A Bended Oak Bungalow

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A Bended Oak Bungalow

�(re)write your story: relax, relate & revel in dog & family fun at a galveston airbnb/vrbo w/ ret Pet-friendly, kid-friendly
(1)

09/07/2023

📣Still looking for an affordable summer getaway? Check out our STAY5 promo…

05/07/2023

Happy 4th! Still looking for a July getaway? We have three dates left…

🐚 A Bended Oak Bungalow
Sleeps 8 | 3 Bedrooms | 1.5 Baths | Kid-friendly | Dog-friendly | Book Direct: https://linktr.ee/bendedoak

“The property was very nice and clean. It had a unique charm about it. The kids loved the infinity game table.”

04/07/2023

{🇺🇸american lyric | ✍️excerpt of a poem by amanda gorman}

Hope—
we must bestow it
like a wick in the poet
so it can grow, lit,
bringing with it
stories to rewrite—
the story of a Texas city depleted but not defeated
a history written that need not be repeated
a nation composed but not yet completed.

There’s a poem in this place—
a poem in America
a poet in every American
who rewrites this nation, who tells
a story worthy of being told on this minnow of an earth
to breathe hope into a palimpsest of time—
a poet in every American
who sees that our poem penned
doesn’t mean our poem’s end.
.

01/07/2023

{🤿by the pool | ✍️excerpt of a poem by kathleen ossip}

In the story of my life there is a field
filled with chicory, daisies, and mayflowers.
It’s the field behind my childhood house.
In summer, I used to spend hours

lying in it looking at clouds
before my mother brought us to the town pool
where I spent some more hours swimming.

…

11/06/2023

{🎶vacation | ✍️excerpt of a poem by caroline finkelstein}

It was a household much in love with music.
She opened the door and saw her shadow.
She didn’t interfere. The trees and the moon - they didn’t
interfere. The dog wanted to but the cat did not.
The beautiful baby was sleeping and sleeping.
Brahams sighed. She closed the door hard.

…

👉Link in bio :: stay & play this summer

23/05/2023

{🪶gulls are kissing time | ✍️excerpt of a poem by john ciardi}

In a detachment cool as the glint of light
on wet roads through wet spruce, or iced mountains
hailed from the sea in moonfill, or the sea
when one horizon’s black and the other burning;

the gulls are kissing time in its own flowing
over the shell-scraped rock a coming and going
as of glass bees with a bubble of light in each
running errands in and out of the sunset.

Over the road and the spruce wood, over the ice,
and out the picture of my picture window,
the exorbitant separation of nature from nature
wheels, whirls, and dances on itself.

Now damn me for a moral. Over and out,
over and in, the gulls drift up afire,
screaming like hinges in the broken air
of night and day like two smokes on the sea.

And I do nothing. A shadow three feet under
my window in the light, I look at light
in one of the years of my life. This or another.
Or all together. Or simply in this moment.

…

02/05/2023

{🌳a bended oak | ✍️excerpt of a poem by adrienne rich}

I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you
anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these
to have you listen at all, it's necessary
to talk about trees.

…

09/04/2023

{🐇easter | poem by joyce kilmer}

The air is like a butterfly
with frail blue wings.
The happy earth looks at the sky
And sings.

…

20/02/2023

{🎂birthday lights | ✍️poem by calef brown}

Light bulbs on a birthday cake.
What a difference that would make!
Plug it in and make a wish,
then relax and flip a switch!
No more smoke
or waxy mess
to bother any birthday guests.
But Grampa says, “it’s not the same!
Where’s the magic?
Where’s the flame?
To get your wish without a doubt,
You need to blow some candles out!”

…

04/02/2023

{💨fog | ✍️poem by carl sandburg}

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

…

07/01/2023

{🌕moonlight, in the harbor | ✍️poem by h.w. longfellow}

As a pale phantom with a lamp
Ascends some ruin's haunted stair,
So glides the moon along the damp
Mysterious chambers of the air.

Now hidden in cloud, and now revealed,
As if this phantom, full of pain,
Were by the crumbling walls concealed,
And at the windows seen again.

Until at last, serene and proud
In all the splendor of her light,
She walks the terraces of cloud,
Supreme as Empress of the Night.

I look, but recognize no more
Objects familiar to my view;
The very pathway to my door
Is an enchanted avenue.

All things are changed. One mass of shade,
The elm-trees drop their curtains down;
By palace, park, and colonnade
I walk as in a foreign town.

The very ground beneath my feet
Is clothed with a diviner air;
White marble paves the silent street
And glimmers in the empty square.

Illusion! Underneath there lies
The common life of every day;
Only the spirit glorifies
With its own tints the sober gray.

In vain we look, in vain uplift
Our eyes to heaven, if we are blind,
We see but what we have the gift
Of seeing; what we bring we find.

