Another few quotes to spark your poetic heart:
“I know I am but Summer to your heart, and not the full four seasons of the year” ~ Edna St. Vincent Millay
“Green was the silence, wet was the light, the month of June trembled like a butterfly.” ~ Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets
“Summer is only the unfulfilled promise of spring, a charlatan in place of the warm balmy nights I dream of in April. It’s a sad season of life without growth… It has no day.” ~ F. Scott Fitzgerald
Choose a quote and let your poetry grow beautifully from that inspired seed!
POETIC BLOOMINGS 
The Salvation of Summer Stories
In the summer of our lives we live beyond ourselves
If these walls could talk, oh the stories they’d tell
Stories of adventures, risk takings, and fun
About life lessons learned and challenges won
Still others not glorious or even close to successes
In fact, all too many were nothing but messes
Yet for those that survived we’ve stories galore
Hopefully there are still more stories in store
As we look back on the summer of our lives
It’s a wonder to some of us that we’re still alive
© Earl Parsons
But even those mega-messes can generate a smile, and that’s my story, and I’m sticking with it.
A wonder indeed, as is this piece, in my opinion.
Love the concept of the never-ending Summer! Good price, Eral!
Beautifully poignant. You managed the rhyming couplets effortlessly – I find them very tricky to write!
Well, I’ve read a lot of Dr. Seuss in my day, so couplets seem to come naturally. In fact, until you mentioned it, I didn’t really notice that I’d done them. Interesting.
This is my story
At least what I remember
You got a minute
These three lines grabbed me. The hook was sunk deep
My story (and I’m sticking to it) is that I got into those messes without taking the risks.
Neatly told, sir.
Short and to the point – loved it!
On the Hard Points of Pebbles
Feels almost prehistoric now,
it was that long ago. I was
paid a pittance for watering
the neighbour’s gardens.
Every evening I spilled the
coolness of water in gulps
on potted carnation blossoms.
The scent swept the air
with warm syllables of clove
and sticky honey. And I can
still feel my bare feet on
the hard points of pebbles.
Each step a chattering sound,
the disapproving tut of tongues
as I looked up at his window.
Curtains drawn. He was away
for the summer, and he took
all the magic with him.
I dreamt of his smile.
I dreamt of his words.
Even beggars dream.
.
© Misky 2016
This is beautifully expressed, wholly poignant, and reminded me of a old saying of my dad’s, which led in turn to another poetry attempt:
JILTED
My wish was
for a love that lasts
from summer
through winter,
but if wishes were horses,
then beggars could ride.
Oh, yes. Fathers are always a beacon of wisdom. Those sayings that stick in your head like an annoying ad jingle on TV. ;D
Dads spout wisdom. We’re better for it, William!
A lovely poem of longing. We miss the magic when the magician takes a powder!Thanks for this Marilyn!
Yes, this is beautiful, To be somewhere where the other is not…
Honey and clove. Good scent to go with a heartache.
Pungent. Hangs around, up your nose, forever.
I like it. A learned preference, maybe.
A LOVE FOR ALL SEASONS
Summer love
is easy, Mother said,
but the test
is winter:
love that lasts in the crunch times
must be genuine.
🙂
Oh so true…
Remembering Summer
There would have been occasional planes
dragging sound across the blistered sky,
and there must have been some birds around.
Stormless days (and nights without stirring
relief) clump together–slick pages,
tacky with sweat and Nehi Orange.
Days with dust to breathe and the nights thick
with suicidal gray moths beating
against the window screen while I read.
Whatever.
Summer is chiefly the smell of green
walnuts lying bruised among hailstones,
strong, bitter and clean in the aftermath.
Planes dragging sound across the sky – really nice. Really. Nehi Orange is a nice touch, too.
Not that I was a Nehi fan. I liked the orange in the little brown bottle. What was that? Sun..something.
Don’t know. I was a purple grape Crush sort of girl.
DUH–Orange Crush.
😉
Sun top?
The imagery here clings like clove.
One for the senses, Barbara! I enjoy such descriptive poems, and appreciate your worldly wile!
Your word weaving is magical – planes dragging sounda cross the blistered sky… I adore this line!
Your word weaving is magical…
WHERE WORDS AND PHRASES BRAWL
These tidbits stirring in my martini glass?
Neither olives nor orange bitters
Nor the swirling zest of lemon peel.
