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Prose Poetry Summer Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Summer

These Prose Poetry Summer poems are examples of Prose Poetry poems about Summer. These are the best examples of Prose Poetry Summer poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

Seasons and Imaginations


Wind so cold.
Blowing.
Fondles my face.
Tickling.
The tears from heaven.
Pouring. 
Tapping. 
Dancing.
Unrelenting.
I wonder if i wish
    to stop them
From numbness,
    to waking,
          then sensing.

The little voice in me says,
Wait, don't go.
Stay a little longer. I plead.
Sing for me today, rain.
With the gliding rhythm on my piano,
                                                  I'll play.
Chilly Wind, caress my bare skin 
     with the pure coldness that you bring.
Unusual,
     like it's my first time in the snow.
Somehow, 
     the fire tree never fades in the picture.
The yellow sunkissed leaves, too.
What is it about Summer and Fall
    that I can't forget?
Memories. Sweet imaginations.

The chilly rain. The misty wind.
You are here. 
Freeze me with the sharp coldness you give.
Calm me. Maybe, comfort me.
And, if you leave
Will you visit me when summertime comes?
Before it gets too late
   And again I fold.



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Estaba lleno el Verano /Der Sommer war voll/The Summer Was Full

Estaba lleno el verano,
Estaba lleno el verano
de flores, de deseos
como un espejo de cristáles azules,
reflejando los sueños 
y el suave color del cielo,
estaba lleno el verano
con nuestro amor.

El color de las casas 
antiguas de Oxford,
limpias como después
de una lluvia de leche,
blancas y maravillosas.

Estaba lleno el verano,
lleno de nuestro amor
y de canciones.
Estaba lleno el verano
de calles angustas y cerradas.

Estaba lleno el verano
de espuma, de murallas antiguas,
de música abandonada y olvida.

Estaba lleno el verano
y nuestro amor hize brillar
los sitios como la nieve
hace blanquear las estrellas
en noches de invierno.

Estaba lleno el verano,
lleno de nuestros deseos,
lleno de flores frescas 
de un paraiso extraño.

Estaba lleno éste verano,
lleno de abrazos y besos de nuestros corazónes.

----------------------------------------------------------

Der Sommer war voll,
der Sommer war voll
mit Blumen, mit Wünschen
wie ein Spiegel aus blauen Kristallen,
der Wünsche wiederspiegelt,
der Sommer war voll mit unserer Liebe.

Die Farben der alten
Häuser Oxfords,
sauber, wie nach einem Regen
aus Milch,
weiß und herrlich.

Der Sommer war voll,
voll von unserer Liebe
und von Gesang.
Der Sommer war voll
von engen, verschlossenen Gassen.

Der Sommer war voll
von Schaum, altem Gemäuer,
von vergessener, verlorener Musik.

Der Sommer war voll
und unsere Liebe ließ die Plätze erstrahlen
wie der Schnee 
die Sterne erstrahlen lässt
in Winternächten.

Der Sommer war voll,
voll von unseren Sehnsüchten,
von frischen Blumen 
eines fremden Paradieses,
voller Umarmungen und voll der Küsse unserer Herzen.

----------------------------------------------------------------

The summer was full with
flowers and dreams
like a mirror of  blue crystals,
reflecting dreams
and the soft colour of  the sky.
The summer was full with our love.
The colour of the ancient houses of Oxford,
neat as after a rain of milk,
white and wonderful.
The summer was full 
With our love and songs.
The summer was full with 
narrow, crowded streets.
The summer was full with
the foam of old walls,
full of forgotten and old tunes.
Our love threw light over the sites,
like snow let shine the stars 
in winter nights.
The summer was full with our desires
and fresh flowers 
of an unknown paradise.
The summer was full 
with our kisses
and with our hearts.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

'A thing of nature'

A flower breaks out afresh from its swollen, 
green bud and then stretches outward into 
the sun-drenched sky.

A thing of nature that's timeless
and perennial, it faithfully blooms and
adorns its surroundings like its predecessors.

Never alone, it is joined by its floral neighbors
of its own kind in fragrant numbers, suffusing 
the atmosphere all around with a heavy, yet 
sweet stench of lavender and honeysuckle.

The thick odor seduces and encourages the
flower-borne bees, hornets, and yellow-
jackets nearby into a steady rhythm and pulse 
of continuous labor over the pollen-rich 
blossoms and perfumed, colorfully-tinted 
petals. From an adjacent pond the over-
abundant and unsubtle beauty of the 
lily-of-the-valleys add their distinctiveness 
to the already rich and lush floral landscape, 
now teeming with the life and vigor of 
spring in full bloom.


 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Cherries in December


A few leaves that escaped my rake are skittering across the yard. The wind seems to be playing with them, teasing, a winter bully. December, the fire a comfort. Here I sit, watching the leaves and eating cherries..he brought me cherries. Somewhere it is summer and fruit is ripe and dripping with promise.. Who would have thought it possible? The world small enough that I can taste that bounty and pretend I am dancing under the summer moon..dancing, a red skirt swirling around my legs.. wiping juice from my chin with its hem... Cherries in winter...just imagine.....


