The Cranberry Experiment
phishgod
Posts: 133
The Cranberry Experiment
Or maybe
I’d take
you to
the Cranberry
Isles, afar
the Arcadian
coast of
Maine, hear
wave break
loud on
rocky shore,
smell salt
sea spray
the air
so ocean
fresh and
clean, feel
wind blow
your long
blonde hair
the little
ferry, hear
sound of
fog horn
buoy pierce
your ears—
the bells,
the bells
call their
little warnings
off the
shoals that
rocky shore,
we disembark
with rental
bikes and
head off
the little
village to
explore alone
the island,
rustic charm
a weathered
bed ‘n’ breakfast,
the old
school yard,
cemetery stones,
the lighthouse,
craggy shore,
the old
sea-crest
houses worn
and gray,
the widow’s
walks on
high roofs
mark their
time watching
for the
lost- at-
sea-husbands,
sailors, whalers
lobstahmen, all,
feel wind
pick up
push clouds
in from
far off-
shore, we
race our
bikes back
the little
village as
wind begins
to turn
a roar—
a squall
line moving
in, hear
ocean wave
whuppa- whuppa
whoosh the
rocky shore,
we reach
little café
just minutes
after the
rain-soak
begins and
(park bikes)
dashing up
little wood
steps, to
hole up
and dine-
out storm
with hot
fresh cups
coffee, bowls
of steamy
New England
chowdah, or
lobstah bisque,
and crab
and lobstah
sandwiches all
chilled with
mayo, celery,
onion-green,
lettuce, tomata,
some fine
chilled white
wine (an
’87 Riesling),
followed by
big pieces
fresh blueberry
pie still
warm the
oven, we
laugh, and
joke, little
amusements just
funny to
ourselves, and
you critique
the service
and then
I comment
we may
need room
the old
bed ‘n’ breakfast
to ride
out storm—
an afternoon
of love
instead explore
rest of
islands in
the rain,
and you
laugh and
tease—I
only have
one thing
my lecherous
mind, but
the rain
keeps coming
now in
sheets and
we realize
this may
be best
alternative, now,
rather brave
return-ferry-
ride the
wind and
waves, and
I borrow
café phone
and call
and reserve
room, and
we wait
‘til lull
the squall
then make
mad dash
opposite end
the village
on bikes:
the drizzle,
the chill,
our summer
clothes now
soaked, and
we park
bikes and
run up
steps, your
hair all
damp and
drippy, my
glasses foggin’
and water
dripping from
my beard,
my moustache.
The proprietress
gives us
funny looks
as I
proffer my
Gold Card,
and inquire
about hot
baths (and
extra towels),
and then,
directed to
our room,
we peel
off wet
clothes and
both (race)
for (private
bath) bathtub
simultaneously—the
old four-
foot kind,
and draw
a hot
and steamy
bath and
both climb
in, sloshing
water over
edge, we
soak and
soap each
other liberally,
and snuggle
to get
warm, and
you (angry!)
now your
hair and
make-up
proclaimed a
lost cause,
I splash
warm water
over your
head, and
tender-massage
shoulders, thighs,
we soak,
and soak,
and soak—
snuggle until
water gets
cool, we
drain and
fill, and
soak some
more, our
fingers turning
all wrinkly
like prunes,
then dry
and wrap
each other
the faded
plum bath
towels provided
and tumble
into bed
under silk/
goose down
comforter where
--STOP!—
I won’t
tell the
next part,
or again,
I’ll never
tell, but
O!, how
you trembled,
O!, how
you trembled
laying a-top
me in
my arms,
and O!,
how much
I love
you now
this lost
day, and
we get
up to
hang wet
clothes (all
strewn across
the hardwood
floor) over
old steam-
heat radiator
to get
dry, then
tumble back
the goose
down-comforter
to hold
each other
close for
warmth and
love, the
wind and
rain still
playing their
little tap
dance on
old roof
and window
panes ‘til
well past
midnight, and
‘bout three
I wake
again, go
stand nekkid
by the
window and
see clear
skies alive
with star-
fire over
head and
far out
to sea,
hear bells
gently toll
their soft
fare-wells,
and I
gently wake
you to
come star-
gaze with
me, which
we do,
‘til cold,
then tumble
once again
the goose
down, to
tremble-tremble
once again
(but I’ll
never tell)
‘til morning
comes, the
sun streaming
in our
east-face
window wakes
us, once
again, and
we dress
our now-
dry clothes
and go
down to
breakfast/eggs,
fresh squeezed
juice/sausage/
hot coffee
“regulah”/ and
hot muffins/
then go
(fetch bikes)
and catch
first ferry
back the
mainland, feel
sun and
wind at
play your
hair, smell
air so
fresh and
clean, taste
hint of
salt upon
your lips,
see water
shimmering in
morning sun,
imagine this
was real,
etched forever
our mind’s
mirrors, so
real we
both can
see it,
as if—
it really
happened?
Can you
imagine that?
