poems of summers past

 

Welcome to Summer

 

 

Myth-laced lunar light,

infuse long summer days

with magic and romance

a’glee in joyous play.

Wild fantasy takes flight

above earth’s rule-bound maze.

Passionate heat-stirred night awaits.

 

            Waves of windblown flowers blooming

 

            Scent enlivens sense to peak

 

            Warm, warm breeze and rivers flowing

 

            Endless miles running free

 

            Let summer magick build up steam,

 

            simmer into thrills supreme

   

        ‘Tis season raised to rejuvenate

 

        So play on ...

 

 

 

 

Be(gin)ing

 

 

Soft Summer night.

Far drift of stars; open car-barren road.

Kicking up bits of stone and dust.

Remarking:

I could be anyone.

I could start here.

 

What is beginning?

Aware of the first rays,

conscious aloneness.

Summer is harsh on

fragile skin, newly opened eyes.

 

They catch on eager forays,

studies in mimicry;

simple truth hidden in proverbs,

squalid temporal cages, punishing

rewards that bind and itch.

Beginnings are not the point.

They are portals, not the

mystic river,

the sand so burning insubstantial,

the forest enchanted in

eider and lace.

Beginnings never warn of battle

flame or drunken dares.

They only promise vague

adventure, valiant possibilities.

 

A brief eternity before dawn,

supplicating the night sky for

solace, this soft moment before, 

an unmarked road

to ride along home.

 

 

 

 

peaceful moment

 

 

Like a warm evening on the beach, all woozy from sunshine.

Tingle of sea breeze, that ocean scent of the wild.

As the sun recedes, cooling, refreshing, yet still a lazy summer eve.

Oh that luscious feeling, that overflow of quiet liberty.

In and out of drowsy reverie, so gently washing through pools, reservoirs

of elation.

Like languid balmy breath caressing.

 

We give what we can; we take what we need.

Marching, in orderly fashion.

Or beatifically skipping to a sacred beat.

The horizon shifts through daily duties, nightly prayers.

We take what we can. We give.

Without edict, without rational equation,

we give each outward breath, and take in what is given.

 

Like happy inspiration, song springs from memory to lip,

moves the fortunate mind into momentary ecstasy of music.

Moments meant to linger, to haunt as loving ghostly guardian.

Wrapped in ethereal glow of grace's reward.

Summoning iridescent spirits to play joyfully,

ubiquitous harmonies.

Like the words we tell ourselves to bring us peace.

 

 

 

 

Joy to the Season

 

 

The Moon is adrift in the wind above

our sheltering craft in the sea

and all the world of Summer is ours

to ride the fire, toast to the stars

sway with warm desire, open our hearts

create a Summer of Love

 

Celebration waves the streets, with drums,

lucid bells, a call to play

Carnival cheer brings heat to flame

Chants blend to sing with drinks and games

Grand gestures expand, to applaud such a day

fueled by smiling Sun

 

 

 

 

Midsummer

 

 

Of course you come to listen.

Intoned to woo your fascination,

whispered primal code from lucid crystal climes.

Warmly floating on cool jazz,

mellow wine,

intimate, intoxicating garden party

'midst apparitions of simpler time.

Back from the rabbit hole.

Back from New York City, Boston,

Detroit, LA ...

from yet another backstabbing

grind everyday.

Rewind, recall.

Fog dense morning walk

along a rocky roadside,

unruly hair, distant eyes.

Tumble

into

song singing hallelujahs,

place of play, haunted

by pretty memories

tinged gold in sunshine.

Midsummer twilight,

fairytales brought back from sleep.

Sprinting across that abyss,

goblin mouths, hungry ghosts.

No longer keeper of my brethren's sorrows,

I don mischievous costume,

stomp out power, glory,

love gentle as a summer evening's rain.

Blossoming countryside,

dandelions and clover,

bounty of Earth blooms with elfin escapades.

Listless children whine.

"Why does no one let us rise?"

A world of sullen children

overdue for naps and coddling,

blueberry jam at teatime.

Flourishing prophets,

delectable, potent, wise

in the ways of demons,

oracles, gypsy Queens,

ascend into sacred muse-ways.

Every day a new day,

standing ground against a grinding

down to profit’s dust.

It can't be a secret

if nobody's listening.

But, listen:

places in your mind

will answer.

 

Each bounding leap more distant.

