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Ma Cherie Sep 2016
Speaking of broken hearts
and mended fenced in mem'ries  
I am painting skies
of tangerine, saffron
& an illuminated lilac hue
against the starkly contrasted crisp cornflower blue, stretching canvas that is
along with all the
other blindingly beautiful colors of a twilight sky

And those dripping cotton candy stratospheric clouds
Ice crystals freezing into supercooled
water droplets
Streaking the sky in cirrus whispers
..I hear them whisper, "hello"...

Blinding beauty
through unadulterated sunlight
I am fleeced like a lamb
watching in awe,
..in wonder
then stomping sounds
of coming thunder,

Finding depth and height
out  in the stratosphere
Blinded by the
After Light
or afterglow
affected by the amount of haze
I'm in a daze
...as I am reaching

High above the fading light
of a brilliant early fall sunset
I take a big breath
of that sumptuous air
and twirl my skirted legs
my painted toes
where I know
I am back
to solid ground

Appreciating the last time
I say sleep well
to you  my dear
summertimes sweet mem'ries
and the fun we had this year.

Cherie Nolan © 2016
Wow....idk. Felt inspired.
Iyallo Nov 2020
Distant in the sky at night,
a profound and shiny light,
the moon slowly moves,
like a sloath on the roves.

A sensation in summertimes,
a cloud that sometimes
dresses the sky of white
when the moon guides my typewrite.
It's been so long;
dust is gathering
on my eyes and
my embrace is
tired of having
nothing to hold.
Lips, mine are
dry and withered
like roses in harsh
summertimes and
that rotting smell
lingers on my kiss;
it's been so long.
Masha Yurkevich Sep 2019

It left.

Too fast.

Just enough for us to feel the heat,







but not enough.

The fragrant aroma of
daisies and roses,

and the warm ocean water in which
we dipped
our toes
in.

Nights under the starry sky.

on the gentle grass,
just
you
and
I.

But now the days are getting shorter,
and winter is just
around the corner.

And without the sun,
the earth doesn't grow.

Just like without you,





my heart is cold.
Jonathan Surname Aug 2018
I live a breath's away from the oldest river in the world.
While I don't take much of nature in it is awe inspiring,
to be sure.
I live within the crook of the oldest mountains in our history.
Not the tallest,
nor the proudest,
but for now these ranges are growing senile within their misery.

The riverrun through it and exposes rock perhaps a billion years old.
Our oral histories, passed on legends,
scary stories and mountaineer folklore accounts for
such a small passage of time.
We built a bridge once.
It was at one time the longest single-span arch in the world.
Now it's the fourth.
Top five, and that's something for which I am proud.
The oldest river, in the world.
The oldest mountains, in the world.
The highest fatal overdose rate, in the States.

There is a beauty to be had here. Somewhat backwards, but
growing up our water was clear.
It's now choked from coal slurry.
The brain drain of young adults leaving, in much hurry,
hurts us as the ones that remain become grey and blurry.
We are living in a permanent winter and we have high roads,
that wind and curve. Dangerous when icy. veins filled with
heavy loads and nodding verve.
I live a breath's away from the oldest river in the entire world.
I can't touch Roman ruins with my hands, or
sift through the Dead Sea and float on salt above sand.
I can't touch the hill where Jesus may have died,
I don't know what it feels like to hold history as pride.
But our trees even when green have a dusty coal darkened sheen.
Summer is overgrowth from the Springtime rains.
The highest fatal overdose rate in the entire United States.

Where once we built bridges to close in the gap of travel.
We unzip black bags with rigs and object with obvious cavil.
Our industry is old, the world is moving on from coal.
For better, to be sure, but in the meantime we grow cold.
Not from lack of heat, we can boil our spoons just fine.
But we need a replacement from shaft or the mountaintop mine.
Let us worry about beauty again,
let us treat addiction with correction instead of levying it as sin.
Remove the pantomiming politician speak
of addicts or the sick as being weak.

