One week has passed and we’re off on a productive July P.A.D. experience. We’ve worked with quotes of summer, poems of summer, Songs with Summer in the title and a book with Summer. Today we pull another tome off the shelves for inspiration. (And in doing so, pay homage to our own favorite Sicilian, Salvatore Buttaci) The volume we are choosing is entitled “That Summer in Sicily – A Love Story” by Marlena de Blasi.
by Marlena de Blasi
The story: “At villa Donnafugata, long ago is never very far away,” writes bestselling author Marlena de Blasi of the magnificent but crumbling castle in the mountains of Sicily that she accidentally finds one summer while traveling with her husband, Fernando. de Blasi is befriended by Tosca, the matriarch of the villa, an elegant and beautiful woman-of-a-certain-age who conveys her life-spanning love story with the last prince of Sicily descended from French nobility.
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Today’s prompt? Write a “That Summer in ________” poem about a place that brings a fond (or otherwise) memory from summers past. Maybe a coming of age poem, or an expose. A self-discovery perhaps. If you are at a loss for such a place and time, maybe an interesting person you may have met in your summer travels can spark your writing today! As always, Bon Voyage and Good Poems to you all!
POETIC BLOOMINGS 
Responses
What a great prompt. So many choices…childhood memories, teenage love and loss, Vietnam…oh the dilemma
Really good prompt. Thank you.
That Summer of Crows
I was ten.
I was smaller then.
The world was smaller, and
that made everything bigger.
Made the sky bigger.
Made the old oak bigger
than sky, and when I stood
under that tree, clouds
disappeared into its leaves,
into its shadows. It was wind-
flicked and dry as old books.
And some days, I’d lay myself
under that tree, watching
crows sit on telephone lines.
Grandpa died later that year,
but for now, I owned my summers,
and I spent hours watching
those sooty-black crows
weightless as a shadow.
.
(c) Misky 2016
Wow you are a master wordsmith! so many great lines but this one took me clear back to early ’70s…
when I stood
under that tree, clouds
disappeared into its leaves,
Also love the image of crows ‘weightless as a shadow’!
Thanks, Janet. Glad you liked it. 🙂
That last stanza made me feel that it was the last of summers in a sense… love the watching of clouds.
I think everything changes when a child experiences grief for the first time, so in that sense it was the last summer.
For me, one word, “shadow,” made this poem ring. I love the images, and the startling finish.
Thanks, William. 😀
my favorite type of poem…and oh so well done…poetic yet believable
This is so very good. Truth in a poem is always a wonderful thing and when it is coupled with excellent wordsmithing, it becomes a joy to read.
Thank you so much!
Thank you, Daniel. Glad you enjoyed reading it.
Very odd that my reply went walk about! Anyway, thanks! 😀
Oh, my…Misky. I love your poem…the small-bigness of it the black and the shadows pierced by light filtered through leaves. I was right there…thank you. 🙂
Thank YOU, Hannah!
Great images, Misky. I remember how much bigger everything was as a kid.
Thank you, Connie.
Love this, Misky–I went way back in time, too.
Thanks, Victoria.
wow! I felt like I was under that tree with you
Oh Marilyn! This is such a story that needs to expand and grow. A memoir in your hand would be a marvelous read! Just beautiful!
Owning summers is a nice thought. Somewhere along the way, we lose control.
The summer of thunder
To find youself
exposed to lighting,
in the mountains
when even father’s panic.
I was ten I think,
and didn’t care
I had to soak, puddled wet
through clothes.
You can calculate
the distance to the lighting
by counting seconds
from flash to BOOM.
But if they coincide
the rumble’s sharp,
more a shot,
and you rather count
the minutes till they cease.
Afterwards the streams
where rivers brown
and home we lit a fire
to keep warm.
This put me there.
yes!me too!! What comfort it was when one could count to five before the boom!
simple yet elegant…a perfect portrait
How scary but so good you were with your dad. I was taught the same way to measure between lighting and thunder. Your style shines through in this.
