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I don’t remember exactly when Budberg died, it was either two years
ago or three.
The same with Chen. Whether last year or the one before.
Soon after our arrival, Budberg, gently pensive,
Said that in the beginning it is hard to get accustomed,
For here there is no spring or summer, no winter or fall.


“I kept dreaming of snow and birch forests.
Where so little changes you hardly notice how time goes by.
This is, you will see, a magic mountain.”


Budberg: a familiar name in my childhood.
They were prominent in our region,
This Russian family, descendants of German Balts.
I read none of his works, too specialized.
And Chen, I have heard, was an exquisite poet,
Which I must take on faith, for he wrote in Chinese.


Sultry Octobers, cool Julys, trees blossom in February.
Here the nuptial flight of hummingbirds does not forecast spring.
Only the faithful maple sheds its leaves every year.
For no reason, its ancestors simply learned it that way.


I sensed Budberg was right and I rebelled.
So I won’t have power, won’t save the world?
Fame will pass me by, no tiara, no crown?
Did I then train myself, myself the Unique,
To compose stanzas for gulls and sea haze,
To listen to the foghorns blaring down below?


Until it passed. What passed? Life.
Now I am not ashamed of my defeat.
One murky island with its barking seals
Or a parched desert is enough
To make us say: yes, oui, si.
'Even asleep we partake in the becoming of the world.”
Endurance comes only from enduring.
With a flick of the wrist I fashioned an invisible rope,
And climbed it and it held me.


What a procession! Quelles délices!
What caps and hooded gowns!
Most respected Professor Budberg,
Most distinguished Professor Chen,
Wrong Honorable Professor Milosz
Who wrote poems in some unheard-of tongue.
Who will count them anyway. And here sunlight.
So that the flames of their tall candles fade.
And how many generations of hummingbirds keep them company
As they walk on. Across the magic mountain.
And the fog from the ocean is cool, for once again it is July.
Wk kortas Feb 2018
Once (not that long ago, perhaps, though we likely know better)
The summers were languid, liquid things without end
Each day fully equipped with a high sky,
The blue so all-encompassing, so all consuming,
That lazy fly ***** seemed to disappear
As if God had scooped them up like so many routine grounders.
We played, in a field long since abandoned
To crownvetch and scrub grass,
Twenty one--five points for those *****
The celestial powers had bobbled
And we were able to catch on the fly,
Three points if we took it on the hop,
One if we safely trapped it before it rolled stone dead,
And so our Julys and Augusts fluttered by,
Every bit lazy and aimless as butterflies or knuckleballs,
With the exception of the de riguer tribunals
In which the assembled debated and determined
Where bounce ended and roll began,
Where shoestring catch was reduced to single-point trap.

It all came to an end, of course;
At some point, we crossed a line
(Undelineated but firmly established nonetheless)
Where it was no longer advisable to attempt this at home,
Mere joy no longer an acceptable substitute for proficiency.
Find something else to do, kid, we were told,
And the bats went to the back of the closet,
The gloves and ***** consigned to a spot
(Where we would surely remember to find them)
Behind some canned tuna and Christmas lights,
The fastball blurring by us now,
The field a warren of subdevelopments and cul-de-sacs.

