"summered" poems
is like no other early morning, man reborn, in the delivery
room of sky blue, the offsetting water deeper bluish hue,
the trim-all-around of the mixed salad greens of the staff's
scrubs as they usher in unity, with no imp-unity, the risks,
while the supervisory sky, disperses cumulus clouds in
peppercorn patterns of white chains, or big wide solitary
brushstrokes on a a ****** canvas, gettin' the feel in the
palm of the heft of brush, the viscosity of the paint, the day's
palette reflecting available colors in order to create a uni~cued
original of what has been painted an uncountable times before,
and before…
tho short weighted, was the sleep of the prior night's restful,
he awakes to the early morning light, the sounds of early
island rouse him, even, arouse him, for the August chill
foretells of the early onset of memory loss of the peculiarities
of this summered simmering, human warming and baking
and natural braking of the slowing of the heart rate, to better
accommodate, nature's hints and hidden reminiscences
of the true purpose of the summer's intervention upon our
collective and unique bottling, our individualized containers,
un~lidded, uncovered, eager for the fuel of sunrays replenish-
ing the length of our lives by the elixir of the summer
it is a chill 63 Fahrenheit at this time of day as we crossover
to the nigh day, from the cooling air conditions of dark,
the occasional helicopter intrudes upon the morning's calm,
the water placid, the geese honking regarding my watchful
rewarding presence, a slew, a bevy, of female vocalists, to
ease this transitory performance unfolding, and though one
feels the existential of his solitary singularity, as he thinks,
nay believes, he is the only one in attendance at this ritualized
emergence, he takes in the cool of, the heat of, the admixture
of both, the clashing integers of each, and he, fully invigorated,
goes silent, for once more, he has uncovered new combinations of
old words to accept and describe a new day's creation, miracle of miraculous, defying the odds of this ventures's success, his own continuance on this sheltered but open all around island implanted tween two tines of land, as if all the surroundings were created just to protect this, wholly holy place…
7:00am
Silver Beach
Shelter Island
Aug 19 2025
Aug 19, 2025
Aug 19, 2025 at 8:00 AM UTC
It happened, once only,
on an African plain.
A subtle mutation
and everything changed.
On Chromosome Seven
A new protein emerged.
A peripatic primate
Spoke her first word.
There were apes that were stronger
or had larger brains.
But it was **** sapiens
who gave all things names.
The mutation of speech,
an advantage unknown,.
soon reduced competition
to a mere pile of bones.
Our forebears surged forth
From the African plains
Some wandered to China,
others summered in Spain.
As elders died off,
Their knowledge survived
Through oral transmission
til the advent of scribes.
Now each human mother
awaits baby’s first word
It’s the price of admission
to the tribe of the verb.
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 10:57 PM UTC
i am a child
she is my baptism
to see her face
is to split a prism
and see the
colors kept alone in heaven
forgotten suns
across her eyes
swallowed whole
by ecstasy lips
glide the shadows
purest ******* eclipse
golden fall utopian braids
silken upon supple blades
ending at the small of back
framed by dimples inside
summered ivory tract
******* circled in rose pink sphere
pillars of grace beholden dear
when you're asleep
i place my hand
over your heart
and
feel the angelic
undertones vibrate
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 12:45 AM UTC
Is life a story, is life magick dreaming to love?
I gazed up. “Standing below the elephantine magnolia,
the ground still bore Tuscany ochre from autumns last kiss.”
My eyes solivagant orbs fed on spring’s dews in mourning
──jewellery clinging opulently to her naked form.
Dawn chilled the breeze caressing her body as abscission
demanded she undressed her emerald gown of leaves.
Magenta and cream blooms sprang “loudly” seducing
─ blushing mauve crowned centres,
a population of endless figurines perched motionless on aching
naked branches.
Solomon’s seal burned white within me drunk impending suns arrows, opulent words of silver Verbus diablio kissed in a cauldron
of Magnolia words, a banquet for mortals that seek loves gold.
A lone spider echoed silence bearing the sigil of Jupiter’s
vermillion and white spun striations luffing on the breeze
warming. “Magnolia dressed the day ardent in perfumed
── glorious plumes that each set sail across waking skies.”
Ablaze I am luscious dreams wrapped in sweet nectar,
travelling limbic memories breathing deeply, held captive,
wanton within her labyrinths of silk caresses, petals whispering,
sweet love as she engulfs my last resolve.
In raptures white velvet gown my hem sweeps over gold russet
and brittle autumns words forged in winters need for warmth──mind leaves crunching beneath life’s changing seasons,
stitched I cling enamoured to mortal honeymoon summered fields.
I am the female of sapphire tears twisting, glittering melting ice shards, bequeathed of pained black stars travelled on passionate magick fires, breathed on melodious Roma nights.