The tight lines rather feel like lightning strike and sharp BOOM…love that I can feel your piece…the wet and brightness of it. Well done, Bjorn. 🙂
Bjorn, great word painting. I could see how this event could stick in a child’s mind.
… when even father’s panic… this really set the tone for your story
I feel much the time-traveler to whom William referred! A wonderful glimpse of youth, Bjorn!
Love, “puddled wet”. It makes the fire cozier.
[…] we should write a poem titled “The summer of ….” at Poetic Bloomings. This memory is particularly strong with […]
Those Summer Years of Youth
We thought Time was bondage
Those summer years of youth
It wasn’t until they were gone
We realized the truth
…those miles of corn we hoed
Those whiles we whiled away
Beneath the sprawling canopy
Of maple-willow sway
That swing in the hay-loft
Strung from the highest truss
Daring timid riders to brave
Its burlap Pegasus
…those childish tears we shed
Those chores that seemed so dull
Those chatter-jolly supper-times
When every plate was full
The monotone of clocks
The drone of heat-waved haze
Where boredom conceived building-blocks
And Mom, another babe
Those years before the years
That drew us from home’s doors
And we left without looking back
Oblivious to shores
Those brother-sister days
Of farm-life laugh-love-learn
They slipped through us, one-way freeways
To ports of no-return
We thought it was bondage
Those years before we flew
Away from the safe haven of
The only life we knew
more ‘fill-in’ here: http://anotherporch.blogspot.ca/2016/07/those-summer-years-of-youth.html
For me, this is an elegant version of the old song, Toyland. Once you cross its borders…..
William, your comment evoked tears…good ones. thank-you.
this had me feeling like I was reading one of my favorite Victorian poets…and that is a good feeling, indeed
The next to last stanza is so poignant – those days truly don’t return except in our memories.
Kanzensakura, thank-you. I am suddenly too close to seeing my children approaching the place where they are stunned by the briefness of living at home! I hope they take with them the good memories and release the rest to the grace of the passage of time!
I hope so as well.
Daniel thank-you. and thank-you for understanding that the bondage I speak of was the blessed bonds of a happy childhood wealthy with dreams!
I love the stanza that speaks in heat waves and the entirety breathes of such wonderful memories, Janet…so enjoyed!
Hi Hannah, thank-you.
Wonderful, Janet. Burlap Pegasus–cool!
Wonderful memories of the best years of our life. That’s where I took mine, too.
too bad we can’t see how precious those times are until they are only memories.
lovely!
A brave look-back with a tear and melancholy heart! Outstanding, Janet!
Sounds like a splendid childhood, Janet.
Oh – this sounds like such a wonderful childhood – so good that they live in memories at least.
THAT SUMMER IN CEFALÙ
I spent the hours writing poetry
pretending the beach was my domain
and with a turn of phrase I could transform
the sparkling sand into diamonds,
collect them in the sack of memory,
enough to buy the sea and ride her
like a mariner to the mountain gates
of our Sicilian village of Acquaviva.
Uncle Onorfio and I drank
Messina Beer on the balcony
of his Cefalù home that overlooked
the sea I loved. He talked of Baltimore
where he once lived, the wife who left him,
the sons who rarely came now to visit.
“You’re like a son to me, Turiddu,”
He said, tears glistening like the sea.
Today, so many years washed away
by time’s rushing waters, I still return
to Cefalù, if only in my memories.
I spend the lavish treasures gathered there
and it all comes swooshing back to me:
the joy bells ringing in my ears,
those hypnotic waves, my uncle’s laughter.
“A saluti,” he says. “One more beer for Cefalù!”
#
I’ve never been there, but it doesn’t matter; this poem took me there.
perfectly wistful
How wistful this is…but you can return in your memories. Those dreams of youth – how grand they were for us all.
