i.
you fought like a tiger -
to stop me from rubbing
sun screen on your delicate
skin, you hated the greasy
feel, and so ran into the ocean
then rolled in the sand and
kicked sand in my face,
               at four
Great Hollow Beach, Truro
     June, 1994

ii.
you never could resist -
if we turned our back
even for a minute you
were off to find the largest
boulder, you would climb to
the top and raise your arms
in victory, and always, always
land in the water, wet and cold,
              at eight
City Beach, South Lake Tahoe
     June, 1998

iii.
oh, how Mt. Baldy called to you -
the giant of a sand dune,
moving inland as a glacier,
a sweep of sand blowing
from the peak ridge, like
the banner of heaven, but
i carried you all the way
back to the house after
you cut your foot on a shard
of glass, carelessly abandoned,
              at eleven
Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore
     June, 2001

The eye can hardly pick them out
From the cold shade they shelter in,
Till wind distresses tail and main;
Then one crops grass, and moves about
- The other seeming to look on -
And stands anonymous again

Yet fifteen years ago, perhaps
Two dozen distances surficed
To fable them : faint afternoons
Of Cups and Stakes and Handicaps,
Whereby their names were artificed
To inlay faded, classic Junes -

Silks at the start : against the sky
Numbers and parasols : outside,
Squadrons of empty cars, and heat,
And littered grass : then the long cry
Hanging unhushed till it subside
To stop-press columns on the street.

Do memories plague their ears like flies?
They shake their heads. Dusk brims the shadows.
Summer by summer all stole away,
The starting-gates, the crowd and cries -
All but the unmolesting meadows.
Almanacked, their names live; they

Have slipped their names, and stand at ease,
Or gallop for what must be joy,
And not a fieldglass sees them home,
Or curious stop-watch prophesies :
Only the grooms, and the grooms boy,
With bridles in the evening come.

YOU waves, though you dance by my feet like children
at play,
Though you glow and you glance, though you purr and
you dart;
In the Junes that were warmer than these are, the waves
were more gay,
When I was a boy with never a crack in my heart.
The herring are not in the tides as they were of old;
My sorrow! for many a creak gave the creel in the-cart
That carried the take to Sligo town to be sold,
When I was a boy with never a crack in my heart.
And ah, you proud maiden, you are not so fair when
his oar
Is heard on the water, as they were, the proud and apart,
Who paced in the eve by the nets on the pebbly shore,
When I was a boy with never a crack in my heart.

i am trying to take care of my body
nurture it as if it were a newborn
cherish its hills and valleys, winding channels and perpetual rainfall
trying to help it move and sit and walk
and perhaps someday it will dance again

i am trying to take care of my mind
gather it up into my arms, tenderly
push away the clouds that gather and threaten to obscure the sun
throw open the curtains, unleash the riotous day
flood its rooms with light and the inevitability
of unwavering hope

i am trying to take care of my soul
nurse it carefully, puckered lips towards the sky
awake in anticipation for all the things that are yet to happen
the may-nots, the mays, the possibilities, the junes
and all of the beautiful days
that are sure to follow

as i push away the fury in my heart.

To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
Have from the forests shook three summers’ pride,
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned,
Since first I saw you fresh which yet are green.
Ah yet doth beauty like a dial hand,
Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived.
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived.
    For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred:
    Ere you were born was beauty’s summer dead.

So many Junes and Julys
I spent watching the paint dry
on our brand new cream walls
instead of going to play football
with the other kids my age in the street.
I sat and wondered why
my shaking knees did not smile, why
my bony fingers could not disguise
their quirkiness under pretty blue eyes
like all the other girls did.

And yet many paint coats later
I now realise that these walls have not changed
anything but their colour
in the many years my parents have lived here.
My parents, who spent so many years teaching me
to be loyal and kind,
not only to others
but to myself.

I like to think that if the walls could talk, they would say:

It does not matter what colour you decide to
dye your hair (or your walls),
because those who really love you
could not care less.
We have seen you grow into the person you are today;
stubborn, passionate and genuine,
but we know that you may still need to borrow
other people’s glasses to see it.
The road to self love is difficult
but know that you must love yourself
before loving anybody else.

You may not believe it yet
because you see others as the galaxies which
you could never be, but we promise that
you are the stars, and anyone who refuses
to look through a telescope to see that
does not deserve to see you shine.
There are lakes and rivers waiting for you
with open arms, and sunrises
which will put on their best colours
just for your eyes to see.

Your body is made of stardust,
you are stronger than the trees you have grown to love,
and though you may not be perfect
you are enough.

Months fly by, the seasons go
Springs into summer, fall leads to snow.
Dreadful hot Junes melt blizzard-filled Decembers,
While April and Autumn are hardly remember’d.

