past few days after feeling like March for weeks beforehand. I was tired of the rain and the cold, but I wouldn’t mind if the cool, stormy weather came calling again, looking for a place to crash after a flight delay.

We took a trip to Miramar Beach, FL this month. I didn’t write about it and I probably won’t beyond this. It was restful and fun with a lot of family time that made me smile and a few dips in the turquoise Gulf that’ll have me missing that beautiful, warm water with each icy plunge into the Atlantic this summer.

As I mentioned at the beginning of this post, I was lucky enough to see some really wonderful friends last week, then some more later in the week, one of whom I hadn’t caught up with in many years. I’m pretty terrible at keeping in touch, it turns out, other than writing here and even that’s not been so good lately. I don’t even use social media anymore. It felt too inauthentic, the line between “friends” and strangers too blurred.

When I’m with my people face to face, I try to make up for lost time. It’s always so refreshing to see a familiar face, to hear their laugh or tone of voice, or to catch the unique little mannerisms or humor that make my loved ones who they are. It’s like watching fireflies in the indigo night, little blips of brilliance that transform the dark to magic.

I hope you are all happy and staying cool and thank you, as always, for reading. And thank you, Jean, for calling me out. I needed it. 💖

Poetry

Hey Stranger

Hey stranger;

who are you?

Sorry; I know that’s terse.

But I ask on account 

we don’t actually converse.

I write and you read

or you don’t-

I don’t know,

doesn’t matter;

it’s fine, either way.

I don’t dare to presume,

couldn’t possibly claim understanding of you,

no invitation to observe

the workings lurking behind your optic nerve.

I bleed truth

and I’m drained, I’m afraid.

I could use a transfusion,

a change or a break 

from the one-sided bank that’s near dry to the dam.

I could do with some sort of malfunction-

a leak or a breakthrough to stave off 

the drought of the week coming on,

posing risk to depleted reserves,

some comment or tidbit to calm restless nerves.

Could you carry the conversation sometime? 

I’d take a word as consolation, if you’ve got one to spare.

Could you narrate your mind?

Wring the sponge in your skull dry from time to time?

I could soak up your words for a change.

Would that be so strange?

Would you say something new that’s never been said?

Seek answers never quite put to bed?

Could you translate your thoughts into words?

Or is that too absurd to even consider?

Would you grant admission to your mystery’s dissolving,

what remains- evolving

into someone I’d know in a room full of faces,

one I could look on and read past the mask.

It’s a lot to ask- I know,

of a stranger like you,

So I guess I’ll just write

And you are welcome to read, if you like,

with no pressure to share,

while I remain unaware

and you remain ever a stranger.

Grief & Loss · Nostalgic Posts · Poetry

When You Were

You were pine scented card stock

dangling from the rearview mirror on elastic string,

packs of tissues strapped to the visor, 

and a little American flag fixed to the rear antenna-

when you were.

You were cans of Pepsi, 

cigarette butts in ashtrays all around,

and sweatshirts printed with cutesy cats, bears, and flowers.

You were snores on the sofa with the TV on loud-

true crime stories,

Irish folk songs, 

and the turn-dial TV,

bright white sneakers with shamrock laces

or American flags.

You were transitional lenses slow to adjust,

hair mousse, painted nails,

and yellow American cheese wrapped in paper and plastic from Acme.

You were egg drop soup, custard cups, and the corner store.

You were microwaved mugs of Lipton black tea, 

Oh When the Saints Go Marching In blaring on your hip,

God Bless America in light snow that February.

I can hear it now.

You were popular, authentic, and distinct.

I still remember the smell of your house,

that shelter for wayfaring family and friends, decade after decade.

It’s someone esle’s home now.

I wonder if you visit.

I still feel the icy shock of the kitchen tiles on bare feet in the mornings,

the twinge of fourteen years gone by with no new memories of you.

Still, we were lucky.

You were here for a while.

You were ours

and you loved us

when you were.

Cozy Posts · Poetry

The Dream House

I have a home inside my dreams

amid a forest of evergreens,

with sparkling water not too far,

and skylights to let in the stars.

My forest, green with mossy bark,

from misty rain and velvet dark,

has soil soft with molted leaves

outside home’s walls and wooden eaves.

A fire set in white-washed stone

highlights the mantle’s honey-tone.

It warms the room, glowing serene,

and conjures up a cozy scene.

And when I dream, I walk the halls,

trail fingertips on gray, stone walls.

I plod upon the cushioned rugs

while balancing steaming tea mugs.

Inside, there is one thing it lacks-

a place to sleep. But why? you ask.

In dreams, I do not sleep a wink,

for that would be surreal; I think.

Instead there is a weathered chair,

its leather arms, softened from wear.

I curl up in its squashy seat

to take in a view that can’t be beat.

Windows look out on dense trees,

a wall of glass to better see

the mossy world my house calls home,

beneath the color-changing dome.

I look out at my forest grow

and know, in waking, I must go.

I savor time and stone and beams

while I’m awake inside my dreams.

Poetry

Defiance Gravity

What happens when you drop decorum from a skyscraper?

It’s a physics equation, on paper, or no?

Since gravity doesn’t apply to behavior,

it lands both harder and not at all.

It’s a complex figure,

inserted amid the text of some published melding of the minds,

paired with questions posed by Isaac and Albert

beside photos of graffitied translations from ancient philosophers

frescoed into tonal gray cement that stains when it rains,

or illegible neon spray painted on shiny towers of glass that, themselves, 

set fire to parked cars in the summertime.

The author couldn’t actually explain,

just uses big words that blend together

until you don’t care about the answer anymore.

But if you put it to the test,

the reality can make quite the mess

and cleaning up takes time.

So mind your Ps and Qs, my friends

and queue your peas up end to end.

Then, pop and gnash

or stew and mash;

they’re good that way, I hear.

Oh- and just remember, dear;

how you act does, indeed, matter.

See, rules don’t only break when dropped.

They can bend,

amend,

and shatter.

Cozy Posts · Poetry

Comfort on the Homefront

A cozy, quiet evening,

swallowed early by the dark;

there’s bluegrass in the speakers

and a distant twilight bark.

Arrivals sail across the sky,

bound for Jamaica, Queens.

There’s comfort on the homefront;

it felt right to set the scene:

pumpkins by the TV,

cards upon the shelf,

socks with knitted patterns,

and a mug to warm myself.

Dinner’s fast approaching

and there’s pinot noir to share.

There’s comfort on the homefront

and I thought I’d bring you there.

Poetry

Yours,

I belong to many-

To a man who loves me well,

To a family who brought me here and showed me what’s what,

To strangers passing by, sharing smiles and hellos,

To friends I’ve grown up with,

And friends I’ve met grown,

To a house by the shore that’s equipped with good bones,

And I understand, now, that I’m hardly my own.