Love the diamonds and tears the likening to the sea…a rich poem here, Sal…thank you, for sharing. 🙂
Sal, I’ve never had a summer outside of the village I grew up in and still live in…this, to me is pure romance and nostalgia! LOVE the language you used to tell the pictures.
Sal, I love this, especially the first stanza.
I love that line…so many years washed away…
that first stanza is magical. Love the memory you’ve shared.
A heartfelt “Salute” to this magnificent memory, Salvatore!
Such longing in that first stanza, Sal. You made this place feel like home to me.
SUMMER AT THE CAPE
Sand dunes and salty air abound
as waves come flowing in and pound
the shore beside a verdant lea;
the gulls and terns are gliding free
and yet there’s stillness all around.
By day this is the place to be,
to watch how serendipity
and colors laced with scents have crowned
sand dunes and salty air,
but nighttime truly does astound:
the stars surround from rim to ground,
reflecting on the bay and sea;
these points of light proclaim to me
that summer heat cannot confound
sand dunes and salty air.
The beach at night truly is magical. I enjoyed this trip back with you.
My favorite is the stillness…your details are delectable…especially the salty air. 🙂
I’m in love with this place you painted and the rhyme-scheme you painted it with! A treat to the senses.
Wonderful poem, William
I like the use of repetition in this.
How I wish I could be on that beach to see the stars.
The beach and the sea mesmerize me and your depiction places my toes in the sand, Will! Written with such aplomb!
Sand dunes are lovely to see, day or night. ‘Colors laced with scents’ really drew me in to that special place you experienced.
What marvellous song like poetry, the rhymes and meter perfect match to sea
That Summer at the Lake
The setting was ideal…
a clear, blue lake
with sandy beaches
and summery breezes.
The people were willing…
two boys with shaggy blond hair
and two brunette girls
in bikinis.
We were breathing hormones
and whispering pheromones
in each look and smile
that passed between us.
Then there was that walk
late at night
when our parents got mad
and yelled
but we were walking
on the summer romance cloud
and their anger just ricocheted
from cloud to cloud
like a silver ball in a pinball machine
and our secret smiles
couldn’t be wiped from our faces
as we reveled
in being…us,
up at the lake
that summer
in ’83.
Marvellous, especially, for me, “ricocheted / from cloud to cloud.”
Thank you, William. It was a fun one to write. 🙂
wouldn’t you like to return, if only for a day? reading this, I know that I would…
I love the comparison of anger bouncing to the ball in a pinball machine!
Hi Daniel! Maybe for one day but I would really like to watch my past like an old movie.
I love the floating experience of partaking in your poem and the breathing and whispering…gorgeous, Michelle!!
Thank you so much, Hannah!
Part of me was young teen and the other part mad mom/dad…been both the ‘we’ and the ‘their’ of this stanza…
but we were walking
on the summer romance cloud
and their anger just ricocheted
from cloud to cloud;-))
Really enjoyed!
Thank you, Janet. This one was pure truth. I even put a blurred out picture of the four of us over on my blog. 😉
Great writing, Michelle Love the pinball analogy.
Thank you. Connie!
Teenage summer romances…who can forget.
🙂
sweet summer romance –
Thanks!
Very sensory and sensual, Michelle! Another tender glimpse!
Thank you!
Oh that summer romance cloud–what a fine umbrella.
Indeed! 🙂
What better way is there than summer love, wonderful to feel apart that way,
That Summer in Cheyenne
I met you there one summer night
A gospel group performed at church
Your solo clapping caught my sight
When others had all quenched the urge
The pastor introduced me to
Some P-A friends of yours that day
I didn’t have one single clue
I’d meet my groom-to-be that way
The fun I had that summer there
Could fill a thick, expansive book
No other summer would compare
To Pennsylvania I went back
Wyoming soon became my home
Great things can happen when you roam
What a wonderful way to meet your future husband! I enjoyed this immensely.