Times when trees begin to blossom,
Those with Frisbees start to toss ‘em.
When school lets out and the students cheer,
Forgetting the halfway point is here.
And when the leaves turn red and gold
Couples huddle to keep from the cold.
At last, when the first snowfall blankets the ground
We see the year has finally gone ‘round.

So the next time you have a dull moment
Do this, it will make you content:
Stop everything and look outside,
See what the world can do and provide.
And savor these moments for any reason,
Whether you’re sad, or in a different season.

Let's stay in today
With movies
And blankets
And us, there's nothing we need to say

Laying in my arms
I'll never let you go
There is no one else
I would want to hold

Let's stay in today
Let's kiss until
Junes turns into May

Laying in your arms
I already know
That you are mine
And I'm yours
That I'm sure of

Let the house burn down
We will sleep safe and sound
I want to expire together
And be with you forever

Let the flames eat us alive
I'll die with your hand in mine
I want to expire together
And be with you forever

Lets stay in today
And do anything
And everything
We can think of

Laying in my bed
A dream came to my head
But you took the words out of my mouth
And you said it instead

Let the house burn down
We will sleep safe and sound
I want to expire together
And be with you forever

Let the flames eat us alive
I'll die with your hand in mine
I want to expire together
And be with you forever

Mine is a love that will never fade

The universe mocks with
Emmylous and Junes
but there are things far greater
than what rises with the moon

quiet boy stepped into my looking glass and handed me his helmet
years past until i noticed his long graceful hands in my hair
and i turned to see where he had come from

it was just past nine when i took the zucchini out of the oven and waited
it was half past ten by the time he rang the bell
and i sat nervous and shallow

he gets lost in his own world and finds his hands in mine
we stepped back from our maps and abandoned our ships
i sank in with the anchors

it was just last night when i realized i could love you
it was three junes since i first wanted to
i kissed you in the nighttime.

the flowers don’t grow as much
as they used to
during the yellow junes when her father
picked her up and spun the world
around them
so that it was all blurry lights
and a laugh
sort of like a freed bird

claws have been dragged through the dirt
and the field has been ravaged
and she doesn’t know why anyone bothers
sticking around it

she fruit she picks
from the curved, twisted tree
and the stout, shiny shrub
are not as sweet
like when the juice spilled over the boy’s wrist
as his thumb and forefinger pressed
the delicious ****** flesh against her lips

now it is bitter, and tough
and hard
if she finds one that is sweet
it is poisoned
and it burns her alive

the only land left is inside her
so she swallows all of the pink seeds
and waits for them
they bloom in her stomach
they ****** their roots into her heart

the flowers come back, in the end
unfurling above a scuffed brown sky

Fuzzy orb so small and sweet
      Plump succubus plucked by hand
      Orange pink and yellow treat
      To fulfill a hungers toothsome demand  
                          
Demeter's gift, O' how ripe
      Put the flesh between my teeth
      Ears delighted with phoebe's pipe
      Lounged lazily listening in edens wreath

Juice streaming down my face
       Junes comfort, worth more than gold
       Sleep coming to make its dreamy embrace
       Hammock sway, as I slowly cross the threshold

There is a certain shock, not from the silence itself
But of its revelations, the laying bare
Of the utter superfluence of language
In all which unfolds before us, the testament mute
But imbued with all the power of an orchestra
In full-throated fortissimo
Delivered through the panorama of the vast steppes,
The bounty of their Junes,
The desolation of their Januarys
The visage of the doomed Strelnikov,
The darting glances of the chameleonesque Komarovsky,
His eyes scuttling to and fro like dark cockroaches,
And most of all by the unquiet, not-of-this world gaze
Of Yuri Andreyevich, a stare which tells tales
Of how fleeting this world's happiness will be,
How final and inescapable its sadness,
And as he stumbles and falls in his mad, final pursuit
Of a grail which is unheeding, unseeing,
Always just a step out of reach,
The dialogue is not a necessity,
For we have a trove of our own words and experience
To attest to the veracity of the scene in question.

So we have remained,
With the constancy of stubborn and vestigial elms,
Through any number of moons and Junes,
Equally as many improbable springtimes,
Madnesses of petunias and potholes,
But with a fidelity relatively unstrained, untested,
Our travails being minor things,
Trivial as opposed to titanic,
Our hithers and yons no more
Than the muted triumph of simply carrying on
And we could ask, one supposes
Have we truly loved, then?
Such questions are best left to poets and philosophers
(Grandiloquent fools with time and inclination
For such lines of inquiry)
And though the panorama of our time together
Will be an unprepossessing thing,
No strings heating up and crescendoing
As the camera pans wide in a sweeping crane shot
Of great craggy valleys, the zenith of white-capped peaks
(The lumpy moraines of our landscape,
Merely bits of sediment moved half-heartedly by the odd glacier,
Providing rather uninspiring visuals)
We suspect, no we know, know in such a way
That it is as unremarkable as blinking an eye
Or making some unconscious sound
Which annoys yet endears in the same moment,
That we would be all, give all,
Unreservedly and unhesitatingly immolating
Any thought or concept of self in service of the other,
And the notion that all of that occurs
Away from the watchful eye of director or camera
Does not diminish it in the least.