And so you’d forgotten,
Or perhaps just suppressed, the whole notion;
There were, after all, a gaggle of coupon books
With return addresses from an ever-changing confusion of banks,
Sales on pasta and milk, other fees and foundations
Politely requesting ones attention,
So you couldn’t be sure
That it was really the crack of an old thick-handled Adirondack,
Or the comforting thwick of the ball landing squarely
In the pocket of a Wilson A-2000,
Yet when you wandered to the window and peered out,
There they were, looking straight up at you,
Waving their hands like childlike Prosperos
Gesturing to reveal some fairytale glen.  
Come on back, they are saying, and you go down,
Powerless to resist, even if you had wanted to,
Returned instantly, seamlessly to a time and place
Where a shout of I got it! I got it!
Was all the prerequisite or vitae that was required,
And you are unable to bring even mock-edginess to your voice
When you insist I got that cleanly on the hop.  That’s three points.
The Great American Game is back in Florida and Arizona--not that it ever actually left.
Julys have come and gone
in the hills of Shillong
and from the browned ORWO
the skinny boy with an oversized cap
smiles as if there's no tomorrow
but this moment
wrapped in fog and drizzle
holds everything within
the now filling life to the brim
making growth a needless shape
absurdly redundant
and never more real
than the eyes
peering from that shot of time
ecstatic in happiness
rejecting a future
too intangible
to be valuable.
Shillong is a hill station in the state of Meghalaya (abode of the clouds) in India.
This work is inspired from a photo of mine taken there in July, 1978, I chanced upon from an old album. I feel I've moved too far from that boy to bear his identity any more.
Ray Suarez Jul 2016
25 pale blue julys
My moon floats soggy and
Dimming
Breaking apart and
Sinking
Amongst this
Acid sunshine
I am a peacock in eels skin
And i want to remember to forget
All those awful Septembers
Hack them off of my skin
But they regenerate quickly
Like stubborn tumors
I am just the dust on a napping cat
I hold the bottle up to my lips
Like a samurai sword to the throat
Except with much less honor
I pull the chain on the overhead
Light
It flickers a bit
Then decides to sleep
And the stars follow me like
Night gnats
And i put my body down
Forever or just tonight
It is not up to me
25 pale blue julys
The worm crawls up
Past the rain
Tastes the sun
And laughs
If you gave me true love fame
great fortune, a man to adore
and be greatfull for near or far before,
Pease resend all back to me!
I missed my mark before,😩🗽
multiply blessings 🙏🏻for my loved ones next of kin, the SanGutiers the Auer the Bach's the Welks the Mlozis
All known-unknown & true friends
please God!
Ah and as for my enemies traitor sterile raitano s & a,  liz.w&
Greek predator thugs do as you please with'm return all they do to my kids isolating trashing us all,
back to them hundred fold!
I give them all my burning pain.
For Petes sakes get'm all out of our Julys Independence Day path.
In Christ name amen.
Happy New year to all.
~~~~~~
Karijinbba
daynight@gmx.us
1-678-517-5066.
For reading my poetry donations accepted.
Laugh out loud..but really I am homeless bless me please.
Lyzi Diamond Apr 2014
What time is it?
We should be fine,
on time in Nashville.
Muted colors and eyes
heavy, wander in
blind monotone, sing
to waving adolescents.

The light turns orange
with age before brightening
morning sky, the flood
on the tarmac transitions
to scattered blue as seconds
creep closer to the dawn.

Arched window voice in
rolling fields with fences
cry out like grass seed sneezes
from rainy Octobers and Julys.
Martin Narrod Oct 2015
I'm heaving prose at you and you don't even know it. Like fish jumping into a boat that's empty. Having risen before, being brave would seem easier, lighter maybe. Like great fluff or a fugue of an earthy red wine. My tear ducts are hollow drums, if I could I'd give you a metaphor about weeping, but I'm wept out and worn out. I'm not tired or worn down. I'm an obelisk, or a saber perhaps. I'm good coffee from a specialty roaster, but I come in a to go cup. Coffee should never be consumed from a to go cup.

You're one of those pennies people pay one dollar and one cent for, stretched out with new print on them. At the zoo they can be bought. At places where the middle class can be classless they can be bought.

You were once a starlet. A golden and imperfect deity. I'm still worshipping you. You're my startling ******, but the rigging is busted. Now I'm onto acid washes and back on ivory. Maybe you didn't mean to leave cue cards and question marks like keepsake memories under our bedroom duvet.

I'm only asking for you.

While I **** around each new city in the jargon of a Calder sculpture. I've punched door mice and killed rattle snakes with the heel of my foot. Step on with the right and bring your fingers to your lips. I've been calling good luck for decades now. Julys Septembers and Novembers too.

Just a regular guy with a big ******* rooster.

Some girl said we're swimming for each other in the dark, but I know your eyes have adjusted to the light. Don't compensate for ordinary experiences. Realize what I realize and taste the snow.
Lo Infusino Oct 2012
As the vivid heat of Illinois
sheds
the profuse breathing forest
and crowded meadows,

smug evenings
bleed
insect symphonies.

As pressurized homes
Exhale
oblivious life
cushioned in air artificially chilled,

one thousand Julys
forever in transit
traverse golden cloud ceilings
above so many absent walls

until savage nights
visit for the sake of vacant freeways,
and neon blooms
shadows, brake lights, and flickering darkness
Blanche Feb 2018
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.
i'm trying to teach myself that self love is the best love, even if it isn't easy. this is my first poem, I hope you like it x
wolf mother Jun 2013
?
can i lie awake in the sadness of your broken hand?

can i call you up when i find the band aids are contaminated by childhood dares?