…

06/01/2023

{❄️twelfth morning; or what you will | ✍️excerpt of a poem by elizabeth bishop}

Like a first coat of whitewash when it’s wet,
the thin gray mist lets everything show through […]

The sea’s off somewhere, doing nothing. Listen.
An expelled breath. And faint, faint, faint
(or are you hearing things), the sandpipers’
heart-broken cries […] “the Day of Kings.”

…

03/01/2023

{💨on a foggy run | ✍️found }
We’re all
damaged.
It’s how we
still love
with a
broken
heart that
matters.
…

01/01/2023

{🧶knitter’s prayer | ✍️poem by p.k. page}

Unknit me—
all those blistering strange small intricate stitches—
shell stitch, moss stitch, pearl and all too plain;
unknit me to the very first row of ribbing,
let only the original simple knot remain.

Then let us start again.

…

24/11/2022

{🦃turkey 5k trot :: ✍️poem by nick flynn}

Petals
on a river, a tree in blossom, one
pink bud—unopened—falls

& is carried downstream & out
to sea. From

above the other petals seem to
carry it. Closer—

this is our map, these our
footprints, we

grew up drinking this water. At the
start there

was doubt, we lit a torch, no one
believed we would

make it. Closer—

the legs, the heart, the lungs. It's
too soon to say

we were lucky, it's too soon to say
anything

until the cloud is pulled back
from the sky, until the ringing is

pulled back from the bells. Look—
everyone we've ever known

runs without thinking
not away but into the cloud, where we are

waiting

…

05/11/2022

{💬bended oak | ✍️poem by marshall james kavanaugh, october 2022}

OLDEN OAK grows time to just be
offering reprieve from
storms of the world
THESE ROOTS GO DEEP
bending beneath the surface
a perfect anchor for curiosity
WALKING ON TWO LEGS
four legs of companionship
raised spirits, growing memories

FROM THE GULF WHERE SEA BIRDS
catch the breeze and sail peacefully
allowing horizons to meet
THIS HOME TO INSPIRATION
beckons further play
beyond the beach

ENTERTAINMENT FOR THE WRITER
within us all
to *connect* to each heart beat
EXAMINE THE PARTS OF OURSELVES
we cast upon the fishing line
hoping a bounty will soon surface 🎵

…

30/10/2022

{🌳poet-tree, inspired by some long ago fun with nicola parente}

10/10/2022

{🔟🔟birthday | ✍️poem by marion doyle | 💛wise words from my departed grandma (at age 92): well, dearie, you're at a good age, hopefully with many more years ahead. be sure to enjoy them!}

I, who crept the little earth’s dark surface,
I, who peered into death’s hollow skull,
Have raised my eyes above the tallest grass-blades
And seen the sun rise, swift and beautiful.

I, who felt my way in slow chrysalis,
Now dry bright wings upon my prison bars,
And confidently stretch my soul’s antennae
To take the utmost measure of the stars.

…
#1010

25/09/2022

{🕹howling at a concrete moon | ✍️poem by moe szyslak, edited by lisa simpson, published by j jonah jameson at american poetry perspectives}

Howling at a concrete moon,
My soul smells like a dead pigeon after three weeks.
I shut my window and go to sleep.
In my dream I eat corn with my eyes.

…

23/09/2022

{autumnal equinox | by joseph massey}

Sober for once, for what—
for the words to budge.

We spent summer propped up
by each other's stuttering.

There are seasons here
if you squint. And there's

relief in the landscape's
sloughed off cusps of color

fallen over the familiar
landmarks, the familiar

trash—things that last.

…

31/08/2022

{🌻sunflower | ✍️poem by frank steele}

You’re expected to see
only the top, where sky
scrambles bloom, and not
the spindly leg, hairy, fending off
tall, green darkness beneath.
Like every flower, she has a little
theory, and what she thinks
is up. I imagine the long
climb out of the dark
beyond morning glories, day lilies, four o’clocks
up there to the dreams

…

27/08/2022

{🪨jetty rocks | ✍️poem by mary eastwood knevels}

Through the pasture lie the rocks, gray as the sea in a fog,
As the sea in a mist.
(O, breath of my yearning, O sea, breaking gray in a fog!)
The rocks rise tumultuous, the rocks are waves.
Flee from them, they are in pursuit;
Lichen-crusted their summits, rolling most mightily.
Flee from the rocks, the pale-crested waves of the
meadows!

…

23/08/2022

{📐school triptych :: ✍️poem by daniel j. langton}

I was sent home the first day
with a note: Danny needs a ruler.
My father nodded, nothing seemed so apt.
School is for rules, countries need rulers,
graphs need graphing, the world is straight ahead.

It had metrics one side, inches the other.
You could see where it started
and why it stopped, a foot along,
how it ruled the flighty pen,
which petered out sideways when you dreamt.

I could have learned a lot,
understood latitude, or the border with Canada,
so stern compared to the South
and its unruly river with two names.
But that first day, meandering home, I dropped it.