So true…sometimes that’s the only way we’ll do and see what we’re meant to…fun glimpses, Connie!
a-w-w-w! sweet little love story! beautiful!
Big smiles here
I’m clapping, too. Delightful.
Awwww … wonderful memory
All roads lead to roam, Connie! The best steps make the journey!
What a fine memory this must be for you, Connie.
[…] Today at Poetic Bloomings, we are prompted to write about “That Summer of…..” This was the summer when I was 12. This poem and other poems can viewed at: AN ENTERTAINING SUMMER – DAY #8: THAT SUMMER IN SICILY […]
Haibun: The Summer of Elegant Men
I was at that awkward age between being a child and a teenager. Thick glasses, knobby knees, beautiful skin like my Aunt Gay – roses and cream. But I was so bored. Both my teenaged aunts had gone to camp as counselors and my best buddy Effie was in Greece visiting relatives. So very hot. The ceiling fans in the house barely moved the stuffy air around the high ceilinged rooms. My books were all read and the public library wouldn’t allow me into the adult section. I went to the kitchen to discuss my boredom with my grandmother. “Watch the oven for me” and off she went to the library in the corner of the house. She returned shortly. High up out of my reach were certain books. On the table she placed four books. “I think these will keep you busy for a bit.” And there, she placed beside the basket of tomatoes and freshly picked string beans from the kitchen garden were: a ratty edition of On Walden Pond, a brand new Collected Poems by T.S.Eliot, and antique editions of The Picture of Dorian Gray and The Importance of Being Earnest. I eagerly seized them and rushed up to my room. I read them obsessively. Within two weeks they were all read and I began to read them again. The poems of T.S.Eliot stayed by my bedside until I left for University. It became dog-eared and sometimes a page would fall out. But that summer, I became enrapt with the four main men in my life. John Lennon became part of them the next summer. These men influenced my taste in men until I finally married many years later. Thin men with wit and intelligence came and went in my life but these four men remained steady. They taught me to observe nature and people, to converse, to be true to myself, to write poetry. That summer of thin elegant men became the pattern of my summers and are still part of this summer. The Collected Poems still resides on the table by my bedside.
sultry summer days
unfold one page at a time –
elegant men smile
Love your closing haiku! 🙂
🙂
your influences serve you well. this reads like a page from a timeless classic!
Thank you so very much.
I enjoyed reading this. Great haiku at the end.
Thank you!
Amen, on both counts
Thank you!
sigh……. thanks for sharing this
Thank you for reading!
This is a fantastic haibun, Toni! I love the tale and it had Lennon in it, so it had me hooked! Thanks for this!
You are most welcome!
Thank you. After this, my grandmother and I spent a week re-arranging the library, putting the old encyclos, history, etc on the top shelves and the “adult” books w/in my reach.
This is gorgeous writing, Toni. The haiku finishes it perfectly. And, you can’t go wrong with Lennon, ever.
Nope. John Lennon was THE man….
What a wonderful introduction to poetry.. The perfect selection to grow and learn.
[…] Sevenling for: PB – AN ENTERTAINING SUMMER – DAY #8: THAT SUMMER IN SICILY Write a “That Summer in ________” poem about a place that brings a fond (or otherwise) memory […]
Summer in San Diego
(Stopping By San Diego on a Sunny Day)
This city mine, for six years now
is making its most seasoned bow
to guests and locals, everyone,
its sandy beaches and sunshine, wow.
We’ve grown accustomed to the sun,
we feel entitled, everyone.
The nights, while cooler, still hold their cheer,
no holding back the mid-year fun.
Our friends back east are very clear
about what matters, what is dear;
it’s family, and friends who matter so,
kept close at hand, in hearts, so near.
But the humidity’s too high, this I know.
I’ve promised no sweating, not ever, no.
I have rays to catch, snowbirds to tease,
I have rays to catch, a tan to show.
