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Remembering June
"Art cannot be criticized because every mistake is a new creation."
In my head    I am a complex girl; A warrior and fighter, A lover, An asexual, A broken heart, A Feminist, A singer, A vegetarian, A bookworm, A ...


Nat Lipstadt Sep 2014
The Godfinger has not yet
colored-come this far south
from up in the North,
but soon inexorable, marchingly quietly
to finger paint reds and golds
that are calendar scheduled to arrive

the idea of them, their visual,
burrowed  but easily retrieved,
for in the poet's mind's eye
he foresees their forthcoming blaze,
smells them in the not-quite-autumn
sea breeze

colors welcome for many,
for they serve to awaken and ravish
inattentive-to-nature wooly brains,
distracted by new work projects
diluted multi-tacking senses,
back burnt by responsibilities,
**** deadlines,
term papers, too soon due

full well knowing fall colors incipient,
this summer man piety engorges on
the embering remains of his beloved season,
His Summer Surround Sound Environment,
reflecting on his insignificance,
the seasonality of life,
the sad-always finale for grownups
that is the year ending
no longer a far away,
inconceivable concept

these robust leaf colors, product of
chlorophyll properly chilled,
signal mark
all hope lost for the summer warmth,
the life force of this
poet's body and soul's
his sun tan lotion ****** cleanser, restorative,
all sold out, no longer on the store's shelf,
and a new conceptual,
low growling while on the prowl

but for now,
it's still land-greens and water-blues,
though tarnished are the hues,
the grass, an admixture of
ugly straw yellow and a sickly green,
the bay green blues darker, uninviting,
the surface sun glints duller, less charming,
but close enough to the
real thing
for him to embrace passionately

he thinks bemusedly, out loudly,
writes smilingly, out loudly,
for he is in his trademark chair,
adorned in summer garb,
t-shirt and shorts,
holding on for as long as he can,
grabbing errant sun rays,
breathing salted bay air that's
cleaner now, for the summers sailors
all gone ashore to dry dock ports

while his woman, sensible ever,
acknowledges the frosty wind that
necessitates blanket, a full dress uniform,
complete yoga outfit and anorak,
the dress code de rigeur for combat
the September brilliant and undeniable chill

Springsteen and Cassidy hum his
melancholy perfectly and he wonders
about the ifs and of's his chosen life,
about the why's and wherefore
of his poetry that he sometimes writes
under assumed names

these contradictions,
me, summer,
she, cloaked in wool,
these natural nature inconsistencies,
even though unrealized,
the inevitability clashing sounds of vibrant colors
overtaking greens wilting,
all to be winter-denuded,
mark the day,
mark the man,
his poem,
mark this moment of
inconsistent colorations
September 20, 2014
r Apr 2018
You are fallen darkness,
the ghost ship
in the wake of a quarter-moon

Your depth
is like a blue grave
looking back
from a burial at sea

Your hands are shadows
over a campfire
lustering against the lightless
river, palms folding
like prayers over
the embering heat
of driftwood and deadfall
retreating into ash

You are heaven's shoal
of dead stars, the obsidian
lip of the shoreline
I approach without light

The shallow groundswell
of sand un-printing my tracks,
as if to refuse my sunless steps

You are streetlights left behind me
back home, softening now
beyond their dead-end streets.
I have left the imprint
of my body

on your wild grasses
under your wild hedges

I have slept the sweet
sleep of an embering fire

in your arms
and known

your lips on mine
as a sweetness of the

dancing rain on leaves
your soulhands have

blended me together
like the scent of meadowflowers

sweetening the air
and I have been embraced and

in the ground of your sweet being

been received by and have received
your sweet soul Love

you have made of me
a meuse

an imprint in wild grasses
under wild hedges

in your generous and generating

c. 2017 Roberta Compton Rainwater