My Loona McGoon

Another Vineyard memory.
One of Chris's and my favorite haunts is the bar at the Ocean View Restaurant. (There's no view of the ocean from there, btw...)
But real Islanders come round there, and if you're friendly and have a minute they'll tell you stories....

My Loona McGoon

"So, do ya not believe there are hand prints on the moon?
  you buy me a pint and I’ll set tell you straight son,
Sure, some say astronauts left foot prints on it,
  but I can tell ya that’s all fake, Government propaganda shit,
Ever notice there ain’t no stars behind Neil Armstong?
  ‘cause he’s in a warehouse, Ya never seen ‘em…,
But I gone too far, I skipped ahead a few parts,
  thanks guy, for the pint, I’ll go back to the start,

I’d been clammin’ on the outer banks, you know, the shallow ones anyway,
  when I got back to ma boat at the end o’ the day,
It’s never too fun, returnin’ to Nantucket,
  the seas very big and me boat’s just a bucket,
Then a storm blew up strong and it blew up right quick,
  but I’m an old clammin’ man, an’ I don’t get sea sick,
As the swells increased, the boat leaned up to starboard with each wave,
  she leveled off up the top o’ the swell, leaned to port on the downside,
  to level again bottoming a ‘tween the last and the next,
Over and over, this rolling motion,
Over ya know? ‘Way-O’, and over ‘Way-O’ we’d come,
  ‘til I felt as I’d never been sober, like too much strong rum,
‘Way-Ooo-Ooo-Woah…

An’ all the time the swells grew up higher an’ we rolled to top,
  (I say we, I mean me boat, me clams in the hold, and me)
Then I noticed, up there, clear above the mist, could see stars!
  we was in the heavens, the inky black heavens, pin-poked by starlights…
  (Ya never saw them on those ‘moon lanidings!)
Then we rolled down the lee back in the mist
  only to roll up, stars and stars again,
Was then I noticed the moon rising,
  not while deep in the waves of course, just when crestin’ up top,
An’ it were coming closer and closer with each time we rised, and with steam!

That old cheese meant to ram me, like a ship that won’t stop,
So I climb up on the pilot house,
  not so concerned with the wheel as preventin’ a collision
And as the swell rose up and we saw stars again
The moon herself were straight above, and I’m the only thing
  between her and smashin’ my boat.
So I put me hands up an' I steadied an' fended her off,
  these hands, see! These hands! pushed off from the moon!
Then we rode down and up again the next swell
I could see she was past,
  though we were lucky not to get caught in the wash of her screws,

Naw, I can see you don’t believe me,
  buy an old salt a pint, and he pays you back with a yarn,
Yet I can prove it, it’s true!
When again back at port, and on land,
  I noticed there was Moon Dust under me fingernails,
I scraped it out with me pen knife ‘n put it in a jar for me girl,
She wears it for eye shadow, Moon Dust is good eye shadow,
You ask around and she’ll tell ya,
  she’s my girl, she’s my Loona McGoon!"

  

The Gleaning

This time of year, in years past, Christine and I would spend a week or two on Martha’s Vinyard.
We have some memories.
In retrospect I have come to regret this, as I think that caterpillar may have made an interesting pet.

The Gleaning

We stepped into a garden store
  where waterfalls of flowers poured,
  from the ceiling to the floor,
Where cement Saints and Buddhas adored
  a bushel basket full of corn,
I said to Christine;
  "Corn meant maize to the Indians, and wheat to the British,
  although no one ever calls Indian corn British maize,
  like maize were corn and corn were wheat,
What loco in parentis taught our forebears how to eat?"

Now they were sandy, the corns,
  as if picked up from the ground,
  like a rutabaga or carrot,
  not as wholesome corn is found,
True, stalks will bend in a strong wind,
  to grow so on at an un-right angle,
  too low to greet the combines tines,
And the imagination easily minds,
  of wagons overflowing their bins,
  or the bump of a wheel spilling excess yield back again,

I said to Christine;
  "By ancient law these are the right of the poor,
  who come at dusk to glean their score,
  that they may know harsh hunger something less, ,
So how they come to this bushel basket here?
  could one poor soul have sold these ears to the shopkeeper,
  from what he had of his rightful share
  in deference to himself ever shucking another cob?"

Since priced by ear and not by weight,  
  I didn’t mind sand in my freight,
And there and then bought two, by the front door,
  which transformed me into a fantastic thing,
  for while as any of God’s made beasts I’d two ears before,
  I now left an unnatural, an Argus audientes sporting four,

On our way home we pondered;
  "Who is this, ‘the poor?’
  who desires gleaning corns no more?
  I live on a budget, so I could be needy, doubtful though,
And I’ve met homeless who deny it still,
  the need for charity and good will,"

Once home I washed the ears and shucked
  then stopped, declaring ‘Oh my, yuck!’
As the sight of a caterpillar, green the size of my finger
  digested me of all Christian thoughts,
Once showing Christine, I did not linger
  to march those ears a quarter mile,
  past where by roadside farmers piled their compost,
To a field, once a maze of corn, having since been shorn,
And invoking Our New England Yankee God
  chucked the gleanings back from whence they came

July

I know it's August.
In Japanese, especially in ancient Haiku and Taka collections, they arrange their poems by season, Spring - Summer - Autumn - Winter - Love - and Miscellaneous. 
We don't often do that in the west, though I wish I could with this blog.
But then it would be hard for you here to find the latest.

July

July the goldfinch perches
  upon the tomato cage which stands
To be crawled up by runner beans,
  towards his remembrance of last summer,
The nasturtium, zinnia and sunflower,
  not yet Goldfinch, it’s not your hour,
Young rabbits chase about the hedge,
  other birds’ nests have hatched and fledged,

But you, petal yellow with white piped wings,
  you wait until late summer to sing,
Then thistle and seed cones past sprung will have hardened,
  including these, the flowers of my oak barrel garden,
In time their petals you’ll pull and shed,
  then pluck the grains from every head,
So summer friend, please come back soon,
  it’s just that now we’ve one first bloom