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Changing Seasons

Changing Seasons

In a burst of color and animal choruses 
Sovereign sun heralds in a golden morning –
The air was delicate with the perfume of cherry blossom 
Blown in from the hem of pink rows that lined the 
driveway on Grandpa’s farm 

I looked across at hay stacked verdant hills that were
Tossed with yellow daffodils, purple crocus and white snowdrops 
They danced to the baton of the breeze and the 
Hidden orchestra of lilting bird song of that fragrant spring morn

Grandma sang to me her songs of childhood 
As we walked arm in arm amongst beds of fragrant roses 
and budding fruit trees that whispered promises of full baskets  
that would soon be heavy laden with the Summer fruits, preserves, 
Pies and jam of a bountiful harvest, a few months from now

Summer came rich with its harvest, merry hearts
and long hazy, lazy summer days and nights scented 
with wisteria, frogs and cicada, chirping and croaking 
their melodious summer anthem of  ‘All is well with the world’ 
as we toasted to our full and wonderful life

Autumn brought in a more somber note and amber tones
though warm and restful, they soon told me - life is changing again
time quickly moves on - it prepared me for the winter and 
the chill mirrored in the face of the full moon as it lit a silvery path
to my next season’s change

The cherry trees glowed white against the dark night sky like iridescent bones along 
the snow covered driveway - they waved their bony fingers goodbye 
as I crunched solemnly down the long white corridor with slow steps and a  heavy heart that was beating to the mournful dirge of  hoot owls and creaking limbs – I blinked back tears under that star kissed sky and full moon that lit my path 
The moon reminded me- each season has its bounty that I can treasure -I held those memories close to my well seasoned but thankful heart.

Brenda V Northeast


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Autumn

It’s back to school time
Fresh from a summer of fun and laughter
Suppressed excitement – meeting the friends
Exchanging and embracing new challenges
While autumn leaves turn golden red and fall
On summer nourished grass and dance
Wind gently making ballet of the shapes
You breathe in and absorb the essence of all this
Half sad that summer’s gone and winter beckons



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Summer and the River


	
		
	Summer, 
	the Guadalupe River, 
	at least a couple of decades ago...
 	
	A bend in any river,
	no matter how slowly that river flows, 
	erodes the outside of that bend, 
	digs away at the bank, 
	separating stones from sand, 
	nudging them into shallow water 
	across and down the river, 
	sorting them by size as it goes, 
	the smaller, rounder ones 
	in a layer on top. 
	
	That’s where I was that summer afternoon, 
	on my back, half-submerged in the gravel shallows, 
	the water so warm I couldn’t feel it, 
	my arms straight out from my body,
	interrupting the flow, 
	causing almost waves
	as the water washed over. 
	My ears were under water; 
	I could hear only the flow of water around me. 
	Above me the leaves and branches 
	of trees overhanging the river 
	moved gracefully in the hot breeze. 
	Somehow the leaves and branches and water 
	moved at the same tempo, 
	not like music, 
	but rather a deep humhmmm 
	I could both see and feel. 

	I don’t know how long 
	I hovered in that flow, 
	but it wasn’t long enough. 
	In ways I can’t describe 
	I’m still there, 
	bathed in that most elemental of mediums, 
	moving with the leaves, 
	lost in a very long moment.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

In my summer meadow

In my summer meadow

Lavender colored milkweeds, growing between dark  purple butterfly peas, are 
perfuming the warm air. 
The color combination is especially pleasing to me; I love purple.
Perfectly round globes of milkweed are a magnet for bees, butterflies and a variety 
of other insects. I see lightening bugs among them. 
The buzzing of bumblebees, wasps and honeybees is accompanied by the chirping 
of crickets and the happy twittering of the meadow birds. 
Yellow Sweet Clover lends it's perfume to the summer symphony of soothing scents.
Tall spikes of blooming Johnson grass sways dreamily in the bright sunlight.
Right in the middle of a soft pink wild rose bush, a bright red butterfly weed is the 
center of activity for many species of colorful butterflies. A brilliant blue"Two-barred 
Flasher”  flaps it's wings as fast as a hummingbird, while the orange-brown Buckeye 
rests peacefully.
Next to the roses, a blackberry bush is promising juicy, dark berries soon, while the 
Mulberry trees are already providing a welcome sweet snack for birds, deer and 
bunnies. 
A patch of wide- open orange daylillies is a cheerful spot over at the edge of the 
trees and an emerald- green hummingbird enjoys their offerings.
There is so much life and beauty in a small patch of meadow! 
I love it!


