A CLASSIC SUMMER IN GREECE
Viciousness and mystery erupt on arid soil.
Summer heat and idle time can make the spirits boil.
Languishing in stuffy rooms with very little sleep--
Night time flickers of the light-- imagination leaps.
Heat that beckons times long past invade a fevered head—
Athena pleases lovers mid her goddess silken bed,
Grecian legs march bravely –- prelude Olympian races--
Soldiers dream they sail away to see exotic places.
Heat waves shimmer landscape –men will do what they are told--
Spearborn soldiers helmeted sing down a dusty road.
Tho in mind they join their lovers whispering by the sea,
Drink of mountain waters --rest their head on sweetheart’s knee
Helen, when she sailed away –a wayward selfish wife
Without a backward glance she risked the cost of human life--
Was it the heat that made her crazed to do this foolish thing?
A fit of summer boredom could create this witless fling.
Autumn winds are blowing now-- Troy’s nights turn cool and fair--
Does Paris try to ditch her --as naked Helen combs her hair--
Does Hector tell his brother--get this woman out of here--
Does Helen beg to stay-- and tell her lover not to fear?
Heat can play the brain and make it dance a backward tune--
Clarity as sun tricks down—repeats a former June,
Perhaps there is a lesson learned from heat that sears the soul--
Summertime romance will write us each a tragic role.
Victoria Anderson Throop ©
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late dusk arrives again, sprawling…
with acceptance ,a slide in my mind’s eyes
opens as drips of words hold me captive
beside the window---here, my inner senses
break free from lost summer ties : the heart
is still and my body tingles with some kind
of need to etch the whispers brushing
against a winding pen. And i reach for phrases
like a musical recital of sweet alone time
turning papers into rich soliloquy.
My fevered hands begin to dance---and from
the sill --- images of umbrellas flutter, while
pastel vignettes of rain bathe on ledges in a café;
I reach for what remains: this breath sipping
the sounds of words wanting to be born.
From my window, heated light filters through
sparkling hooks and shingles as syllables spill
and tumble into drafts of musings. In this
special place, I allow this grace of surrender
and charm to open my soul’s voice with
a promise of what is meant to be. And now,
tripping over slight pain, my pen slithers
on the rims of my moonlit window pane ---
as late dusk arrives again, gratitude sprawls
into my 20-year old hands, ready to greet this grace
from a summer window, half-healed, half-wise
For Frank H's Summer Memory
by: nette onclaud
I want to muse—
wearing eye-glasses, but
urge my pen for words that guide
to sea of love. Sun makes
her lips fiery, we sip
swallow it, childishly! Hmm, Nitz’s heart
pumps out breath, holding our souls
like victims for ransom. Ah,
etching our aliases in the sudor like wine
on the lustful spread of green, I
look for the cheerful shadow
of sky, as we dress our minds
with chrysanthemum of a summer day.
THE GUINEA BOOK-PIG
At four she was a guinea pig
For a rising college geek
‘Cause the kid was talkative
Perfect brain to take a peek
So the testing started there
Little questions never ended
Hungry little mind was bright
Former life was now suspended
Didn’t jazz and didn’t play
Let her mournful dogs run wild
Didn’t swing and didn’t climb
Became a different, sober child
Read newspapers, wanted more
‘who is what and what is why’
Annoyed the neighbors and her cats
‘tell me how to testify!’
Reading things beyond her years
‘here’s a book, now zip it up’
No one paid attention what--
So she read to fill her cup
In the summer age of seven
Brother studied long and hard
Morte D’Arthur spent the night
Flashing with his mighty sword
Dashing all the summer long
With the heroes of the Table
Rode and battled, saved the day
Brushed her horse in Arthur’s stable
Ulysses sailed in close behind
Wicked Sirens plied their trade
Then a buddy left a Fleming
Full blown sex was then displayed
So she passed the books around
To the friends who had no sources
Little girls with Barbie dolls
played at passion and divorces
What a start to what a life
Wouldn’t have it changed a bit
But if Mother would have known
Certain she would have had a fit.
By Victoria Anderson-Throop ©
November 30, 2012
Shall I compare thee to a hellish hound?
Thou art more lovely but of the same mind.
Rough winds may shake you but you won’t be downed.
As summer divided us, I was blind.
my visions— i miss them.
the summer i was 18,
i thought i could be a poet.
sleep till noon,
at night, at midnight,
in Gage Park,
a divine place of youth.
July, the cicadas are out,
the band shell is painted soft green,
come after the kids leave and write,
that summer i discovered alliteration
“…slowly walking, sewing maple seeds,
maybe her name was Mabel,
maybe i should have asked her…”
a poem about a red-head on the Burlington bus.
“…but all i could say was
‘Pure. Pure. Pure.’
the innocence in her,
the stupid thing in me…”
she got off the bus.
women always seem to know,
when to cum,
and when to go.
all great songs are written about women.
all great poems are written about death.
so are the bad ones.
especially the bad ones.
a swastika on the wall,
i wrote Hope Boulevard in response, gaudy in midsummer ink,
poems and hate immortalized,
covered over in September— sicky white paint.
the light buzzes, steady— you wouldn’t believe,
in heaven’s waiting room, i am fluorescent,
in soft green light.
afterward i would sit on the swing,
know the feeling of childhood striving;
wrap the chain around the pole, win a prize?
i would sit quietly and know.
i will address no one,
as i remember,
the smell of summer air,
i vomit images; a-sundry and platonic.
do you like it well? am i palatable enough?
will you address the problem of other minds?
an infinite regress.
on the way home,
and in my dreams,
across main st.,
i swallowed my heart.
in the 2am streetlight,
a ghost on the pavement,
i would recognize.
he looks down the st.,
so young, i’m lost to see,
i look to his gaze, back;
my visions— i miss them.
i want them back.
A word and a breath but it’s the thought that counts.
Up or down in or out love and trust is what it’s all about.
To you I say can you hear me perked up on the mounts.
You are in or you are out.
A touch and a whisper but it is the kiss of truth.
Knelt or bent I am down on my knees.
And I beg you please.
To me I say can I hear me or am I aloof?
Language arts is a dance in the breeze,
With a summer squeeze,
A winter’s pinch,
The spring’s stench,
Even the autumn’s leaves!
Bathing in the words and dancing like a twit.
Singing in rhythm and painstakingly making a switch.
Language arts is a breeze on the summer Seas.
Lifting you up or pulling you down and spinning you all around,
It will knock you to your knees,
Lifeless and unbound!
® Registered: Ann Rich 2005