Opal Reflections
Perspectives through Prose, Poetry and Photography
The Game’s A-foot
This gentle little creature that I spy,
Knows movement would proclaim his presence there,
His wriggling nose has warned that danger’s nigh,
I’ve caught him in my camera’s aperture.
Though I’m content to ogle from afar,
My Cavie cares for nothing but the game
a-foot, since time began and dogs spread fear,
‘cross denizens of Easter bunny fame.
I’m not concerned, I’ve witnessed much the same,
Each morning when I set my Bandit free,
They face each other, “wild” assessing “tame”,
And then the futile race is on – a spree.
Unbridled joy’s unleashed in backyard green,
I’m grateful and I’m blessed to watch this scene.
Note: Bandit comes close but (thankfully) can’t quite catch the bunny. Frankly, I not sure he’d know what to do with it, if he did.
Birthday Boy
Happy Birthday to the D-man,
On this seventeenth of Fall,
With grade school now behind him
The most awesome dude of all.
When the sun came up this morning
Like the blue/pink shifting skies
From the eves he kicked and struggled
‘Til his Mom knew ‘t was his time.
‘T was that rainbow heaven moment,
When I knew that all was well,
And the babe soon born would bless us,
With his gentle smiling self.
As I make his birthday goodies,
And wrap, then wrap some more,
I smile because I know I’ll hear:
“Please”, “Amazing”, “Love you more!”
The Certainty of Change
Summer days recede, and creeks run dry,
We know and sense the sure, encroaching chill,
As seasons of our lives still ebb and flow.
Oft silken, wispy webs pervade our morns,
And evenings, gold and crimson, thread our nights,
Summer days recede, and creeks run dry.
Despite oncoming roil of threatening storms,
The red-tailed, circling hawk persists in flight,
Like seasons of our lives that ebb and flow.
The tots ignore and wait for lightning horn,
Their elders let them go, and cloak their fright,
For summer days recede when creeks run dry.
Volcano Pool erupts, young heroes born,
‘Til lifeguard’s whistle clears the playful sight,
While seasons of our lives sure ebb and flow.
This world keeps spinning peaceful, then war-torn,
And darkened skies once more will turn to light,
Still, summers will recede and creeks run dry,
All seasons of our lives must ebb and flow.
Photo Friday: Cloudy
My Dining Room Table
Yesterday we had dinner at the dining room table. While that may not seem like a big deal, it was for us, because since June our beloved table was being repaired at the furniture shop. It’s absence made me realize how much I missed it, since it had been the scene of most Sunday dinners since 1967. Regardless of soccer games or crazy schedules, we always found time for Sunday dinner at the dining room table. Of course as the years went by, the kids left and came back and sometimes stayed awhile. Then they got married and had children of their own.
Yesterday I set the table for just two and recalled all the times I had done so for so many more. Now with five grandchildren, I never know for sure when to set the table for more than two; but I am always ready. As I cleared the table after dinner, I remembered decades of Sundays and holidays; family conversations (some more lively than others) and the loving wear and tear we foisted on that weathered table.
Now that it has been repaired, and a lifetime of scratches have been sanded smooth and refinished, I like to think that our story – the history of our family – is somehow still retained deep within the lovely wood grains of our dining room table. As foolish as this may seem, this is a sonnet dedicated to our dining room table:
The table’s set, it’s Sunday, after all,
Though when the kids were young I set for four,
Come rain or shine our clan answered the call,
And afterwards all joined in clean-up chores.
Then came the college years, yet even more
We kept our dining ritual intact,
We knew they’d all return someday for sure,
To homey kitchen wafts that drew them back.
The years flew by but I could never slack,
For married then, they came to Sunday dine,
Insert the leaf and placemats to unpack,
Our numbers grew to six, then eight, then nine.
Eleven, twelve and more this table’s seen,
Our story lives within the fine wood grain
Tiki, Tiki, Tiki…From Every Angle
This week we are challenged to photograph a single object or scene from several angles. I selected the Tiki sculpture in the center of the newly renovated lobby of the Polynesian Village, at WDW.
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_photo_challenge/from-every-angle/
Downtown
A gallery of scenes, some broad, some tall,
What do they have in common, where’s the thread
of continuity? They capture all
the sense of where my “Downtown” thoughts have led.
From local towns or cities where we’ve fled,
Intent on living life, roam far and wide,
Return again to hometown streets instead,
“Downtown” implies a universal pride.
Ideals that man through ages can abide,
That form the core of who we are to be,
To know from whence we’ve come keeps us in stride,
‘gainst winds of strife that threaten all we see.
Urban scene or rural market space,
E’en whittled towns ‘neath firs; unique their place.
Photo Friday: Downtown
The Journey
In this era of portable and ever-present technology, I’m often chided for my insistence on toting a relatively heavy and bulky DSLR camera case on vacation. Though I concede that iPhone snapshots can be great, nothing can compare to capturing a predawn experience through my camera lens.
I expect incredibly vibrant sunrise shots and mirrored reflections of the Seven Seas Lagoon; but some of my more memorable moments come from unexpected sights and sounds encountered along the way.
