Summers Past – Poems of Remembrance / Regret

[ajduclos]

Marvelous bit of writing.  I am there, was there.  can still hear the Cicadias... vivid and personal

Aj

[Dylan di Vilde]

A Lawn

I ponder the summertime lawn
and a jaded conclusion is drawn -
it’s empty, it’s green and it’s flat.
That’s all I can say about that.

OK it’s a nice place to sit,
you can soak up the sun for a bit
but the moment of pleasure will pass
then you get a bit bored with the grass
as you’re suffering under the glare
in a not-very-comfortable chair
wondering whether your sneezes
could be pollen-related diseases.

You get up and grumpily say:
That’s enough lawn for one day.

Yet there once was a time when a lawn was exciting!
- a limitless playground, wide and inviting,
a place of release, to the eyes of a child,
to go leaping and cartwheeling, carefree and wild,  
bouncing with happiness, yelling with glee
feeling immortal, uplifted and free.
A place to inspire adventurous schemes,
a canvas for fantasies summoned from dreams.
Where gazing transfixed at a cloud drifting by,  
you’d long to be up in that infinite sky   
and flat on your back with the sun on your face,
you’d dream you could fly like a rocket through space.

But that’s not what you do
when you’re fifty two.

A lawn is a bore
and a wearisome chore.
And I can’t do a cartwheel
any more.
 

 

[Tracy Mitchell]

Cheryl --  I was coincidentally reading an essay today by Tess Gallagher about how a poem can be a time machine -- you have created that effect so masterfully here.  I love this poem.  I speak for the world.   

Dylan -- as always, the Lawn is a shear delight. 

Love this thread.
 

[Colm Roe]

I remember everything,
and regret little, 
some mistakes I've made
are just reminders,
road signs trying to make me STOP.
Signals I wouldn't have noticed
if I hadn't crashed before
and luckily, survived with only a dent
or a limp, either way...I walked
and walk still.

I bruise different now,
when young, they appeared within hours.
But I was fit, stupid and unconcerned
even when I bruised my bruises.
Now they wait days, 
attempting to worry me, knowing
I struggle to remember their cause.

Some road signs say SLOW
part of me obliges, a little.
But there's still another saying
FUCK THAT SHIT!

[Tracy Mitchell]

Go!  Go!  Go!