Rested among the branches a mantel crucified- drunk once more,
a bloom held silent in time weeping, exploding fragrant in a coloured soul, a luffing flower creature to life──crowned
──to sun hope thorns.
©ASPAR (A Sol Poet Arnay Rumens)
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 6:17 AM UTC
When draped in cloths of purple and the finest crimson,
Gallivanting through the summered forest,
All covered in flower and magic and light.
When heavy in the swoon of a summer afternoon,
Or bathing in the lukewarm embrace of our troubles,
Wallowing away the days
And counting down to the ones when we never have to think.
Or if by chance on the silvery moon,
When gilded with fantasy, and sitting on a happy cloud,
Overlooking our town and falling over from laughter,
For we can finally see how small we are.
It's when we find the golden afternoon,
That special time when birds never die and fairies fly,
That we will truly be content with the way of the hour glass,
And only then can we replace the changeling
With the actual thing,
No longer lost in the green and the mess,
Standing tall in the eaves,
When on our golden afternoon,
We shall be forever friends.
Jul 16, 2011
Jul 16, 2011 at 8:25 PM UTC
The time of the shining of
Wind-summered grasses, has passed,
-To the lark-breast mottle-
The harvested skin of the
Senescent land
The candle-snatch gutter of
Hurrying wing sees
The last of the coin
That was minted in thatches
Of deepwood
Of latticing bramble
Of crumbling eve.
The mourn of the Moorland
Has feathered a will
With the clot of the Ash,
Where a heather of cinnabar
Freckles the splash of
a simmering tarn
As gravelling Easterlies
Peel the cling of
The verdigris fades,
Some twilight of sepia
Musters the pastel
of Wintering calm.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 11:08 AM UTC
but she'll crack a joke and it'll fry in the pan
yoke running suntans like we're not burnt
plan like we weren't drowning in tick marks
learnt that those sparks don't set us alight
snarks sizzle and kite our cheap cameras up
fight or flight, cock-ups stroll us over to both
makeup's made of oaths and expired lippies
and
growth was just memories we'd left behind
cities were left unsigned and roosters hum
spellbinds bit off crumbs of our holidays
sums done sideways with scrambled minds
haze of upturned blinds flip us sunny-side
rinds of orange chide us but our hats are gone
stride down, we egg on, sandals beg mercy
but
crayons colour sprees in glasses-off views
degrees weren't those corkscrew rollercoasters
drive-thru karaoke, poster bed fairy lights dim
toasters retorted, skim reading as shoes kick dust
limbs stiff, favour a cuss but don't do big talk
buses see less than walks, distance is a job
toolbox couldn't fix this throb.
so
maybe if we hadn't lit the fuse twice
it might not have fireworked so quick
but i'm glad we rolled that dice
getting summered was a cement
to those heat-blown bricks.
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 10:48 AM UTC
Once again this, once again love.
A memoir so sublime, summered and peppered, folded in lustre and sheen of a blue lensed and buffering sky
Once again love
May 25, 2023
May 25, 2023 at 3:02 PM UTC
The roof held. Through last year's storms it held good.
Others' didn't. Tiles were displaced, some fell; must have leaked too.
This one was sound though: sound enough, I thought.
Wasps wouldn't nest in unsound eaves.
It would need to be dry for them. They were nesting when we
First summered here and we had to **** them.
Sometimes I can still hear their buzz in the dry air.
Sep 2, 2016
Sep 2, 2016 at 5:24 PM UTC
Darkness engulfs me and I sink deeper into a sea of sorrow
Summered by the hope of no tomorrow
Heart beat is faint pulse is weak
Will this pain induce my eternal sleep
Liquid emotions run from my eyes
As I look into the mirror at this pitiful demise
How could anyone love such a worthless existence
Costly a straggly with suicidal persistence
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 8:57 PM UTC
as if one summer night would
stop to kiss the cheek of winter
winter
my sandaled feet chill,
awash in starlight
the waves, like a slivered memory
pure and silver,
carry the faint heartbeat
of many things come and gone
summered waters blow through
their courses of hair
in soft syllables to the ear
they touch stones of fire
alive in the eyes of the mind
how many hearts or ripples
of moonlight have walked here?
here, where new clouds breach
ancient skies and stones
of rivers of many things
come and gone
smooth and silver are the drops
of time, which wash
slivered memories
of summer
by the light of a cool moon
Nov 13, 2019
Nov 13, 2019 at 9:10 PM UTC
They briefly loved who sheltered here; the beautiful Sarah and her cousin Will.
They fled the City to this place in England’s north wild rolling hills.
Her husband had neglected her, visiting stables and not her bed.
By that wild summer of Sixty- eight their estrangement had come to a head.
To this old country house she fled; to linger in her Lover’s arms.