Okay Whether Pagan or Not … ?
April Fools’ Day Has A PERMANENT Slot … !!!

The First of The Month …
Being …. “ That Date “ ….

But When It Comes To … “ FOOLS “ …
Nowadays I’m Saying … “ April Who “... ?!?

... FOOLS Are Born …
From April RIGHT THROUGH … !!!
The... Calendar Year …
This Now IS CLEAR … !!!!!

TRICKSTERS, PRANKSTERS …
FOOLS And WANKSTERS … !!!

PROVE Themselves ….
To Be Fools With SMELLS … !!!
That Show Their Health …
Is... FAR From Well … !!!

Why Should APRIL … ?
Carry... THAT LABEL … !?!

WHAT ABOUT May Fools … ?!?
And... Junes’ Ones TOO … !!?!!

The OTHER Nine Months …
Also Have A BUNCH …
Now Pulling STUNTS... !!!
And ACTING TOUGH … !!!!!

In Fact They’re … FUN …
When You See The Stuff …
That Makes Them Run …
Their … FOOLISH Gums … !!!

About SHOOTING GUNS …
And Playing ROUGH … !!!

These Fools Air Views …
That Show Their Moods ….
... TRICK Them Up … ?!?

I Mean … TRIP Them Up … !!!
Due To... IGNORANCE …
That They LOVE TO HUG … ?!?

Playing Games …
That They Should NOT Play … !!!

Like CALLING NAMES …
In... IGNORANT Ways... !!!

Their Games DISPLAY …
How Cowardice REIGNS … !!!
inside Their Brains …
And Pumps Their Veins …
With FOOLS’ Thought Waves … !!!

So That Their … “ VAIN “ …
Helps Them... MAINTAIN …

Their … FOOLISH Acts …
That PROVE They’re CRACK'D … !!!!!

... WITHOUT The Pipe …. ?!?!?

When It Comes To Some Blacks …
It Seems … ANYTHING White … !!!!!!!!

Makes Them Feel Like …
... Their Life of LIES ….
Makes Them Wise Guys … !?!

From Coc’ To Wives …
To Young White Thighs …
FOOLISH Black Types …
Seem To LOSE THEIR MINDS … ?!?

Becoming Slaves To NONSENSE … ?!?
REFUSING Sense That’s Common … ?!?

Who May Just Find … ?!?
That Something White Resides Inside...
What They DENY As Their Bloodlines …

So GIVE April Her DUES...
Cos’ She’s A Girl Whose Cool …

It’s NOT Her Fault … !!!
That FOOLS Get Calls …
When Her Time Begins...
To Do... HER THING...

Right Now In … “ Bim’ “ …
... Mosquitos STING …. !!!

While … April Showers …
Is An English Thing …
That Makes Fools Cower …
When She Brings HIGH Winds … !!!

So DON'T Think Fools Just VANISH …… !!!
Because April Gets ….............. BANISHED … !!!

They PREY Somewhat Like Mantis …
When Trying To … ESTABLISH …
Themselves To Be The BADDEST … !!!

When They’re Not From …
…….. “ ATLANTIS “...... !!!!!!

It Seems That They’re From Planets …
Where FOOLISHNESS Runs FRANTIC …
And Decency’s Been … VANQUISHED... !!!!!

It’s Really Rather … TRAGIC … !!!!!!
Their NEED For Pranks And Antics …
That Prove That They CAN'T MANAGE... !!!

Facing Things That … DAMAGE … !!!
The IGNORANCE They BRANDISH … !!!

So When It Comes To …
...... “ April Fools’ “......

These Final Words …
Should Be OBSERVED … !!!

The Amount of FOOLS …
Now In...... CLEAR VIEW … !!!!!!

Means April NEEDS … !!!
A Break From Deeds … !!!
That Have Her As Some ANNEX …

For FOOLS in Streets …
Who Choose To Preach …
In A Style That’s MANIC … !!!!!!

I’ll Speak For HER …
Within These Words ….

Their Dates of Birth …
And Acts of Mirth …
Are NOT DEFINED …
By Date Timelines … !!!!!

It May Be USED …
As A Home For Fools …

But FOOLS Right Now …
Are... ALL AROUND... !!!!!!