--September 16, 1994
@pth
Or maybe
I’d take
you to
the Cranberry
Isles, afar
the Arcadian
coast of
Maine, hear
wave break
loud on
rocky shore,
smell salt
sea spray
the air
so ocean
fresh and
clean, feel
wind blow
your long
blonde hair
the little
ferry, hear
sound of
fog horn
buoy pierce
your ears—
the bells,
the bells
call their
little warnings
off the
shoals that
rocky shore,
we disembark
with rental
bikes and
head off
the little
village to
explore alone
the island,
rustic charm
a weathered
bed ‘n’ breakfast,
the old
school yard,
cemetery stones,
the lighthouse,
craggy shore,
the old
sea-crest
houses worn
and gray,
the widow’s
walks on
high roofs
mark their
time watching
for the
lost- at-
sea-husbands,
sailors, whalers
lobstahmen, all,
feel wind
pick up
push clouds
in from
far off-
shore, we
race our
bikes back
the little
village as
wind begins
to turn
a roar—
a squall
line moving
in, hear
ocean wave
whuppa- whuppa
whoosh the
rocky shore,
we reach
little café
just minutes
after the
rain-soak
begins and
(park bikes)
dashing up
little wood
steps, to
hole up
and dine-
out storm
with hot
fresh cups
coffee, bowls
of steamy
New England
chowdah, or
lobstah bisque,
and crab
and lobstah
sandwiches all
chilled with
mayo, celery,
onion-green,
lettuce, tomata,
some fine
chilled white
wine (an
’87 Riesling),
followed by
big pieces
fresh blueberry
pie still
warm the
oven, we
laugh, and
joke, little
amusements just
funny to
ourselves, and
you critique
the service
and then
I comment
we may
need room
the old
bed ‘n’ breakfast
to ride
out storm—
an afternoon
of love
instead explore
rest of
islands in
the rain,
and you
laugh and
tease—I
only have
one thing
my lecherous
mind, but
the rain
keeps coming
now in
sheets and
we realize
this may
be best
alternative, now,
rather brave
return-ferry-
ride the
wind and
waves, and
I borrow
café phone
and call
and reserve
room, and
we wait
‘til lull
the squall
then make
mad dash
opposite end
the village
on bikes:
the drizzle,
the chill,
our summer
clothes now
soaked, and
we park
bikes and
run up
steps, your
hair all
damp and
drippy, my
glasses foggin’
and water
dripping from
my beard,
my moustache.
The proprietress
gives us
funny looks
as I
proffer my
Gold Card,
and inquire
about hot
baths (and
extra towels),
and then,
directed to
our room,
we peel
off wet
clothes and
both (race)
for (private
bath) bathtub
simultaneously—the
old four-
foot kind,
and draw
a hot
and steamy
bath and
both climb
in, sloshing
water over
edge, we
soak and
soap each
other liberally,
and snuggle
to get
warm, and
you (angry!)
now your
hair and
make-up
proclaimed a
lost cause,
I splash
warm water
over your
head, and
tender-massage
shoulders, thighs,
we soak,
and soak,
and soak—
snuggle until
water gets
cool, we
drain and
fill, and
soak some
more, our
fingers turning
all wrinkly
like prunes,
then dry
and wrap
each other
the faded
plum bath
towels provided
and tumble
into bed
under silk/
goose down
comforter where
--STOP!—
I won’t
tell the
next part,
or again,
I’ll never
tell, but
O!, how
you trembled,
O!, how
you trembled
laying a-top
me in
my arms,
and O!,
how much
I love
you now
this lost
day, and
we get
up to
hang wet
clothes (all
strewn across
the hardwood
floor) over
old steam-
heat radiator
to get
dry, then
tumble back
the goose
down-comforter
to hold
each other
close for
warmth and
love, the
wind and
rain still
playing their
little tap
dance on
old roof
and window
panes ‘til
well past
midnight, and
‘bout three
I wake
again, go
stand nekkid
by the
window and
see clear
skies alive
with star-
fire over
head and
far out
to sea,
hear bells
gently toll
their soft
fare-wells,
and I
gently wake
you to
come star-
gaze with
me, which
we do,
‘til cold,
then tumble
once again
the goose
down, to
tremble-tremble
once again
(but I’ll
never tell)
‘til morning
comes, the
sun streaming
in our
east-face
window wakes
us, once
again, and
we dress
our now-
dry clothes
and go
down to
breakfast/eggs,
fresh squeezed
juice/sausage/
hot coffee
“regulah”/ and
hot muffins/
then go
(fetch bikes)
and catch
first ferry
back the
mainland, feel
sun and
wind at
play your
hair, smell
air so
fresh and
clean, taste
hint of
salt upon
your lips,
see water
shimmering in
morning sun,
imagine this
was real,
etched forever
our mind’s
mirrors, so
real we
both can
see it,
as if—
it really
happened?
Can you
imagine that?
--September 16, 1994
@pth
rockon,
phishgod
phishgod
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