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Summer Memories Summer Realities Thoughts about Part 1

Summer Memories
Summer Realities

This, the first day of summer, two thousand and two, finds me,
slipping back into what once was my desire, my need, my reality.
This step back into, and into times passed, has allowed me to touch,
to feel, to re-experience – for a moment, to a degree – my all time,
favorite sport – sunbathing. A sport I once played in all my glory
– my birthday suit – with such joy and total freedom,
beneath blue skies, high above the mighty meandering Grand
or alongside it’s river banks, silent winds, a breeze, rustling the leaves
of many shading trees, of many a cornstalk, a million blades of grass
beneath the heavens, beneath my feet, beneath my naked body,
golden brown laying in the noiseless sound of Mother Nature,
all Her, creatures, large and small, invisible, one and all,
except to the mind’s eye and ear, as the pleasures of hypnotizing music,
the sweet taste of mother grass, the glowing nectar of sparkling grape
that could take one on a journey, away from or into, dependent upon
the destination, the ticket you purchased would carry you.
For me, the journeys were upon the black leather of my red motor cycle,
upon the black leather of my black Bird of Thunder, her wings spread,
her top down, that great, platinum, glowing orb, hanging on high,
above this little  planet, wearing it’s great, bright blue shroud,
opened to expose the light shining down upon her nakedness,
showering down upon me, in mine, on our journeys through time,
through space, with his – Heloise’s – healing rays as I drive, as I ride
over, upon those black ribbons that wrap themselves around
Mother Earth and the back roads of southern Ontario, in the
Counties of Brant, of Wentworth, of Norfolk and others as well.
This is a sport I played – as I laid – from north to south,
from coast to coast, even, out into the ocean deep,
– on an island of coarse – on mountain tops, on sand dunes.
This sport I played, on the shores of all five Great Lakes,
on the beaches of Florida, of Mexico, of California,
of British Columbia, the last place, the last time I sported
my birthday suit in public before hanging it up
behind closed doors for more years than I care to remember.

Today, along with a few more that followed, during two weeks,
I took the opportunity, – covered of coarse, in my red and black loin cloth -
to lie beneath that burning orb in the deep blue sky and tried to recapture
the essence of those feelings, those desires of long ago and far away
- of what was and I still would like to be -, that will always remain
a part of my psyche, even though all the changes – no more noiseless sounds,
for they have been drowned out, polluted by screaming tires as they tear up
those black ribbons of death, as those combustion engines ( the driving force )
cry out in pain from friction as they pass by my horizontal frame looking for,
but hearing not, all that once was hearable, all that was beautiful in nature’s noise
–  that have left me longing for that time, left me as empty as a dried up lake.
A lone bird cry’s out it’s muffled song, a note or two where once was a chorus,
a full-fledged opera now reduced to a mumbling, meaningless sound,
a sound drowned out by the sounds of  traffic, traffic from our attempt
to escape our closed in, modern life style of constant motion.

Those sweet smells, clean and clear are lost by the cremation of decaying,
remains of once living organisms that inhabited this planet.
They are now – in death – permeating, with pollutants, the nostrils, the lungs,
the air Mother Earth and all upon her back, inhale.

The peace, once known, - in rivers flow, upon its banks, in Mother Natures flow,
on my motor cycle, in my black Bird – for this old man has almost evaporated.
The grass, the wine, the music, the camaraderie, the clean air, those silent sounds
have almost become extinct, fading into memories hoard, to be stored, forever more.
All that seems to be left - from the origins of these thoughts – is that silver orb,
still radiating down upon, but with more intensity and less glory and peace.
Only the music carries on as before, seems to remains the same,
at least to these ears, this heart, the old soul of this lone traveller.
Maybe the music has change ?, maybe for the better ?, maybe not ?
Could it be just perception ?, or has all lost its glory ?, its fire ?,
its passion ?, its glow ?, all I thought I did know in an earlier age.
Is it all in the mind of this old man ?, who still remembers that age,
the music, music still providing a refuge, companionship
and comfort during the hours, in the passing of time .


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Sunny Day

Rays of sunshine dancing on my back 
This flamenco goes on all afternoon 
The ripples glisten with the light 
Sitting here next to the lake 
Everywhere, colours are out to play 
The green in the grass 
The blue in the sky 
The pink in your lips 

Everywhere 

I offer you a strawberry 
From the picnic that you brought 
The sweet smell entwines with the flowers 
That scatter where we are sat 
Your head on my lap 
I stroke your golden hair 
Catching my pinkie on a bead of sweat 
That trickles from your forehead 
You laugh and go to take off your sunglasses 

I stop you 

Your eyes would make the whole day 
Seem the night 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Dashing Blade

In a house high on a hill an old man grows weak, many years have gone, he lays in his old bed,
Back in the day, a dashing young officer with a brilliant red uniform he had many girlfriends,
Flowers scattered across the mead's and meadows the heaths and the glades and over wide glens,
Those days bright and hot, the occasional thunder announces itself in the seasons sultriness,
Today it is summer again trees rich with green leaves now darkened and oaks have little acorns.