Cheers to what’s held dear and to your fun poem, Daniel! 🙂
so great to see your name, Hannah…hope your move was ok
Thank you, Daniel – good to see you, too! We’re in limbo land for a bit but soon…late July early-August…I appreciate you asking. 🙂
Nice light touch in this! Please do show that tan and tease those birds!
sounds divine!
It’s great to live in a place you enjoy.
Somewhere, Frost is wearing a big grin.
I grew up in SoCal and we used to vacation at the Del. Wonderful memories.
this made me smile ….
Nothing like a good Frost on a summer day, Daniel! A great parody!
That last stanza is wonderful, Daniel. Fun poem to read.
And miles to go before I sleep! Lovely
Summer of Small Wonders, (A Sevenling)
Small wonder – tiny island living in sea,
wild-flowers, winding paths
and tame grazing velvet-nosed-doe reaching…
Life is freckle-smile-free
floral-embroidered-smock, cut off blue-jeans
and fresh – only twelve cycled-seasons deep.
Monhegan, (in my heart), just 4.5 sq. mi – 19 km from rocky-main-shore.
Copyright © Hannah Gosselin 2016
Oh this is so very good! I can just smell the ocean and wind in this.
Yes
Thank you, Toni!
oh my
Thank you, Daniel!
almost hear Mozart dancing on the air. LOVE this summer-land!
Thank you so much, Janet!
Great poem and ounds like a great place, Hannah
Thank you, Connie!
Just looked up Monhegan. What a great place to disappear from the rat race. I was born and raised in Northern Maine and would love to have enough for a summer home up that way. Monhegan would be perfect, but probably way too pricey,
And great poem, by the way.
Yes, Monhegan was magical…I only spent one afternoon there and it will be with me for a lifetime. I’m glad that you were led to research the island, Earl and thank you for the compliment on my poem. 🙂
I love the sprinkling of nature in this.
Thank you, Victoria!
bravo!
Thank you, Candy!
Welcome back to the flock, Kid! And you brought your wonder-words with you! How cool is that! Loving the sevenling and how you make it sing!
Thank you, Walt! I’m so glad you enjoyed the Sevenling. 🙂
Hi Hannah! Good to see you here. I admire the loveliness and ease of this Sevenling; I find this form tough going.
Thank you, Sara, it’s good to be here! I’m glad that my poem read with ease…you’re right, I think this form can be tricky sometimes, too. 🙂
A wonderful connection to nature… Sometimes an island is the best place to be
The Summer of Guilty Innocence
‘Twas the summer of learning
Though in far too many ways
I was not ready for the lessons
Some that could have waited
Or not been taught at all
While others ultimately necessary
For that passage from innocence
Into the reality of life
They say that sin is a lot of fun
Indulging in it can be addictive
If the courage to say no is missing
When the second temptation pops up
Or the third or the fourth, depending
We all go through that summer
The summer of guilty innocence
The summer of learning about things
On the other side of life’s coin
Some make it through
Others stay behind
I’m one of the lucky ones
Who can look back and say
I walked through the valley
Came out scathed and scarred
But still in one piece
Never to go back again
© Earl Parsons
There is that enticement in summer that can make or break us. A rite of passage, I suppose.
thanks for this memory
A sage coming of age poem, Earl! Lessons learned is respect earned!
Good place to be in, Earl.
Powerful closing, Earl. Well done.
Maybe we need a walk on the wild side, and return again… I only walked on the edge a few times.
The summer of life
Behind lay spring; ahead fall
And the clock ticks on
A grand march in time!
The Summer of 1948
I perch in my pepper tree.
Pungent scents, fingered
leaves embrace me.
A lady bug, dressed in red
with black polka dots
climbs my arm, tickles.
Ocean sand, white as the rind
of a watermelon, clings to my
bare toes.
Only hours ago I ran through it,
reaching out, stretching to catch
sapphires.
The smell of hot concrete
dampened by rain showers
lingers along with DDT
sprayed from a can with a
plunger like a bicycle pump.
