Summers Future – Poems of Presentiment / Expectancy

[Tom]

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Summers Future – Poems of Presentiment / Expectancy 

This thread also calls for new poems, written anew for this occasion – for this thread.  

Write a poem inspired by thoughts of summer future – what do you foresee, where does summer magic lead you?  What are the anticipations. 

Again,  20 - 200 words, any style & format.
 

[Deb]

Summer Dreams

To be quaintrelle,
a quaint elegance.
Relle – brightly feminine,
filtered sunlight
through a lace curtain.

Enchanted in joy,
smiles captivate.
Dance to my own tempo.

Broaden my wings,
soar charismatically.
Rise on the currents, no restraints.
Sing like a poetess,
reverberating the treasures of my life.




~Deb

[Dave]

The skies rise way out beyond blue into an infinity of heat
or close in behind an iron veil of rain descending
like god's wrath ( I can see his wicked smile)
The boat we push out to sea, naive sailors we,
is engulfed with the sin of frivolity (coloured straws)
and wonder where it all went wrong.

[Colm Roe]

Summer never enters my Winter mind,
I refuse to entertain it.

Even in March, July's warmth is too distant
too painfully far to contemplate.
In May the sun appears
through occasional cloud breaks,  
a disappointed voyeur
no exposed flesh to excite; 
it peeps on woollen cardigans 
and scarves and fleeces, then
pulling the covers back it waits
as I do, it won't be long though.

But it won't last long either.

It drifts South,
warming those strange upside down people
below the Equator.
   

 

[Colm Roe]

Nice poeming Deb & Dave.
Almost diametrically opposed in their nature.
 

[Colm Roe]

Next Summer?

Next Summer will be different
I always say. 
But next time 
I will be prepared,
a diet and the gym
well in advance
and I'll have the body
I always deserved.

I'll even deny the Gods,
when Boreas sweeps down
and my body's Winter urge to appease
with extra layers of sugar and fat,
when cakes and succulent meats
tempt me to blubber.

Next Summer 
I'll be wearing Speedos,
you'll see them complete,
no stomach layers folding down
to obscure the majesty of them.

Each fold takes so many cakes to create,
so much pleasure per fold;
and the Winter is so long
and I only wear budgie smugglers for two weeks....




 

 

[Tracy Mitchell]

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      Profoundly True

Accuse me of peeing on the floor.

I want to be wild separately.  

I want a place on the shelf as a peacock 
with long tail and yellowing eyebrows.

To take up crossed pens against the old men!

Screw George Orwell – I’ll take the damn scotch, 
but I intend my fire to burn Galway Kinnell’s garage 
to the foundation.  

I will drive past a hitchhiking James Wright, 
then slam on my breaks.

Yes to take up crossed pens and rally the blood!

To belly crawl the fence line 
at Bly’s farm near Madison, Minnesota.


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[Tracy Mitchell]

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  Why to Write a Summer Poem

Lets call the collective living element,
the aggregations of all biomes,
the conglomerate of all things organic– 
let's call it Stan.

Stan is not God.
Some like the simplicity 
of calling Stan God.  That’s okay.

Petals open, a bird loops.
Fish gurgle, sorghum-sudan grass bends to the breeze.
You write a poem.  I write a poem.

A thaumaturgy of the moment –  
a dab of created tidbits.

Stan absorbs these tidbits,
these created things – they make Stan happy,
they help Stan grow.

A murmuration of starlings captures, 
eclipses, the evening – 
performance art pieces extraordinaire – 

mimicked, mirror imaged, shadowed 
in movement, paralleled in swoon: 

a chipmunk dances 
a dance of breath-take,
which hangs in the air– 

a solitary gem tucked forever 
into the latent folds of time – 

these are the things Stan savors – these gems– 
opening petals, 
eremitic chipmunk dances,
bird loops. Poems.

Stan is happy to have them.
We need to align our lives

to be happy
when Stan is happy.


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[Colm Roe]

Loved both Tracy.
Just spent the last hour on YouTube listening to (and reading about) the poets you mentioned...wonderful.
 

[Tracy Mitchell]

James Arlington Wright is incredible. Glad you took a look.