Laying in his bed the French doors wide open, summer greets him warmly for just one more time,
White haired and thin his skin yellow and his eyes sunk into wasted sockets his lips quiver,
He remembers the woods well, sitting by a sheltered warm bank, new greenery bursting through,
He tries hard to sit up and to see his long ago self in the beautiful green ripening gardens,
Sweet flowers know him well, respectfully they nod to an old friend who is going on a journey.

As a man who liked to be outdoors he walked and tended these landscapes even as a young blade,
He casts way back to his youthful days when he would walk in the sun a sweet girl at his side,
Running up a woodland bank, his hands on hips, he would wander miles enjoying wonderful views,
His heart raced with joy as the carpets of the forest grew around tall trees along the floor,
Now the songs of the birds grow faint the nightingale is hushed and the cuckoo bows his head.

A nurse tiptoes in she quietly shuts the doors, he whispers, she cannot hear him but she looks,
It is so faint she goes to his bed bends down to listen her ear to his lips they barely move,
He says don't shut the doors the beauty makes me feel safe my old friends are out there waiting,
She lifts him higher, puffs his pillows adds another blanket she smiles, 'you are a lovely man',
The blackbird and the thrush perch near the French doors and sing a musical goodbye very softly.

He can now see the Coltsfoot and cardamine in the fallows with green moss in the moist meadows,
And the star of Bethlehem gleaming from the copse the woods, a special beauty from shady places.
The celandine and kingcup glow in golden lustre he watches them his eyes rheumy and tears fall,
Daisies scattered across lawns like patterns in a carpet of lime green, smelling of spearmint,
The elder flower, corn poppy and the viper's bugloss with a rich azure smile from his garden.

He begins to smile shakily at the crocuses spreading a purple flood over the greenest meadows,
It's a sight you have to see, to take it in, color returns to his cheeks on his ashen old face,
Above all the favorites of the field is a violet, many times he picked one for his lady friends,
White, purple diffuse sweetness under hedges, a landscape painted in mind, those were good days,
Young girls would walk arm in arm across the glades to listen to his wondrous battle stories.

These pictures of beauty he has known since his early childhood days, his memory so very clear,
Whispering do you scent the hay, do you hear the scythes ringing, do you hear sweet laughter,
The joys of running across green fields like young breeze and smelling sweet newly cut grass,
Scented breezes fill his room, his eyes close, happy to return to his precious long gone days,
And with his last breath he walks arm in arm with a beautiful young girl in sweet old meadows.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

How Sunrise Practiced Never When I Forgot to Sing.

I used to sing to him, my mouth would brush across his shoulders and he would dream...

I captured his hair and apologized for staying too long, but, God, what was time when his
breath hung about me, the dancing proclamations that I could be...

more.


I whispered promises to no one but me, I broke every one as the tears I cried for him
became the paintbrushes and canvases that spoke me, and October afternoons were way too
warm when his voice became absent, as I sang to him, through the wind and remembered...

nothing.



He appeared to be way too much and I couldn't hold my hands tight enough to let go, I
wished for his eyes as I blew a strand of summer blond hair to the west and watched the
sky blink and become the moment of waking, and I woke...

up...

to silence as I held myself tighter in the dark that appears right before storms.


Disbelief covered me because time lied and forever ended way too soon, I knew he told me
never and I searched for it, I decided it must exist in tomorrow's sky, in the clouds that
sometimes...

blinked...

but refused to smile.


My lips permitted the escape of my tongue to speak my experiences clearly as I found
myself on the edge of a dream that almost dropped me, and gray blue dresses tear so easily
when storms are unforgiving at the sight of a woman's foolishness, still...

I ran to him with summer feet, bare and burnt, however unaware they were of pain, for I
couldn't lose forever and never was only the way sunrise smiled at me...

teeth missing and fire~struck~angry when alone...

just to find out if sometimes was the way we left when tears strike and his eyes forget
the blue that silences the sky when we laugh the way children do...

and I sing...

forever back to sleep.





Details | Prose Poetry | |

Daisies and the Way to Undress Summer.

“Dress me in daises,” I said, as if flowers could cover my skin in respectable ways, and
he smiled as my shoe boxes of paint tipped over, as the floor became art and the way I
walked towards him smeared my heart at his feet.


We captured laughter this way, drawing insensibilities in between us, and there was an
element of beauty in the grin of a child when it appeared to dance across his grown up
cheeks, an attraction to Peter Pan, and blond hair in the summer, as I thought I could
capture July...


The month used to sit beside my bed, fluttering night lights to save me from dreams, stars
danced in mason jars and fairytales were whispered beyond moonlight as I wrote them in my
dreams, as I watched seasons disappear into morning light.


I arrested kisses with a word and slipped them in my pockets, he commented on the rips
that always decorated the hems of my blue jeans, I played with the brown flowered
patches at me knees, I looked at him and told him my secrets, I whispered content beneath
the spring as we watched summer rise, as the sky became a canvas and I wished my hands
were more capable...


“Show me the way beyond you,” he requested, as my glance became puzzled, “Show me who you
are.”


