Bob Surrette

Talking Head: Less on Top; More Inside!

Bob Surrette

Bob Surrette is an aspiring writer of books who lives in the middle of Cape Cod.

Bob has had occasional success writing short but entertaining pieces as a guest author for newspapers such the Washington Post, the Cape Cod Times and the Provincetown Banner.


He has several major works in progress.  Please watch this space for future announcements.


You can contact Bob at rjsurrette(at)  




Hyannis, Massachusetts; 20 February 2013


I am told that to write or recite great poetry one must suffer, one must be in pain. So, in preparation for this reading I took down my outside holiday decorations just a few hours ago.


Cape Cod Defies the Sea


The Cape's eastern edge stems the Sea’s big waves,

Rushing fresh from the North Atlantic towards America.

They crash at Nausett before they can rock Plymouth

And inundate the lovely coastal lowlands.


The Cape turns in on itself and imposes a Bay

Cuddling the Stellwagen in its crooked arm,

Creating homesteads for staid shell fish

And deep shallows for millions of milling swim fish.


The Cape makes a Sound to its south

With its unseen off-shore two sister Islands

Forcing the Sea into sand bars along the littoral

And forming unintended acres of placid salt water.


Cape critter care givers mend wounded seals,

Defying the Sea’s death sentences on them;

Then sends them back with press releases,

Hopefully not to be some Great White’s dinner.


The Cape pokes the Sea with solid stone breakwaters,

Smearing the natural shore line.

Dredges move sand from here to there

Ignoring the Seas depository desires.


The Canal is an unkind Cape cut.

The Sea did NOT want the Bay waters

Sloshing to and fro with the Sound’s.

Would that Sea Storm Sandy had filled it back in.


The Cape leeches effluents of hairy origins

Into the tidal estuaries that drain to the Sea.

The pristine waters created on the third day

Can only suck up so much muck before choking.


Kettle ponds pock mark the Cape’s interior,

Formed by puddles glaciers left behind.

They capture rain water meant for the Sea

But only release it back up to the sky.


The Cape forces the Gulf Stream

To veer off course and drive to the right.

Eventually the Sea begrudgingly warms

The southwest coasts of Ireland and Wales.


The Cape steals energy out of Sea waves

As they crash on its sandy beaches

Giving visitors a grand strand

At the nexus of land and not land.


Will the Sea one day rise up

And take salty revenge on our beloved Cape?

Will Mattapoisett Harbor then find itself

Suddenly facing the open ocean?


I read this poem to the Sea this morning. It objected to one quatrain. The Sea found it too painful. I apologize for the pain you may feel as I read these four half lines to you. They are not part of the poem any more.


The Sea is pained at how we treat the Cape’s original peoples.

We should not be gambling in their future.

The Sea cries when Realtors sell its precious shoreline

To outsiders, to off-Capers, especially to Yankee fans.


Thank you.


Copyright 2013 RJSurrette(at)AOL.Com