…

17/08/2022

{📖beach book | ✍️excerpt of “isaac’s storm” by erik larson}

Upon first meeting Isaac, [people] found him to be modest and self-effacing, but those who came to know him well saw a hardness and confidence that verged on conceit. […]

The nation in 1900 was swollen with pride and technological confidence. It was a time […] when the average American felt "four-hundred-percent bigger" than the year before.

There was talk even of controlling the weather--of subduing hail with cannon blasts and igniting forest fires to bring rain.

In this new age, nature itself seemed no great obstacle.

…
one of our home’s many books on galveston history…have you read it? seen the documentary?

#1900

16/08/2022

{🏛invisible architecture | ✍️excerpt of an essay on poetic theory by barbara guest}

There is an invisible architecture often supporting
the surface of the poem, interrupting the progress of the poem. It reaches
into the poem
in search for an identity with the poem,

its object is to possess the poem for a brief time, even as an apparition appears. An invisible architecture upholds the poem while allowing a moment of relaxation for the unconscious. A period of emotional suggestion,
of lapse,
of reliance on the conscious substitute words pushed toward the bridge of the architecture. An architecture in the period before the poem finds an exact form and vocabulary—,

before the visible appearance of the poem on the page and the invisible approach to its composition. Reaching out to develop the poem there are interruptions, some apparently for no reason—something else is happening the poet has no control—the poem begins to quiver, to hesitate, to become insubstantial the desire of poetry to elevate itself, to become stronger. The poem is fragile. It needs to reach through the armed vehicle of the poem,

to loosen the armed hand.

Losing the arrogance of dominion over the poem to an invisible hand, the poet campaigns for a passage over which the poet has control. Yet the unstableness of the poem is important.
Also the frequent lapses of control of the poem.
The writer only slowly retains power over the poem, physical power, when the poem breaks away from the authority of the invisible architecture.

…

14/08/2022

{🥂one-year anniversary | ✍️excerpt of a poem by philip appleman}

Everything we’ve learned, we’ve picked up
by ear, a pidgin language
of the heart, just
enough to get by on:
we know the value of cacophony; how to measure
with a broken yardstick;
what to do with bruised fruit;
reading torn maps, we always
make it home, riding
on empty.

And whatever this thing is —palace?
cottage? —we remember
putting it up, every beam,
sighting it skew, making it plumb
eventually; and here it stands,
stone over rock, and on the simple hearth
is our own cricket; and in the walls
there are secret passages
leading to music
nobody else can hear; and somewhere
is a room that’s not yet finished
there are volumes in our own hand, telling
troubled tales, promises kept, and
promises
still to keep.

…

06/08/2022

{💋sunset | ✍️poem by effie lee newsome, 1885-1978}

Since Poets have told of sunset,
What is left for me to tell?
I can only say that I saw the day
Press crimson lips to the horizon gray,
And kiss the earth farewell.

…

05/08/2022

{🎢friday | ✍️excerpt of a poem by erik kennedy}

Out on the pleasure pier on that benign afternoon,

the air heavy with the blossom of vinegar and old tyres,

…

04/08/2022

{🐚echo | ✍️poem by pura lópez-colomé | 🌎translated by forrest gander | 🪶inspired by emily dickinson}

It would not sound so deep
Were it a Firmamental Product—
Airs no Oceans keep—
—Emily Dickinson

Afloat between your lens
and your gaze,
the last consideration to go
across my gray matter
and its salubrious
deliquescence
is
whether or not I’ll swim,
whether I’ll be able to breathe,
whether I’ll live like before.

I’m caught in the bubble
of your breath.
It locks me in.
Drives me mad.

Confined to speak alone,
I talk and listen,
ask questions and answer myself.
I hum, I think I sing,
I breathe in, breathe in and don’t explode.
I’m no one.

Behind the wall
of hydrogen and oxygen,
very clear, almost illuminated,
you allow me to think
that the Root of the Wind is Water
and the atmosphere
smells of salt and microbes and intimacy.

And in that instant comes
the low echo
of a beyond beyond,
a language archaic and soaked
in syllables and accents suited
for re-de-trans-forming,
giving light,
giving birth to
melanin
hidden within another skin:
the hollow echo of the voice
which speaks alone.

…
📷: , 2011

02/08/2022

{🐾waiting for happiness | ✍️poem by nomi stone}

Dog knows when friend will come home
because each hour friend’s smell pales,
air paring down the good smell
with its little diamond. It means I miss you
O I miss you, how hard it is to wait
for my happiness, and how good when
it arrives. Here we are in our bodies,
ripe as avocados, softer, brightening
with latencies like a hot, blue core
of electricity: our ankles knotted to our
calves by a thread, womb sparking
with watermelon seeds we swallowed
as children, the heart again badly hurt, trying
and failing. But it is almost five says
the dog. It is almost five.

…

Address

East End Historical District
TX

Telephone

+14098777404

Website

https://linktr.ee/bendedoak

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