Humid air
middle of the summer
every dog and child happy to be outside
surrounded by hippies and
cheap speakers playing rock ‘n’ roll
along the river in front of us were small ferries
I can't remember what happened yesterday but
I recall the feeling of when I first saw you
turning around slowly to glance at
who I didn't know
will spend the rest of my life
dancing in back of my mind
there
was the woman whom I didn't know
will always I desire
the very, only wanted one
never will I ever have.

Heat waves rush my body,
Warming my skin,
Threatening to blind me,
But I just breathe it all in.

Sunglasses on,
Two hands on the wheel,
We’ve got somewhere to go,
And I want something to feel.

She plays in the park,
Discovering more every day,
And I watch her quietly,
Realizing I’m the same way.

I thank the moon
For all the guidance she’s given,
But I want to live now
That the sun has risen.

So I’ll play the monster,
And swing on the swings,
Chase my daughter around
For the joy that it brings.

It feels so good,
Being free in the sun-
I can assess my thoughts later,
Right now, I’m having fun.

and neither the moon nor sun
can comfort me;
one heard my stories about you,
and the other my prayers for you.
The rain could not escape my memory
that you liked the monsoon,
The winds only held gently the expectation
of ruffling your soft hair.
The stream mimicked your laughter
which was etched deeply in my heart.
The sand under my feet told me when it met you
and the salt in the ocean whispered to me that
you threw your wishes as promises,
but wouldn't tell me what those were;
something about secrecy.
The air during my late night walks
reminded me that you walked these paths,
The flowers gushed about your voice,
the trees your jokes;
and then everything
crumbled.
as my mind had to remind me that you died,
and your image I had to forget for my sake.
snatched away so quickly,
I hate that, I hate you.
I hate you.
I hate you.

something about the summer air
at 2 a.m.
just after it has rained

i can hear the earth drying
and the flowers going to sleep
or are they waking up?
it is a special kind of quiet
except for the crickets
and cicadas
and the laughter of friends
and couples
(like you and me)
walking home from the bar

the stars and the streetlights are irrelevant
because of the moon
that is painted in one million places -
held by drops of dew
resting on the cars in the lots

i feel the moons
tenderly leave their resting place
to join the fabric on the back of my shirt
i think your hands probably hold
some of them, too

and in this moment
i am thankful to share
my summer air
with you

The coy moon left us fumbling
wandering in the sleepless warmth
transformed by night sweats
and wet despair
into fractious infants crying
for relief from the night fires.

Douse me now!

What’s wrong with me? I’ve been asking myself this all week.
Anyone who knows me will tell you that I weigh questions coldly and logically. Then it hit to me.. it’s summer, silly, and I'm in classes!

A typical summer would find me tanned, sunburned, greased and unkempt, like a happy, sandy, beach hobo, my hair would be either braided or left fly-about to tangle into cotton candy wads.

My bf Peter’s learned to like fine restaurants (You’re welcome). I’d have never left the beach on my own.
“They can bring us anything,” I’d argue, looking up pitiably from my shaded, Tropitone lounge chair.

Around sundown, Peter would have to catch me, slippery oiled and brown, to comb me out and scrub me before dinner.
“Get dressed!” he’d encourage, picking out a dress suitable for dining or casino wear - “I made us a reservation.”

I’d come out of the hotel en-suite in one of their fluffy, Versace, terry towels but invariably, before I was even dry,  Peter would shake his head, growl and say, “Com-mere,” holding his arms out a little, palms up
(he’s never been very verbose), and smirking a little, I would, because his expression reminded me of Christmas.
“What about our reservation?” I’d chuckle.

This was, of course, a volunteer situation, where it was up to us all to do our best.
.
.
Songs for thus:
Girls On the Beach by Carter Cathcart
Wouldn't It Be Nice by Papa Doo Run Run
Please Let Me Wonder by Carter Cathcart

I love how every month has different little poems!
Today - someone lived and wrote, wept and bled.
In June a great artist had something to say,
and now it's engraved into history for those with eyes to see.
In July it happens again. And it will happen in August too!
So July, hold me under your warmth - cradle me.
I am being strong, but I just need a break.
Take my hand into the sun's heat -
show me I can be exposed
without being burned!

C.M. 1/7/25