Saturday is movie day, so we are bringing two films to your screen to inspire you.

The first is the classic coming of age story, The Summer of ’42.

Summer of '42

Summer of ’42


Summer of ’42 is a 1971 American comedy-drama film based on the memoirs of screenwriter Herman Raucher. It tells the story of how Raucher, in his early teens on his 1942 summer vacation on Nantucket Island (off the coast of Cape Cod), embarks on a one-sided romance with a young woman, Dorothy, whose husband had gone off to fight in World War II.



Our second feature is A Storm in Summer.

A Storm in Summer

A Storm in Summer

A Storm in Summer tells the story of an old Jewish shop owner Mr. Shaddick (‘Peter Falk’) who suddenly finds himself responsible for a little black boy named Herman Washington (‘Aaron Meek’) who is trying to escape the chaos of Harlem as part of a sponsorship program. At first, Mr. Shaddick wants nothing more than to get rid of the kid, but to spite the well to do lady who tries to take him over to her home, he decides to take Herman in. As time goes on, Mr. Shaddick finds himself caring about Herman and has the misfortune of being the bearer of bad news, which reminds him of when he received a telegram himself.


Choose either to inspire you. You can write of a summer where you experience a life changing event and how you coped with it. Or you can choose to write a summer storm poem. We’re talking weather, social upheaval, or controversy that can be considered a “storm” of sorts. No matter which one you choose, it will be expressed tenderly by your heart.



    Their love was rancorous; an anomalous propagation.
    Her eyes were rife with storm activity,
    bolts of lightning and rambles of thunder shook their hearts,
    and emotions climbed. Traces of their barometer
    remain to bring their tempest to a high pressure front.
    He felt trapped, his hue the color of ash,
    the corners of his mouth turned with concern,
    her eyes as damp as the coming precipitation,
    but she drew inward; her husk protecting her fragile psyche.
    But relenting, he had gathered her in; a bundle of ravaged souls
    seeking shelter from the tirade of their hearts.


    I found my poetry, and as such
    I found myself. I discovered I had a heart
    that rhymed in compassion and beat to the meter
    of a well worded verse. The course of my thoughts
    followed in kind, for my mind searched for
    the emotions that corresponded to those
    tendrils of imagining. I admitted much to myself,
    knowing my indiscretions through the words
    I used to express them. Peace came in the
    release of such things and they would bring me
    to each new revelation. It has become my
    salvation; made me a better man.
    I stand here today, no worse for wear
    for there I have revealed the true me.
    A self-discovery through poetry.


    Like magic the bow flies across the fiddle frets
    in Zelda’s soft fingers while her husband Hobart
    plucks his Gibson and sings down-home lyrics:
    pone cornbread, piping hot brown beans,
    mountains spiked with evergreens,

    enough to set an audience flatfooting so loud
    once more the dead pine for bluegrass instead
    of angel hymns, instead of demon shrieks:
    play “Peace in the Valley,” say Crystal City souls;
    sing “Black Mountain Rag,” cry those in Hell’s deep holes.

    Who could detect that seven summers past
    Zelda and Hobart thought the music died,
    that both their lives had ended when Woodrow
    their young son drowned in the Little Bluestone River.
    Another lonely summer they sing the blues to sleep;
    somewhere Woodrow claps his hands. They weep.



    I deign
    to give free rein
    to you if you bring rain
    that lasts as long as I shall reign
    in Spain.


    Violence in electric downpour
    trying to snore as the thunder rolls,
    my tired soul yearns for some quiet
    while this riot is incited. Lightning
    dances and is excited. Waiting for the
    tympani of noise to recoil. All toil
    in a mid-summer storm.

    Summer of ‘67

    How long does it take,
    I wonder,
    for a war to become
    a tourist attraction?
    What’s the rotation time,
    I ponder,
    for foxholes to fill in,

    The only war that matters
    is the one you fought in.
    All warriors know this.
    So many wars,
    yet only one was the worst.
    It’s the one you fought in.
    Because it happened to you.

    That year I went to war,
    all thrumming energy,
    rising above the cacophony,
    struggling beneath the fear,
    wishing mightily to be invisible,
    knowing I had put myself there,
    the trace elements of ego
    so visible in God’s microscope.

    For a little while,
    I died that day long ago,
    thought I was going home,
    no sadness, no fear,
    no swell of clinging to what’s here.
    Day and night,
    the bombs cast their light,
    yet from tunnel bright
    a chiming bell,
    calling my return to
    the work undone.

    Time enough remained
    for service and, more,
    for pain, guilt, lessons
    still to master, before
    this life’s final peace
    brings an end to war.

    • Oh my. What a wrenching picture you paint to a mother’s heart. Thought of my son and so many others who live with the “pain, guilt, lessons still to master”

    • And so many came back to fight another war of sorts. The internal battle that is residual of all horrific offensives you were involved in. Poems such as this make me appreciate your sacrifice and service, Daniel. Thank you and all your comrades for all you’ve given! It’s a privilege to share these spaces with you!

    My Mentor Departs

    ‘Twas the summer of 1970
    Between my Freshmen and Sophomore years
    All was going well for the most part
    Nothing out of the ordinary until
    On the evening of August 22nd
    Just two days after my 16th birthday
    My grandparents, who were also my guardians
    Said good night and departed for bed
    I heard Grandpa tell Grandma, “I love you”
    As he did every night they were wed
    She responded in kind as she always had
    Nothing different about this routine
    Until about fifteen minutes had passed
    And Grandma screamed like never before
    My brother and I came running to her
    But it was too late, Grandpa was gone
    The love of her life and my mentor
    When home on that warm August night
    In that summer of 1970

    © Earl Parsons

  8. Pingback: And Then it Rained | georgeplacepoetry by Debi Swim

    Typhoon Trump

    Blonde clouds gathered
    In an orange sky. Hatred
    Rained down, white hoods
    And storm troopers returned
    To restore order. Borders
    Were erected. No one could get
    Inside or out. Laws were bent,
    Hearts were rent, and people begged
    For outside aid to control
    The deluge. No one lent
    A hand because no foreigners
    Were allowed in. Allies disappeared
    One by one. Typhoon raged on;
    It had won.

    • And all these years I kept my politics to myself. I guess all those tender love poems, poems of the human conditions and support for certain causes close to my heart have had people fooled. Ha, and I never thought myself to be a stupid man!

    Summer Storm

    The day she came to visit her sister,
    it rained harder than I’d ever seen it rain
    in southwest Colorado. The streets were rivers.
    The parks and fields, lakes.
    It came down like it would never quit.
    It seems strange when two rare events
    happen on the same day.

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