Inviting opulence, opening vistas

vastly

flowering.

 

 

 

 

Three Penny Opera and Grateful Dead:

What They Mean to Me

 

 

I was listening,

under a shadetree on a summer evening,

to the morals of our time as displayed

in popular music,

and thinking of the many tiny travesties

of personal moments all around me.

The seatide ebbing/flowing of the music

more than hypnotized

as I watched people flowing

through an inner newsreel

of pride and misery.

People marching in various uniforms

to a beat of pride and progress in the marketplace

and war zones;

people marching or being trampled or

sniping from the rooftops

all in rhythm.

And a friend said to me

on a starlit evening,

"It's so hard to know anymore what to do."

 

 

 

 

A Dog Carrying a Frisbee Is a Very Nice Thing

 

 

Sunny Sunday, summertime seaside breezes

Bicyclists, joggers, old men asleep on benches

Rollerskaters, sunbathers, and sailboaters

A dog carrying a frisbee is a very nice thing

As are the shade trees and greenery

and rippling blue river

under a blue and white sky

overlooking Cambridge, MA.

I tell you this to let you know

There sometimes is a perfect day.

 

 

 

 

The Longest Day

 

 

Earth of sea and land and air

ignited into opportunistic luminance

by her mother star.

Energy for you and me to

burst into bloom

flit fly in

busy devious thievery

cacophonous ramble.

 

Surging through veils,

storms breathe ice, sand,

the fire of prophecy,

the flood of repentance.

Glacial migration

bequeaths rage, rampage,

rapacious gratuities

boiling beneath.

It's not winter here, nuclear quiet;

all's right for the longest of nights.

Not yet.

The eternal balance:

rocks, meteors, dark

inconsistencies with

metaphors of the righteous,

pilgrims past the age of bowing to scriptures.

Tomorrow, the Sun will rise.

The Earth will revolve.

Life will adjust, compromise.

After the workday, we celebrate

potent evening light.

 

 

 

 

Under Solstice

 

 

Swinging

in phase

with natural rhythms.

Shadow to light

entrained

with greater cycles.

Time through space.

Do ages collide?

Do stars expand

into tragic brilliance?

Do simple little twists

change worlds and consciousness?

Very early in the day,

just beyond the penumbra

of night, as magic

clashes with reason:

That color so enriches

my palette.

 

Air giving way to water.

Arid emptiness anticipates days filled with

joyful abundance,

emotional sailing on vast

turbulent (and/or) calming seas.

The desert is so fragrant

exotic, mystically inviting.

Dusk whirls of wilding sands,

stoic creatures,

surprising discoveries.

The desert in forms, sculpts,

creates crannies of secret

delight throughout my imagination.

A no-man's land where cognition

can hear inspiration

blow through, encompassing

senses.

I will not leave the desert.

I will merge with its becoming,

allow imminent floods

to rise into thirsty pores

rendering sand squishy, unsettling

into ocean floor.

 

Ride with me.

Open raft beneath firmament,

unguided, unplanned, unafraid.

Changing winds have always been my home.

 

Enclosed against starlight.

Sacrosanct images

meander,

keep close their

mystical meaning.

A touch, a brush,

an entanglement.

Awake in the dream,

breathing cool greens,

intense shadings,

pregnant intimacies

bursting into

the magic of life.

 

Trail of effervescent Mercury's abandon.

Charming trickster,

plays upon seasoned winds  -- Quicksilver surf.

Exhale old air’s detritus.

Inhale and whoosh,

under sea-change brew.

Sentimental, far from gentle,

whirlwinds gasp; ambitions,

expected conditions,

wavering memory,

caught up in flying breeze.

Blown out to wailing ocean,

forgotten gills respond --

mer-mind wakes.

 

 

 

 

City Summer

 

 

Let the games begin.

Let the long luxurious summer days begin.

Let us harken back to when

our schooldays' end

would send our thoughts adrift through 

    dazzling fields

    of daisies and daffodils;

    sandlot games & swimming holes and

    endless flights for fantasy's fulfillment.

And let us not forget the nights.

The hot & sticky summer city nights

that send us to the streets in colorful array

    like firefly lights.

Joking & drinking and starting sudden fights

'til the thunder rumbles through and blessed

cooling rain relieves hot-headed strife.

 

As the heat-soaked summer skies once more descend,

let us drift down sleepy sun-drenched streams

till summer ends . . . .

 

*