He handed me a daisy, he told me to undress, I studied the petals as they fell to my feet,
my toes became blanketed...

and I walked towards him...


the decoration of spring mapping out my heart, and he smiled with a mouth that grinned
when he spoke my name, when he laughed in the fashion of a child and held me under
moonlight when spring faded and summer came.





Details | Prose Poetry | |

Jehovah Witness

 Jehovah Witness 
Jehovah Witness 
 
this is a picture of an actual Kingdom Hall 
Fighting Jesus 
 
Fable Fourteenth 
 
 Judgment Call 
Ode to Edgar A Poe 
Ode to be remembered with three red roses and a half a blanc of wine the 
certainty of summer in Ravenswood combines with sultry summer pines and 
odors of the firmament decay to play a mournful tune of odious deliverance. How 
can such playful creatures of this life become so dark at night time coming to the 
Earth to preach a GOD of everyone of Earth to say this world is pleasant when 
poor Edgar knoes it's not? He never seems to want for sympathy a poor man's 
plot is seldom visited the visitor is not out a lot the roses at three p the half a 
magnum drank he stank he must say some words at grave like Quote the Raven 
Eleanor never more have a drink old plank would anyone come and leave a half 
of soda and three small purple flowers on my grave? But reminisce about the 
meeting done they grabbed me by both arms but not before my head was 
pressed against the glass of double doors and tossed hurriedly away outside 
don't listen to the homeless one he stinks he sleeps in clothes unwashed how 
can anyone like that can knoe his GOD? Then eye turned a swollen eye upon the 
meeting place and did a little dance a little prancing just in place and cried Jesus 
hallelujah yes they threw me out of judgment hall please bless the place eye 
dance. Poor Edgar cannot prance. CharlaX loves his stance. Half a soda and 
three purple flowers every Easter on a poor place to stay someone reading this 
may do so to remember me this poet needs to be. 



Details | Prose Poetry | |

People are like flowers

People are like flowers, 
they stay and enrich our lives in the summer ,
and then winter comes.
you know winter makes way for new flowers in your life, 
even though it's very cold, you just have to wait.
Don't worry Katie summer will come again
You have to be strong!
You need to survive the cold winter to see summer again.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Seasons' March

I greet the morning with anticipation, bubbles 
of excitement inside, straining forward to walk 
outside and stroll among the flowers my hands 
have planted and cared for over the past years, 
the weigela from our youngest daughter, tomato 
plants from her daughter, the dill we placed nearby
to warn off bugs, the orange rose bush from Aunt
Juanita, as happy in my yard as hers, my mother’s 
petunias, flowering almond, and variegated sedum, 
four Alberta spruce, grown several times their size 
as when my brother gave them to me, prior to his
quiet acceptance of death after he lost the battle 
with brain tumor. A hibiscus bush, with its dinner-
plate-size blooms, the longed-for weeping willow, 
living strong where two others before had perished, 
a pink, wild-rose ground cover, spreading more each 
summer,  the crape myrtle my husband hauled in from 
another state, azalea bushes thriving after many false 
starts, spring clematis in deep burgundy, and another 
September one of miniature white stars, framing the 
arch given to me by our only son-in-law on Mother’s 
day, the red rose climber from our eldest son, mums 
everywhere, joining the celebration of season’s end,
as I now contemplate the closeness and inevitability 
of my own.

 

 


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Tiered Frowns

Nothing better I feel there is, I am finding, than cool waters the joyous laughter of my children, splashing away under the warm Summer Sun chuckling at me as I give them a silly frown as it runs-down-my-face. I love to be their clown. To fart, or-burp as I walk on by them saying... "sorry, please-excuse-me won't-you" but-you-know-I'll probably just do-that-again... ! Funny to me as I hope they too will learn, because I know it's just like sneezing, coughing, clearing my throat. In the Winter it's warm farting I believe it always helps to melt the ice. Just like a light, warm Summer breeze, it's relatively fuzzy, freeing, and if you are open to it, the sound, smell, it makes for some really fun conversation, and can turn atiered-frown, upside down! http://allpoetry.com/ban/show/6960 Author notes http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=08e9k-c91E8


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Invisible Man 27

I wrote the Invisible man poems many years ago. These poems, and I have not submitted them all, was for a little girl who died in a road accident. They are a tribute to her memory. It was a dark and very sad time and I miss her so much. The Invisible Man poems are supposed to to show the the darkness of my world, the way I felt. They are very precious to me. Thank you for reading.