Barefooted and armed with zoom lens in my pocket, and a polishing cloth in the other, I eased out through the sliding doors, careful to not wake the sleeping child in the adjacent bed. The sprinklers were cycling through their programmed sequences, and I knew that if I headed east on the lava pathway towards Bay Lake, I could skirt the spray and reach already-watered landscapes. There I would wait for my sunrise.
Thirsty from the previous sun-scorched afternoon, the lush landscapes seemed to be soaking in the welcomed moisture. The sun would soon return and the blooms would re-open, dotting the Polynesian scene with vibrant tropical hues. But for now, here, in the quiet of the cool dawn, I paused to wait; content to bear silent witness to tear-shaped droplets clinging to delicate buds and stems.
This unanticipated frame transports me to that sublimely peaceful moment, reminding me (with the twenty-twenty clarity of hindsight) that the journey can be priceless.
Light and Shade Challenge. 
After The Storm
The drenching storms that caused such havoc through the night, were gone by morning’s first light. A clean and freshly showered landscape has always had a positive effect on my spirits and on this day, I knew I just had to go for a walk up to Brightwood Park, my favorite “Green Acres” reservation.
Having been replenished by several inches of new precipitation, the lake and its denizens seemed to be rejoicing, as Bandit and I followed our usual unpaved path into the woods and around the lake. The lake glistened, and trees along the bank rustled softly in the cool, refreshing breezes. As we crossed over the wooden bridge that spanned the tiny waterfall and out-flowing brook, I couldn’t help but notice that the usually dry bed was now a rushing rivulet. After narrowly avoiding a family of deer that leapt in single file across the path in front of us, we happened upon a man and his young grandson, who were fishing at the lake’s edge. I asked them if they had caught anything. Grandpa answered:
“Yes, we caught a good time!”
This photograph was taken a few yards further up the path and (along with a little sonnet) seemed an apropos response to this week’s Photo Friday Challenge: Trees.
Calm breezes waft a-glistening ‘cross the pond,
With whispered rustling through the breathing trees,
The evening rain, so drenching and profound,
receded; in its wake the brook flows free.
No better time with leash in hand to be
at Brightwood Lake, reclaim it’s sylvan rite,
In balance, troutlings leap and dive with glee,
As little boys wait, patient, for a bite.
Though mid-storm terrors wracked and wrecked the night,
I knew this day would follow, quashing strife,
Because, as always, day brings golden light,
And showered clean, the woods renew with life.
Swirling storms leave calm in aftermath,
Compelled, I’m beckoned back to woodsy paths.
Sand Prints
Denizens of the beach at Polynesian Village scurry for breakfast, leaving their tracks in the freshly-raked sand.
Weekly Photo Challenge: Beneath your feet:
Each Friday, we ask you to look through your lens in a different way. In the past, we’ve challenged you to get close. Gaze up. Peek out the window. Today, look down and document the world beneath your feet.
Sunset on The Seven Seas
At the end of the day, we return to our haven,
At the end of the day, we slip flip-flops aside,
Breathe a sigh of relief and, exhausted, meander
through lush greens of our “Village”, drawn near lagoon-side.
At the end of this day, boys are droopy and weary,
At the end of this day, we share stories of rides,
With prized gifts from “A. Kingdom” where wild beasts are roaming,
And a new deck of cards (slights of hand in our sights).
At the end of our day, skies turn blue-gold and fiery,
At the end of our day at “The Poly”, we sigh,
Watching families unwinding, barefooted and nestled
on beach towels, awaiting the boat show that’s nigh.
As the sun sinks away we rejoin, count our blessings,
Filled with “Wishes” of dreams in the songs that we tell,
At the end of our day, resting heads on soft pillows,
In our piece of the “World”, we’re at peace, all is well.
Photo Friday: The End of The Day
B❤️J
Once upon a time, two children met,
The boy, an only child, was shy and sweet,
The girl (with siblings two), would ne’er forget
The place and time this boy and she did meet.
In 4th grade classroom daily they would greet
each other ‘midst the chalkboard dust, and share
A secret wave or smile from distant seats,
And “Sister” smiled, as well, to see this pair.
As “Sister” planned a Christmas skit, prepared
with many roles, where all could play a part,
The dolls in Santa’s workshop, pretty, cared
not for “Rag Doll” and her fragile heart.
But “Chauffeur” saw her charm and seized the day
And “B❤️J”… six decades hence he stayed.
❤️❤️
While strolling around the glacier lake at Mohonk Mountain House a few weeks ago, we sat on a bench with these carved initials (featured photo), which harkened back to school days at St. John’s, where we met. We had the leading roles in the Christmas play; when I bemoaned the fact that a Rag Doll (my character) would never win Santa’s favor. Chauffeur (his character) replied: ” If I were the judge you would!”
We were married in St. John’s Church on August 26, 1967.
“Light and Shade” and “The Woven Tale Press”.
Lighthouse in the Mist, Cape May, NJ
Bandit
Festive View from the Pub, Peddler’s Village – Lahaska, PA.
Home Sweet Home
Opal Reflections 