Let's find ourselves again, West Virginia. You're the only home I've known.
Childhood summertimes sat beneath canopies of caterpillar home,
the happy baby butterflies eating leaves so more sun could shone.
Walking sticks used to play with me in my yard,
and at nighttime I'd still be outside mouth agape at the stars.
Evening meant lightning bugs and I'd capture a few in the cup of my hands.
There was a whimsy to how nature responded to us,
how bees would bumble and land,
on the dandelions whose seeds I'd spread as I blew on their white
polyp heads.
Maybe it's nostalgia and my memories are tinted rosy.
The smell of wood stoves burning in winter,
the crispness of autumn breezes felt cozy.
There was a trust held in communities, or maybe I was naïve.
Some of my friends made a choice and moved.
Others among us took a more permanent leave.
My brother, too. He himself got in a lot of trouble.
Over the cotton swab boiled to a bubble.
He died when I was young so maybe everybody is right.
It's all sentimentality and a lot of lonely nights.
But does the past being ****** up make the worsening now fine?

I live a breath's away from the oldest river and mountain range.
I live with the highest fatal overdose rate in the United States.
there's much debate as to whether the New River or the Appalachian/Blue Ridge/Allegheny mountains are, in fact, the oldest.
there is, however, no debate as to whether or not West Virginia (WV) holds the highest fatal overdose rate in the US

In 2010 WV held one of the highest fatal overdose rates,
By 2017 much of the country's overdose rates increased
WV's 2010 numbers are higher than 60% of the country's 2017 numbers,
and WV's 2017 are higher than everybody else's.

This is not to meant to take away the pain that's transcended broadly throughout the country. This is not meant to be diminishing, not even remotely, but it is meant to shine a solemn light.

I'm sorry for those of you that may know somebody who has passed on from drugs, or that may be currently struggling with their addictions. Whether it's opiates, alcohol, or prescriptions.
But let's try to remove some of the stigma surrounding addiction.

Forgive some stolen money.
Avoid gossip and rumor.
Reach out to somebody who may have fallen away from the crowd.
I'd much rather live with an addict than haunted by a ghost.

thank you for reading
All I wanted was love to find me
to know what it was to see
what a love could be
I just wanted a touch so real
that could show inside me
what the heart should feel
and all I needed was you

I wanted to see stars light the sky
to feel the warmth of your lips softly
in a summertimes kiss
to get lost in the tenderness
of your sweet caress
and all I needed was you

I wanted dreams so surreal
that got me so high
where I never needed to come down
to know their was a love that true
and all I needed was you
to look where I could be found
Spiritwind ©2016
Dawnstar Nov 2017
How I wish for a song to sing:
A perfect melody,
A taste of spring.
I want a tune to reach my ears
And make my eyes
Well up with tears.

On rain-soaked streets,
I'd spend my days,
And I'd rattle through
The morning haze;
From the bouncing dream
Of a comforting song,
I'd turn my gaze skyward
As I walked along.

But now, it seems
I often can count
The streams that amount
To a deafening, dull sensation,
And whenever a song should reach my lips,
Its worth is lost from my imagination.

Oh, give me a mellow little tune;
A soothing chorus of flowers in bloom.
Or offer an epic romantic chantey,
The kind of a rhythm to suit my fancy.

Sing me a song of summertimes gone,
And give me the voice to carry it along.
Bring to my heart,
Wherever I may be,
A warm air,
A rousing melody,
In perfect harmony,
Grant me my wish,
It's all I ask,
Give me a song to sing!
A song.
saige May 2018
dad asleep and mom away
i'm along as you're alive
we ride a ****
to neverland

a kick back to
the summers when
we skinned our shins
on this brick wall and

our dog barks
black and white and
she's not the same
same fence, same size
same patch of dirt
the first one died
this one barks
wags her tail and whines
for us
to stop

but
i copy
your cough
another hit and run
watch the crown of clay
in your pinky nail
match the crescent veiled by
pines

and i
wait
for the world to slow down
like those honey-colored
summertimes
Butch Decatoria Apr 2020
Summertimes’ rainfall;
When grass grows tall on your lawn,
Dragonflies come home.

— The End —