It will be soon midsummer of a fleeting year,
The sward will be brown, flowers faint and few,
Songbirds are hushed all but a faint but clear song
And 'larum of the bird-boy reach the ear,
Through the warm air floats forth lime's sweet scent,
And wayside branches have lost the rose's bloom.
The corn is golden along a thousand sea like slopes,
All crisply rustling to a living breeze, and dancing.
And among the billowy sound of summer trees,
I wander, pondering on departed hopes, people I have lost,
Pleasant lives departed, taken far too soon.
I walk alone, and will forever for I am so very lonely,
What of those blessed affections have I found and lost,
As we grow life should ripen like its summer corn.
Which has from my feeble weakened grip been torn,
Of all the love with which young life was crowned?
Hearts, which if I would seek, I would not know where to look,
I only know where to find their graves, they have long been there.
These lives fell away like leaves when life was too new,
Stabbed by grief to which the fairest clings, to hopes for,
I have lived on through many springs, hope always lets me down
No greenness or happiness follows where those first buds died,
Still glows the heart, but it glows without the power of love,
Her image is with me daily, straight from her good heart,
Of joys, proud thoughts, sweet sympathies now we are apart,
Which I drink in like one who thirst cannot be quenched,
Fearless that her, like no man's weak faith should fall,
Her face should darken, or her pleasures are small.
Yet, why should I be sad? For I have found,
One true companion, one dear, dead soul is mine,
Who talks in my mind and does sooth, amuse, refine,
And on my heart, one day, will be a cheerful sound,
Of light footsteps in my ears, that I have been found,
Even today in my hopes and joys I remember my happier years.
Then though the false depart, and the weak descend,
Through lights which seemed immortal will cease to burn,
My bitter tears of mourning will put out the light,
Life's sorest sight, life’s work, life’s love without end.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Gates of Childhood

The gates of childhood open
to eternal width.
And memories are still alive.
A summer sky protects you,
with its easy winds.
Far away hills,
white flowers in a sea of sunshine,
your smile not hidden behind shaky roofs.
Sunrays of love,
deeply engraved in you,
a happy child.


Through the open window
an new day is rising.
Between white sheets of early snow,
blue fragments yet remain
of flowers you once picked
from summer fields,
still vivid 
even after all that bygone days.


And all your early memories
are so alive
as if no years had passed.
And sometimes in your dreams
you see a little boy
grasping at flowers 
and at summer fruits
and at all that other signs of happyness.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Scythe's Ring Across the Fields

Sitting watching a June summer king establish his reign over hazy hills and dusty dales,
I could just hear a sharpened scythe's ring across green fields cutting away at the corn,
With the hustle and bustle of the annual hay-harvesters bringing home a brand new season,
Happy sunburned workers work the open fields gazing skywards smiling at the noonday sun.

Hay hangs out to dry in the trees of the narrow footpath's and down haw thorny little lanes,
Everything now prepared and Mr.Summer rolls up his sleeves working to help with harvesting, 
Each person delighting in deep cool grass in the shaded part an abstract of lovely flowers,
Then paddle in a cool stream washing the chaff dust from feet thus ending a hard days work.

The shadows of leaves dance along the streams a silhouette waltzes upon the silvery water,
Lovely azure crowfoot salutes from a bank to a forget-me-not an old friend from last year,
A purple compfrey dips its leaves to sweeten the water joined by a warm and gentle breeze,
The birds sing from the trees and in the hedgerows while the nightingale tweets a sad tune.

On trees chestnuts begin to grow and acorns young and green sitting in their little cups,
The nuts from the hazel and the apples on trees in orchards promise a ripe autumn harvest,
Gooseberries for pies, currants and strawberries ripen growing in the hedges of old lanes,
June has taken his fair turn making spring shoots grow strong, ready for the later fruits.

The cuckoo departs and glow worms emerge on a summer's night and glows a tiny little glow,
Along heath and over the meadows across landscaped fields dotted with pretty wild flowers, 
The June summer heat gives strength to nature making grass lime green next to red poppies,
As the summer harvest quietens the work nearly done people rest and reflect on golden mead's.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Warm Summers DAY

After many years I paid a rare visit to the woods from my long ago childhood days,
Things have changed since boyhood, the bees are silent, the landscape has changed,
Gone, honey-laden scented flowers of the old sycamore now just crinkled old leaves,
In their place hang dainty two fold keys higher, much higher, than I ever remember.

In these trees my friends would play, climbing high much higher than I would now,
Pulling lower branches swinging legs over to get onto the start of our Everest climb,
Making our way up the trees, a little scared but not sharing my fears with the others.
Standing very near the top can’t go higher the branches too thin to take my weight.

Now the poplar has lost its metallic shimmer; the chestnut's grown with white candles,
But still the wind in the fully leafed branches sound like the sighing of a gentle sea,
The martins' nests are still there, one occupied by a shrill voiced healthy young brood,
With parental cares over the nestlings, flutter unsteadily, across green grassy Valley's.

Standing very near the top of a tree we could see over the rooftops of nearby houses,
The branches fork, we sit, a leg on each side of the bough, slowly moving outwards,
Better be a bit careful as the branch gets thinner, dead wood at the end will snap off,
Sitting here on the top of the world, holding on tight, hoping the wind will be calm.

Heads of golden, and brown, hair blow carelessly in the light warm summer breezes,
Smiles on thin faces crease and dimples appear adding a dimension to sunburned skin,
Summer clothes of cotton, bright red dresses for girls, blue jeans with turn-ups for boys,
Short sleeved shirts opened at the neck some baggy as they wore older brother’s clothes.

