August 20th, 2011
Pink and white hothouse lilies
parfume the atmosphere
of our summer retreat,
the shelter upon our island redoubt.
Their scent, a scentry,
posted to guard against
the oranges and reds,
the piano notes of fall,
the ivory whites of winter,
the iconic colors of the
seasons of responsibilities.
Lock the doors.
Preserves of
oranges, peach and lemon,
summer fruits,
preserve my calm!
Mingle well
with the other summer's fruited sweets,
cherries, black berries, caramel,
all, ally thyself with salt air
and do thy fragrant work!
Ferry away, banish,
the wardens of the
workweek jail, like only
summer garden colors
and sun-rays can.
Still yourself,
be calmed, becalmed,
there is no breeze,
tis but mid-August
and the grill still awaits
your further command.
Long days and humid nights
bid you drink red rosés,
and summer lemoncellos,
chilled to accompany
the sweet summer corn
covered in salty butter.
drink the jus of the
summer sea's bounty,
saltwater berries, seasonal delights.
But you know better.
Stepping outside,
you are tree felled,
senses red alerted
by hints, whiffs
of the odor of change,
a piano refrain.
Acorns in August?
Can't be, won't allow it,
that slight chill, dispatch it,
won't let go yet of
sun tanned lotion notions,
and legalized
summer laziness.
Beneath my flip~flops,
acorn shells irritatingly crunch,
uninvited guests,
they are the peas I feel
under the mattress and bed,
contaminating my head,
while I lay cloaked beneath,
my summer weight comforter.
Too late.
Back to school flyers
litter the driveway and infest
the Sunday papers.
I am defeated,
my senses tingle,
at the sight of these
changeover secretions.
Sap of the maples is acoming,
the Paul Revere warning
of Redcoated leaves soon to
invade my bay's sandy shores.
Come my friends,
be courageous
and of good faith.
One more time, unto the breach!
One more time, unto the beach!
Tho our armor of golden tan
will of necessity rust red by cold bitters,
the summer of our poetry,
recorded, will forever live.
Even tho summer's demise
draws near, its death most glorious and not in vain,
when we lay spent and slain
after our approaching defeat,
apres the Battle of
Labor Day,
We still have our body,
Our poems, summer crafted,
The cello and the piano
Reminding those few left to listen.
<•>
mid august suicidal
August 12, 2017
to the facts:
suicidal thoughts come as regular as a
teenager pimple
weekends summer sun burns the skin,
the inner gloom,
so that I just make from the
Monday to Friday bookends
of grey cloud doom, barely opened eyes
the acorns peas under the bed's mattress,
my summer-brain pod irritants
are
freshly arrived, fully ensconced,
antibiotic resistant sob's,
the colored newsprint of hateful
back to school flyers still haunt and clog
the sinking sunking sinking
waste disposal
the newest indignity,
the emails proclaiming
end-of-summer better hurry
drink up those three cases of pink rose wine
down in the chilling basement
not a bad idea in *** actuality
nothing kills like suicide and
nothing kills suicidal thoughts
like a three week drunk
starting now
the truth burden just got harder;
Adagio for Strings, Opus 11,
whispers stay the hand
~~~