Alone, slouching on my bar stool,
I pour a cascading gin fall straight,
firewater unadulterated,
clear of life’s embellishments that cloud
my head where words and phrases brawl
within the roped ring behind my bloodshot eyes.
“Take me! Take me!” they say, and I try hard
in my poem-making stupor to not to see double,
but to dive headlong into the lines
yet unformed that stagger on unsteady feet.
Under the surface I toast a promise
to stay aloof from the sobrieties of life,
so adept at laying waste those happy hours
when disjointed language learns to swim
in the harshest waters and survive.
#
This is painfully vivid.
Indeed
Reminds me of the best sort of noir film beginnings.
I can appreciate your battle of words, Sal! And we get caught in the cross fire every time! To paraphrase: “Lord, what fools these poets be!”
So very strong – I think I’ve been there a few times!
Pingback: The never life – Poetic Bloomings | Freya Writes…
Here’s my link
https://freyawrites.com/2016/07/17/the-never-life-poetic-bloomings/
And here it is as well. My inspiration was E.E. Cummings’ poem, Anyone lived in a pretty how town.
seasons pass so hither and thither
as we walk about with our heads laid down
searching screens for ideas anew
all-while forgetting the me and the you
all-while forgetting the me and the you
we are in front of each other
with our vacant plate faces
searching for something in far away places
searching for something in far away places
that bag, that car, that three bed, four bath
as if our existences only have meaning
beyond our own souls, so parched and keening
beyond our own souls, so parched and keening
is nothing worth having, we ignore the truth
the truth of the empty have-it-all journey
hurtling prone on a rubber-wheeled gurney
it’s no life, I tell you
it’s death in suspension
all while we’re forgetting
the me and the you
[From someone in the throes of house-hunting] Those petty details do suck you in, and away from the important things.
I really like that line “we walk about with our heads laid down”
Thank you, Barbara! Yes, I know that feeling….
For me, the repeating lines add emphasis and poignancy. Wonderful.
Thank you, William, so very much appreciated!
Excellence, Freya!
Thank you, Walt!
In Colorado, we wait forever for summer
Then in a blink the aspen leaves turn gold
And the wind whispers winter threats
I’ll trade you, Connie. We have summer from the first of May through mid-October.
Aye
The threats of winter and taken to heart! They mean business, Connie!
Such a cruel trick!
Oh, Edna
Why would one want
to be all seasons?
Winter is cold and stark
with people cowering
indoors with fires blazing.
Autumn, brilliantly coloured,
is the twilight of the season,
the nearing of hibernation
and death.
Spring, the rebirth,
is young and new,
but frought with rainy days
blown all a-twitter.
Summer is sultry and mature,
fully blossomed,
with long days
and hot nights.
So, why should I want you
to be all seasons
when summer is so perfect?
Yeah, Edna! What Rob said! (so well)
sultry and mature, fully blossomed – she’s such a temptress! Great work!
Thanks, Freya
SHE IS JUNE
The month of June trembled like a butterfly.
Slow and tentative, living for the moment.
Summer plays on sultry days and nights
that frighten or arouse, a shiver of wind,
a breath across a moonlit sky trying to
resuscitate her ever-waiting heart.
Beneath the stars, she is June,
fluttering in butterfly kisses.
As she trembles, she wishes
for a never-ending night!
© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2016
I would love to be able to write as romantically as this, Walt. Swoon!
When Red Cedes To Gold
In June the first red rose did bloom,
and splashed vermillion on canvas of green
erasing vestiges of May rain’s gloom.
You fed me strawberries crowned with cream.
In delicate breeze, fevered bodies cooled.
We tip-toed in aura of palest pink.
Our lives entwined, our hearts did rule.
Two minds that did not wish to think
beyond those electric sparks we felt,
when eyes did meet, when skin did burn.
We had no right to plan lives not dealt.
When rose became gold, lust’s lesson was learned.
Though time has passed, those days remain
forever embedded in heart and brain.
This is wonderfully rich – I drank it in! (I hope your pain abates soon…).
Thanks, Freya. It is coming along.
I did manage to post this, but when the pain meds wear off from the finger I sliced,
after I fell, I will have to see how much I can do. Will not be commenting for a few days.
“The quarrels of lovers are like summer storms. Everything is more beautiful when they have passed.” ― Madame Necker
Twelve Words
Please forgive me.
I forgive thee.
Thank you.
I love you, too
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