Mid-Summer Magic Showcase

[Tom]

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Mid-Summer Magic Showcase  

We zero in on the subject of the magic of summer.  Post here, fearless writers, poems that you have written touching on the themes –  summer love, summer enchantment, the supernatural, fairies, summer lust, and whatever may be imagined as some magic of summertime.

If the poems fit the themes, it doesn’t matter if you have written them some time ago or you write them as you type your post.  Original work only, and pertaining to the theme – those are the only damn rules!!  Sound like summer?  Yes! – No other rules!!

 

[indar]

I will write my next poems with a water reed
burnt to charcoal
on the inside surface of loosened tree bark.

I will sit on a thick grass hummock
at a rough-hewn stone slab
to put words to dreams
during twilight hours
beneath rush lamps
strung from sympathetic pines.

First I must account for how the darkened wind 
affects the stars' appearance.
Once water flows onto the scene, will it pool
and fill with the insistent trill of peepers
or fall from ledge to ledge
splashing soft green moss on artful rocks? 

Every element requires choices, I will write in curled ferns,
night blooming jasmine, birch and woodbine
that will twine and branch and vine until, at last,
the words are overtaken and disappear.

Then I will be free to write of Roman arches,
marble bannisters and chandeliers.

[Colm Roe]

what is magic
its suspended there
you breathe it
and just before youre about to realise possession 
grasp it
revel in it it
retreats
its there somewhere

in spaces

like dreams
surrounding until
you try too hard




 

[Gyppo]

It's not yours

Sat on a low hill, 
amongst scrubby gorse
and wind-twisted trees
My motorbike waiting patiently
half a mile away
beyond a few granite hedges.

It was a still and timeless place
away from the crowded beaches
and tourist traps.
Magical in every sense.

The distant chug of an old grey tractor
and the nearby drone of bees in the gorse.

I idly turned over a rock,
a piece of green veined Serpentine.
One of Cornwall's quiet treasures, 
sometimes sold raw
and sometimes cut and polished
into rather naff souvenirs.

Legend has it you never just take.
you have to ask the Piskeys first.
Hardened professional collectors
turn it over in the morning,
and, if it's still undisturbed the next day,
it's theirs as a gift from the old gods.
If it's been disturbed then you leave it alone.

But I would be far away the next day,
so what to do?
It was a lovely bit of rock, but...

I had a sense of being watched,
and a cold cat's paw wind brushed my cheek.
Something told me it was time to leave.

The petrol smell as I 'tickled' the carb
broke the spell.
The unseen watchers lost interest,
and let me go in peace,
and the scrubby gorse flared red
as the sun sank below the horizon.

Gyppo

[indar]

Today's Catch

Light sifts through sycamore dapple
over this teakwood bench.
Sunshapes swim with the breeze
on my outspread summer skirt.
The air is cool, a boat sounds
its horn in the harbor
returned from the open sea
with its catch.

[Colm Roe]

Summer magic requires memories,
it's built in layers of time,
enters on a whim, a song
a tune.
It's like an aroma, close your eyes
and breathe, 
feel it circulate deep within
warm your bones
and fill the empty places.
We lift to it
defy gravity, become lighter.
The strange thing about magic is
it really does exists,
we're just too busy to notice.

[Deb]

Sweet Summer Sweat

Summer nights,
citronella coils unfurl a smoky barrier.
Candles lure an array of winged critters to flames.
The outdoor lover's fragrance of eau de Deet
cologne designed to repel,
lingers on our skin.
A cold brew beckons.

Blazing firewood snaps out of beat
to the tune of distant tent zippers, clinking bottles
and scattered outbursts of laughter.
The euphonious campground settles into forest slumber.
Night owls, human and winged,
share a tranquil co-existence
with vastly different mindsets.

Summer days,
Chirping of birds and golden squirrels
the morning call to hot chocolate and coffee
smoldering coals and distinct campfire aromas
mingle to burn off with the dew and early morning fog
as the sun peeks over the horizon
and welcomes the day

Hikes begin with gusto and vivacity.
Fireball rises and saps my reserves.
Beads of salty moisture drench my bandana,
drip into my eyes, smear remnants of mascara.
No one tells me I resemble the raccoon
who tried to make off with last night’s marshmallows
Unlike me, he doesn’t care if he looks like a raccoon.

~Deb

[Deb]

It's not yours
Gyppo

Ah, the temptations of beautiful stones or intriguing fossils and the legends of warning.

There is an old mining ghost town called, Bodie, here in California. It's said that if you take home any of the broken pottery, glass, or anything at all, you'll be cursed with misfortune. There are lists and lists of tales of people who claim they've been cursed and made every effort to return what they took.

Same with "Tūtū Pele" or Madame Pele, and the volcanoes. True or not, the legends add danger and mystique, I love local legends.

Great read and, you left us wondering.

I quite like this.

~Deb

[Colm Roe]

Absolutely beautiful poeming Linda, Gyppo and Deb.
You've all created a real sense of magic here...loved them all.
 

[Tracy Mitchell]

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  A Butterfly Fluttered

I meant to write today
     but sunset mango tango
    charmed a western tiger swallowtail
    with flutes of nectar– 

I meant to write today
    but plums saved for breakfast
    so sweet and so cold 
    were not enough.


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