I remember robins their ruddy vests and the slim thrush singing with a mature note,
These days were so special, remembered like a picture lovingly painted on a canvas,
There was always fresh beauty amid the glories, people grow up in life like strong trees,
Playing among the marigolds their orange suns and the lilies white like a gentle flame.

Thinking back I see the corncockles blue crown, and the honeysuckle’s horn of fragrance,
I stand where I stood before, a lifetime ago, deep in thought, holding on to my memories,
It was a time taken for granted as children, these times would last forever never change,
loveless home life retreated to the back of my mind, forgotten on a warm summer day.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Last Poem of Summer

It was one of the warmer summer days
Not a breeze or cloud in the sky
The humidity so high
I could almost reach out
And pluck it from the air

I watched the sunlight
Hitting the north side of my house
Seeking shelter then slowly roll away 
Towards whatever little shade remained
With the speed of Grandma’s Black Molasses

A few miles east of the old country trail
The river’s waters had fallen
Lower than I had seen in years
Even the riverbanks had dried
Into a crumbling hard brown clay
That yearned for the rains to come

The heat, so oppressive and unyielding
Muted the voices of the birds
While all the wild animals
That usually ran about the fields
Sought out some relief or at the very least
Waited until night fell 
Before coming out to play

These were the quiet days
The silent times of life
It was the summer of waiting
A time that I could no longer dance
Or sing, or see you under the starry sky
This was the summer you had gone 
And I had grown much, much too old
To wait for another winter to come


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Autumn Steals the Sun

Autumn steals the summer months so now in loneliness I shut my doors and grieve,
Rain cleans the dust from a warm summer and as some flowers droop they say goodbye,
With the rain refreshing all, the smell and the perfumed dying plants turn into just sticks,
The air has rested for weeks now awakes and shake trees and my heavy wooden doors.

The shadows grow longer, but the day grows shorter, with a coolness of moisture,
Veils of clouds rush so much faster the showers are short bursts with sharp hail,
Along the sky are trailed clouds, with their gossamer drapery amid intense azure,
The sun rises once more so brilliant for these days, the calmest most impressive beauty.

Time passes, I close and lock my windows and pull back on the great oak shutters,
Then come the rains, long and deluging amid late summer frosts, that damages corn,
And when steady gushing rains, flood the meadows and fill the mead's, all is lost,
Late autumn steals the bright suns, in loneliness I shut out all light and grieve.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Trill of a Robin

It is a beautiful summer day I was wakened by a robin that lives in my hedge,
He lives in my old hedge row happily singing a loud trill, his summer song,
I sat in my garden wearing an old dressing gown sipping a mug of white coffee,
Looking my way his round eyes scold me this is far too late to get out of bed.

I could hear the voice of a stream flowing along in one of the lower meadows,
It was warm, the morning sun shone on my face I closed my eyes to enjoy the glow,
I nearly went back to sleep I opened my eyes and was told off again by the Robin,
In early July nature stands strong full grown it's a perfect summer all is well,

On a day such as this men and woman and troops of children walk the rivers margin,
Refreshing long strolls through the glens and valleys on rolling beautiful hills,
As the day gets warmer songs of the birds become faint the nightingale is hushed,
The cuckoo has departed and the blackbird and the thrush rarely sing me a welcome.

A red rose fades on a wayside the corn has begun to go pale it means a good harvest,
There are still thousands of pretty beautiful flowers stretching into the distance,
The grass is full of green patches the leaves on the trees go darker as they mature,
Elder-flowers and corn poppy's sit in ancient hedgerows, sandy old heaths blow dust.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Summer has Gone Away

Winter steals its unwanted self upon us and the sultry heat of forgotten summer is past,
Torrents of rain painful hail have battered away our fond warm memories of a summer day,
The pasture now cloying feted mud which were hard ridges that hurt unsuspecting ankles,
Now the cattle in the fields breath out great plumes of steam they stand in deep puddles.

The sweet air that was filled with scented wild flowers from the richest meadows has gone,
The rich green seas of swaying grass and mighty oaks that groaned in breezes is now bare,
Leafy masses and the refreshing voices of our summer birds both have been silenced or gone,
As the shadows grow longer earlier in the day and warm nights are just gloom the magic gone.

There is no warm glare when the sun does shine it is low it hurts your eyes we look away,
Cool moisture of the summer months were welcomed now the foggy damp is wet, uncomfortable,
The beauty of a sunny day stimulated every sense in our bodies now it stimulates the cold,
Vials of clouds scudding across blue skies stroked by nature now falls as rain sleet or snow.