I slip down the gnarly trunk,
enter the house by the
screen door near the
Bendix with the ringer where
Mama found a black widow
yesterday.
She’s melting a blue cube
of laundry starch
in hot water.
“Did you know I’m four
and a half today?”
I ask. She nods, smiles.
The black fan whirrs
in the background.
“Go on over to Stewie’s,” she says.
“It’s almost time for
Kukla, Fran and Ollie.”
Cross-legged on the floor
I watch the 12” screen,
understand what it
means to be.
ah yes. the best years indeed! so many great word-pictures but this one made me grin…
She’s melting a blue cube
of laundry starch
in hot water.
Wow! back when ironing was a weekly chore and stiff-starched was in!
Did she use that water-shaker to dampen it before she ironed. Mom used to starch her aprons then rolls them into rolls for a while. Oh! good old memories!
Love this poem of memories. I used to love to help with the ironing – those soda bottles with the sprinkle top, the smell of the bluing and starch. Lovely poem of sights and smells – I love the catching sapphires in the ocean water.
That’s exactly how my mom did it!
childhood and summer – perfect time for creating memories – yours are especially sweet.
These memories are best when shared and in the tell, become a part of us even though we hadn’t lived them. The memory of a memory remains a memory, Victoria! Nicely done!
What a great group of recollection images, Victoria. I love the comparison of ocean sand to watermelon rind.
Your details are pitch-perfect…I can even hear the squeak-slam of the screen door and I love your closing. Awesome!
So long time passed, the inclusion of details like DDT makes this so connected to another time.
That Summer in…Rome?
Ah, recall the grand old days of yore…
That last summer we spent in Rome,
seduced by our own power.
Idle days, drunken nights.
Vainly ignoring
civil discord,
moral strife.
We cared…
Not.
much said in this little gem
Thanks, Candy
I love being seduced by my own power. Then I realize I don’t have any, and LAUGH?
I have that problem, too
Form is perfect for this poem. Has such a recklessness about it.
THAT SUMMER IN MOURNING
In the throes of a summer swelter,
lives helter skelter and falling fast.
I am well past feeling tomorrow’s another day.
There is no other way to say it,
summer mournings take a lot out of
a caring soul’s soul. We have no control
over our outcomes and some would rather
not deal with the realities of death.
But that summer lingers, it clenches my fingers
into a fist and memories of those that I miss will
soften with time. They say often that time
heals all wounds, but it steals to much in return.
I yearn for happier days when mourning goes away!
© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016
hold those memories tightly … this drips with sadness
Time can be a terrible thief. May future happiness create new memories.
Your title is perfect for this…emotive and well-felt poem, Walt.
Maybe we need to remember the sorrow, if nothing else we can feel the warmth only if we’ve been cold enough
[…] Shared at Poetic Bloomings: AN ENTERTAINING SUMMER – DAY #8: THAT SUMMER IN SICILY […]
So many ideas came in my head when I read the prompt…but this is the one that emerged when I finally sat down to write. I wish I’d written something happier…but it just wasn’t in the cards. Thank you Walt/Sara for a great prompt!
THAT SUMMER IN THE SAND
Were we just
having fun, playing
at beaches…
living life
as if we would always be
in a safe bubble?
Or were we
just ostriches with
our heads so
buried, that
we weren’t prepared for our Fall
of 2001?
Oh my … how quickly life can change. I can fel the irony in this – well written
Whoops…the “we” in the 3rd line from the end should be “that”.
Got it! And so does this poem!
This may be sad, Paula, but so is our present time. Beautifully written.
Love the ostrich imagery…nice work, Paula!
Love the thought of how sand can be different depending how you see it.
Summer In My Imagination
Clear blue sky with little
tufts of white clouds
gliding across its surface
A gentle sun, slowly warming
the air and drying the dew
on soft grass that never
needs mowing
Riotous colors of flower –
filled beds with bee and
butterfly feasting on the
sweet nectar
A bench for two, a breezy
get away where there are
no phones, TV, iAnything
a favorite cold drink, a book
….. and a friend to share it all
Clear and gentle and riotous and breezy…yes!