And Are Born EVERYDAY … !!!!
In ….. “ Different Towns “ …..
  
So These Two Words …
Are The Last I’ll Use … !!!!!

When It Comes To The Moves …
And Birth of... FOOLS …

The Words Are THESE MAN … !!!!!

...... “ April Who ?!? “......

Farewell June
June, adieu
cicada whispers
swaying pines
clear blue skies
and mountains of clouds

unending solitude
"Cannonball!"
patchwork quilt
of imagination
hero's quest
'neath sycamores

tree-lined avenues
carve terraced tunnels
through homeward hills
asphalt voyages
past nodding corn
and ice cream (beat)

All my Junes
line up like aunts
and uncles - eyes
upon me as
I sail away

"Blackberry Eating"  (Galway Kinnell)
Took my redneck self to early summer,
Late June, Montana sun, and shimmering humidity
Aboard a tractor droning over fields,
Uprooting green, turning the acres brown
Atop a table rimmed in badlands.

Remembering past Junes'
Berry thickets in cool ravines,
I left the tractor idling
To cross barbed wire,
To descend into cool trees.

June berries everywhere;
Blue-black sweetness weighted branches.
I stained my face and hands with plunder,
Then plundered and filled my upturned cap.

Grazing and grasping,
The copse's edge I turned
To meet a coyote on two legs
Berry browsing.

Who yelped, and who screamed?
At the top of the bank, I turned;
My cap and berries scattered,
The coyote's tail down as he left the scene.

how many Junes will
run me out of home
how many summer nights
undefined in their destinations
ending only
empty-handed, no stories itching to
leap from our tongues
exasperated
dried out from heat
that hangs from the sky
like the skin on our backs

we wait
until September turns his back to us
until the leaves trail the ground
until I am too
left barren
laying in these streets

dark nights
push me face-first into
a new year
cold.

how many months
will phase me
until I start to see the world
bloom
instead of fold?

i've missed the opportunity and that's something i'll have to live in
the windows never open in my bedroom and the draft is something your not familiar with
but let me tell you about ghosts and how i haunt them
about how your elbow and your hands still wake me up in the junes you don't make it to connecticut
someday i'll write about the diner and the star bits
some day we'll reply like four days of missing each other is equivalent
to heartbreak or maybe that too
is a window shut tight cause the screen is loose
and who knows what'll get in
or out
if left unattended

It is an early June night
The darkness has not long descended and soon the dawn will come round again

The air is calm and still
In this quietness I can hear the sounds of children and the talking  of passing couples

A soft breeze blows and it rattles the blind to play an inconsistent rhythm
Although it’s mild, it’s not as warm as other Junes from times before

And in this stillness I think of you
The feel of your skin
The sound of your voice
And the space where once you lay

What goes up, must come down.
What goes in, must come out.
What comes without, we keep away.
It finds a way, though, anyway.

Wounds,
     opened like a birthday present.
Junes,
     scabbed knees with no parents present.
Rooms,
     of doctors neither calm nor pleasant.
Blooms,
     in roses from my adolescence.

Blood pours forth from the gaping ****.
Disintegrating memories burning to ash.
As gore pours out, disease seeps in.
Facilitated by shifts to freezing seasons.

Labs,
     where scientists attempt to sew.
Cabs,
     of doubt I pay to take me home.
*****,
     not redder than me when boiled whole.
Scabs,
     as much a fix as I'll ever know.

Until today I have never re-posted someone else's work on my modest site. This is brilliant:

W. K. Kortas
JUNE 22, 2021

ON WATCHING “DOCTOR ZHIVAGO” WITH THE SOUND OFF

On Watching “Doctor Zhivago” With The Sound Off
There is a certain shock, not from the silence itself
But of its revelations, the laying bare
Of the utter superfluence of language
In all which unfolds before us, the testament mute
But imbued with all the power of an orchestra
In full-throated fortissimo
Delivered through the panorama of the vast steppes,
The bounty of their Junes,
The desolation of their Januarys
The visage of the doomed Strelnikov,
The darting glances of the chameleonesque Komarovsky,
His eyes scuttling to and fro like dark cockroaches,
And most of all by the unquiet, not-of-this world gaze
Of Yuri Andreyevich, a stare which tells tales
Of how fleeting this world’s happiness will be,
How final and inescapable its sadness,
And as he stumbles and falls in his mad, final pursuit
Of a grail which is unheeding, unseeing,
Always just a step out of reach,
The dialogue is not a necessity,
For we have a trove of our own words and experience
To attest to the veracity of the scene in question.

(AUTHOR’S NOTE–as I would be justly castigated by my good friend Lawrence Hall if I failed to do so, I made a point of adding the good Yuri’s patronymic .)