Their close sanguinity proved no bar; she gladly yielded to his charms.
They summered here and oft were seen, together, on the Lover’s walk.
A place where blackthorn trees entwine; but you know how people love to talk.
He left her then, alone, with child, as coloured leaves began to fall.
Divorced, disgraced, abandoned thus; She sheltered in another’s home.
This famous beauty with Stuart blood there would raise her child alone.
Such is the history of this place; their romance played out in these halls.
Their scandalous adultery was consummated within these walls.
Modern beauties visit still and stroll with beaus the Lover’s walk-
A place where blackthorn trees entwine and old ghosts whisper in the dark.
Sep 8, 2016
Sep 8, 2016 at 8:37 AM UTC
From my slice of ample darkness and space,
I look at you from all the stirrings of things,
dancing though you cannot dance,
leaving planetesimals all over the terrain.
I can sense out a locutionary from the heated body
beside me. Surliness so sure of its dagger in hiding,
slowly creeping up like cocoon of morning.
That was you in your off-shoulders.
Collarbones, caryatids, tilted atmosphere
summered, simmered into the air
until it died in a hollow jar.
And from your foreground, rusting is the wind
and it falls down on the lawn, like garlands
spread all Autumn by a sprightly, darling child
in a lithesome gingham dress.
My hands, past vertical, destroying limits,
feeling the weight of mercurial form begin
shifting into a disturbance in lotus stature,
fraying out of phase in limited access,
this height where springs of undecipherable fogs
lift the face of clocks, unwatched,
whose departure is this but only distance knows?
Mar 25, 2016
Mar 25, 2016 at 1:43 AM UTC
Oh we have met before my love
we met and merged before
became one many times before
spring fever shook the
tree of desire and the hot
red mist descended and
lusted in our eyes
Bodies entwined
vine and tree become one
once again in breathless love
come see the parting of the
limbs of tree and clinging
vine venerating old old bark
Oh how have we met beneath the
full budding trees
dripping red dawn the dew all
honey sweet the sweet dew
Sap rising kissing leaves to life
veins throbbing chrysalis
bursting to life the bears
and bees ******* honeyed flower
caressing the breeze oh this is
how we met our endless cycle of
love and being
Natural children we play in
natures rhythm we sing
the day the bright sun-blue day
we sing and whistle the black
night stars into twinkling being
This is how we met full summered
in the honeydewed grass of orange dawn
the unnaccountable wind (whence, hence?)
and yellowing golden crimson leaves
blown by the gleaning breeze to
nitrogen the earth at tree feet
Oh yes my love well met we were
caved furry bears nuzzling the winter
emaciating the cold steel dawn and
clung together in sleepy hungry comfort
In all the rhythm of our seasons
oh how we have met and merged
and being one enfolded
in the breast of world
in the sensuous fall and resolution
of the roundish cyclical earthly ball
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 3:23 AM UTC
They briefly loved who sheltered here; the beautiful Sarah and her cousin Will.
They fled the City to this place in England’s north wild rolling hills.
Her husband had neglected her, visiting stables and not her bed.
By that wild summer of Sixty- eight their estrangement had come to a head.
To this old country house she fled; to linger in her Lover’s arms.
Their close sanguinity proved no bar; she gladly yielded to his charms.
They summered here and oft were seen, together, on the Lover’s walk.
A place where blackthorn trees entwine; but you know how people love to talk.
He left her then, alone, with child, as coloured leaves began to fall.
Divorced, disgraced, abandoned thus; She sheltered in another’s home.
This famous beauty with Stuart blood there would raise her child alone.
Such is the history of this place; their romance played out in these halls.
Their scandalous adultery was consummated within these walls.
Modern beauties visit still and stroll with beaus the Lover’s walk-
A place where blackthorn trees entwine and old ghosts whisper in the dark.
Sep 8, 2017
Sep 8, 2017 at 7:48 AM UTC
In the summer before the world went mad
Einstein summered at Peconic bay.
He walked the beach in shorts and sandals,
He was quite bohemian in his way.
Soon he would write that letter to Roosevelt
And the atomic age will have begun.
But, for the moment, he was just
A middle aged man
enjoying his last peacetime Sun.
The stars are more numerous than
The grains of sand
And space more infinite
That the sea.
His best days were, by then, behind him,
But happier he would never be.
Apr 20, 2018
Apr 20, 2018 at 6:10 PM UTC
When ills and ails have ceased and summered
I'll wander widely, unencumbered
In my body through those golden streets
And gold the higher half of trees
How often I dream of that sudden restoring
Of boldly exploring places farther afoot
Those redolent roads where I'd carried my love,
where our words had been said
Where some later day I will wander far again
Aug 8, 2021
Aug 8, 2021 at 11:09 PM UTC