Thanks for sharing, Candy!
Sounds idyllic!
Love the vibrancy and color in this and the iAnything…ha!! Great poem, Candy!
Isn’t it simplicity that’s best.
THAT SUMMER IN THE DAYS OF MY YOUTH
My voice changed.
That fact defined the year which brought me
to the precipice of adulthood.
Unsure of foot & teetering
on the weak knees of youthful thought.
All of thirteen, a bit green
& ignorant to a changing world.
I found myself transforming into
someone I barely knew, realizing
I would find myself soon enough
as long as I tuned in, turned on
& dropped out of the norms of a
distilled upbringing, wringing my hands
at authority & standing up to the “man”,
still yielding to my mother to take out the trash.
Short on cash & stature, & the nature
of the beast was the least of my concerns.
The females in my realm of thought
made funny things happen to me.
My hands shook, my stomach churned,
& I learned that they were the cause
of my voice fracturing every time they came near.
I had a fear of the war lasting forever,
& having to learn to speak Vietnamese
or Canadian, knowing I’d look bad in fatigues.
Why is it we could put men on the moon,
but couldn’t keep guys like John
& Martin & Bobby safe from hatred.
Isn’t anything sacred anymore? Did we even know the score?
But one thing always delivered the goods. Music.
Music did it for me. I know that now.
We were lighting fires for Morrison,
while Hendrix did fine all by himself.
Mick was gathering no moss, & the cost
of freedom was very high, but worth every CS&N song.
I was wishing I could have gone to Woodstock
& it was a shock that it had grown as big as it was.
Free-love was the best buzz word I ever heard
& it was absurd to think I stood on the brink
of such an uncertain future! It was torture!
If anyone would tell me that in a year the Beatles
would argue and break up over an avant-garde Ono,
I would tell them they were crazy. I stopped being lazy
in ’69, ever since I found this thing called “muse”,
& how expressing it made funny things happen
to the females in my realm; a release in a lyrical sense
under some false pretense of ever really being
in love yet above all else, music and words lived in me
(but I was just too ignorant to get that clue, see?)
Besides, my voice changed.
© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016
There is music in everything you write, CH. Of course, I haven’t heard you sing!
You wouldn’t want to!
But if you did, it would sound something like:
Music is such a wonderful outlet for creative expression…nice journey through these times, Walt.
I love how you time-stamp it all with those artists of my youth – Woodstock sounds fantastic – but I was way too young then…
That Summer in Lake George
Four New Yorkers traveling
to Lake George–their first
time. An efficiency on the lake
with floor to ceiling windows
overlooking a blue expanse
of calm, clear water. Canoes cutting
through lake, swimmers splashing,
and ping-pong balls bouncing
back and forth. One of four plays
golf. Not me. Casual air
of serenity here. Dew-sprinkled
morning walks, Lone Bull
for a bracing breakfast. Shopping,
stopping in Fort Ticonderoga,
strolling to a spot of splendor
with a view of Lake Champlain,
and Vermont’s green mountains.
Watch battle reenactments
in costume Tour fort for lessons
in history. Four New Yorkers
would love to revisit that
“Queen of American Lakes.”
Aw…do it
Loved Lake George! The Great Adventure Amusement Park has the roller coaster of my youth, the Comet from Crystal Beach! Brings back memories, CH2!
Love the list-y-ness of this, Sara…I can hear those ping-pong balls…I love that game!
This songs like a perfect vacation spot,
[…] Prompt: That Summer in _____ […]
Catching Crawdads
Tying worm on string at end of stick
Dropping into creek and then quickly raise
Crawdads clinging to string
Cousin holds bucket as I drop crawdad in
We take turns “fishing” for crustaceans
A couple of dozen later we walk home for lunch
Summer of endless heat and forever fun