Scent is a very personal thing; to some, the right scent is a melody of pleasure
If you've read my work for a while, you know that I'm a prose person. I'll read poetry, but other than a lousy haiku, I don't write it. A while ago, I ran into the poem I am presenting below.
What my wife does know won't hurt her. What she does know is that as my father before me, all a pretty vessel needs to do is whistle, and I'll pack a cruise bag.
Ah, October, readers, and writers spend time separating the cryptid from the cryptic and the insuperable from the insufferable. Vampires, mummies, witches, and ghouls cavort. Bah humbug!
What follows is a discussion of the newly named scuttlebutt syndrome found primarily among sailors:
October. It marks the beginning of a significant declivity in seasons.
A friend of mine was a professional ship model maker. Unlike many who might repine because of a lack of work. He fretted and complained about too much work.
As Dwight Eisenhower said -plans are worthless, but planning is essential.
There was a tiny islet that was my personal airy from which I could view the cove. When things were awful, I could row out and use it as a place to rant noisily. None other than the shorebirds heard me.
Along the coast of Maine, the post-glacial landscape is one of sunken river valleys and islands.