I don't know if i can call you mine with a care
like I had in those julys, sleeping there
hair intertwined
carnivorous and bare

can i say your name in the stillness of the fire while they laugh in awe at my gracelessness?

is it fair?

do they know it has always been there?
Leah Feb 2013
7-12-12

cold for a july night.
hands cupped like a begging addict
trying to savor the heat of the flame
that spreads to the filter of the cigarette

now thats two wasted.

with all the times I've spent
sitting and debating if
this life is worth slitting my wrists
it's a miracle I'm still alive.

it's only seventeen julys
but if you ask me,
it's more like seventeen million.

my feet are cold.
in all senses including proverbial.
Aurora Jul 2015
It took me one year, six months, twenty-three days, and thirteen minutes to stop thinking of you. 
To stop constantly digging my unmanicured fingernails in my palms every time I saw you show up on my newsfeed and I’d like to think I don’t know why I haven’t just ******* blocked you.
But I do. 
It’s hard to admit that 
I’m so in love with you,
seeing that you changed your mood from “bored” to “hungry”, is worth the splintering pain I get 
in my chest. 
It’s embarrassing to know that while you’re thinking about the growl in your stomach I’m thinking of the hunger in your eyes the first time you told me you loved me. 
you loved me. 
you loved me. 
god, I’m so ******* tired of the word “loved”. So now that your favorite shoes are scuffed you don’t love them? 
Now that your piano is missing a key, you don’t love it? Now that your grandmother is six feet under, hollow-eyed but still in her famous Christmas sweater, you don’t love her? Where did it go? Did it vanish when your shoelaces frayed, when you couldn’t hit that particular note, when grandpa stopped smiling? when I stopped smiling?
It took me one year, six months, twenty-three days, and thirteen minutes of melatonin margaritas, long-sleeved Julys, late night poetry, early morning trash and you, you are not worth it. You are not worth failing math because i can’t concentrate everytime the teacher says “X”. You are not worth spending my whole third period wondering if that’s how you see me. You are not worth the look in my mothers eyes when she finds me screaming in the shower at 3 am and you are not worth the same look on my little brothers face when he asks me why I’m never hungry anymore.
You are not worth the paper.
I have killed so many ******* trees in the last eighteen months hoping maybe they’d **** the memory of you, but the only thing dying is the light in my eyes and ******* I want it back. My dad told me yesterday that I smelled like smoke. I told him it was cigarettes. I did not tell him about the light in my eyes, or the embers in my shoes because how am I supposed to explain that the first time you kissed me you lit a fire in me.
How do I tell him the wind of your “I don’t love you anymore” blew it out.
my feet are burning
Quinn Jan 2018
I used to love you
but now I don't know
who you are...
-mother

She asks me why I am
shape-shifted from nice
to mean.

Bang bang bang
goes my body against the
side of a bathroom door.

I don't know what you mean, I told her,
I have just lost my love for people.

My friends tell me,
'You must've had a good time
last night" When they see the
back scratches etched up my
spine.

If only they saw my tears
flowing free and wild
like a raging river from a poster
dentists put up in their offices
so little kids can pretend like pulling
teeth doesn't hurt when it happens
next to someplace peaceful.

What made you so mean?

The clang clang
crash of my head
against a wall and his
finger between my teeth
made me mean.

The taste of blood
under the covers
made me mean.

He made me mean.

I miss the subtle simplicity
summer sweet electricity
of my childhood julys.

When I counted the clouds
and made trees into palaces
with my mind.

Found time ties down my
imagination and chips away
at each childhood memory.

Replacing hot happy colors with
blue green and grey, laying
positivity sweetly to its grave
singing a song while sneering
at its body secretly.

That is why I am mean mom,
it is not because of you,

it is from the world, society
kills itself every day
Working ourselves to
death and shaming those
who take their own lives
early.

Pandemics freeze flash
millions of people's lives,
but in countless eyes
third world tragedy simply
doesn't exist.

Hyperconnectivity and
antidepressants define
my generation, what about yours?
And when he finally finished,
he ran out of the stall,
and into a crowded street,
without looking me in the eye.

That is why I am mean.
Sometimes boys hurt boys too
Chad Tannous Jun 2020
I don’t believe in brothers
And I don’t believe in the brotherhood of man
And I don’t know much about anything
but i know i need a smooth operator
I wish I was a normal guy

that kava had me feeling pretty
And I think I let you in.
It was smart, it was sweet
I try to say goodbye,
And you sweep me off my feet
I try to play it cool
But I crave your lovin on me

It’s centrifugal motion
But your still on my lonely mind
It’s that pivotal moment
And I dream about you all the time

When you Take it on back
And turn on the red light
it’s like a thousand Julys

——————————/———————————

I don’t wish,
I don’t want to wish,
Wishing only wounds the heart.
I’m tired of being played like a violin
Always betting and loosing on love
But When I get, what I really really want, I need ****** healing.

Even when I dream of you,
I try to fly and fall.
The sweetest dream will never do,
Without my wings I feel so small.
I guess I need you baby

And I don’t wanna miss a thing
This kiss this kiss
You’ll be with me in my dreams
This kiss this kiss
tonight it’s you and me

Even when i dream of you
its centrifugal motion
without my wings i feel so small
and i dream about you all the time
a little sultry thang i wrote from some of my favorites found song lyrics. see if you can see which songs are in there!

— The End —