Clouds like airy lengths of gossamer drapery amid the azure of the lofty immensity of the sun,
Are now black and shaped like a blacksmiths anvil flash with lightening with heavy wet winds,
Gone is the sunrise of brilliant days of the calmest and the most impressive beauty has died,
And the children of men scattered over our nation are not on fields nor hills they sit indoors.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

November

Walking on a cold November morning the woods are bare the old leaves going or gone,
Mist covers the land and clings onto wet spiders webs that hang from the stark trees,
Who could enjoy this time of year when there is nothing but clouds, fogs and frosts,
Fogs that are damp and hang over watery places like rivers, streams and water mead's,
The summer flowers are gone and the long grass stands high amongst wooded thickets,
Thickets of sticks standing alone in an old unused field or an old desolate garden,
These thickets withered bleached and sere a sad sight a lost legacy now all shriveled,
Green gorse and broom waved white in the summer breezes have now waved a last goodby
They are like skeleton trophies of a death rattle with dry with brittle hollow stalks,
The brooks are filled and the rivers are turbid covered in a brown dirty thick foam,
Rivers hurrying along with angry strength and the waters soak the fields and glades,
Leaving our gardens damp and desolate their flowers just naked stems and dying leaves.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Summer's Sorrowful Song

A summer that was long waited for, was filled with
deaths, scorching heat, and a floundering economy,
that keeps spiraling into the deep,
People are fussier than they have ever been before,
because they feel that there isn't any help in store,
They feel they are being ignored by the current
Administration.

For the first time in years, citizens are realizing
their fears,
Amidst the beauty of flowering blooms and blue skies,
the frazzled and stressed cry,
jolted by the sudden reality of life being so unfamiliar,
that residents don't even recognize the times
they are living in.

A sorrowful summer came knocking,
A memory of the Depression from many years ago,
where emotions ranged from high to low,
with some wishing they could forego,
the tedious ritual of living lives that 
have become so complex.

A summer that has exposed a gloomy
future for the young,
Yet we  keep pressuring them to be strong
and to keep trudging along,
When no one has any clues or answers
for a prosperous future.......





Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Vanishing of Summer

Summer came in with sizzling temperatures
and stifling humidity,

A long awaited respite from the frost settling
on the trees,

The extreme fluctuation in degrees made the
population uneasy,
queasy.........
not knowing what to wish for,
warmth or cold,
perhaps anything in between,

The heat had everyone up in arms,
trying their hardest to fight off the over
exaggerated warmth,

Then the rain came and cooled
the land,
an unexpected hand.....
slowly, but surely Summer vanished
leaving everyone ambivalent
still not knowing which climate is best,
very hot,
very cold,
eventhough Summer had its moments of rejuvenation 
and good times,
This year it was not missed,
because of the scorching climes.



Details | Prose Poetry | |

Autumn Steals the Sun

Autumn steals the summer months so now in loneliness I shut my doors and grieve,
Rain cleans the dust from a warm summer and as some flowers droop they say goodbye,
With the rain refreshing all, the smell and the perfumed dying plants turn into just sticks,
The air has rested for weeks now awakes and shake trees and my heavy wooden doors.

The shadows grow longer, but the day grows shorter, with a coolness of moisture,
Veils of clouds rush so much faster the showers are short bursts with sharp hail,
Along the sky are trailed clouds, with their gossamer drapery amid intense azure,
The sun rises once more so brilliant for these days, the calmest most impressive beauty.

Time passes, I close and lock my windows and pull back on the great oak shutters,
Then come the rains, long and deluging amid late summer frosts, that damages corn,
And when steady gushing rains, flood the meadows and fill the mead's, all is lost,
Late autumn steals the bright suns, in loneliness I shut out all light and grieve.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Summer has Gone

Winter steals its unwanted self upon us and the sultry heat of forgotten summer is past,
Torrents of rain painful hail have battered away our fond warm memories of a summer day,
The pasture now cloying feted mud which were hard ridges that hurt unsuspecting ankles,
Now the cattle in the fields breath out great plumes of steam they stand in deep puddles.

The sweet air that was filled with scented wild flowers from the richest meadows has gone,
The rich green seas of swaying grass and mighty oaks that groaned in breezes is now bare,
Leafy masses and the refreshing voices of our summer birds both have been silenced or gone,
As the shadows grow longer earlier in the day and warm nights are just gloom the magic gone.

There is no warm glare when the sun does shine it is low it hurts your eyes we look away,
Cool moisture of the summer months were welcomed now the foggy damp is wet, uncomfortable,
The beauty of a sunny day stimulated every sense in our bodies now it stimulates the cold,
Vials of clouds scudding across blue skies stroked by nature now falls as rain sleet or snow.

Clouds like airy lengths of gossamer drapery amid the azure of the lofty immensity of the sun,
Are now black and shaped like a blacksmiths anvil flash with lightening with heavy wet winds,
Gone is the sunrise of brilliant days of the calmest and the most impressive beauty has died,
And the children of men scattered over our nation are not on fields nor hills they sit indoors.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

Renaissance

Some people associate October with gloomy fogs and storms,
Calm suns seem much lower than the summer it makes eyes smart,
The autumn winds up his harvesting, and the out side pleasures,
We stand and watch with some sorrow as the last swallows leave.

In gardens, on darker evenings, are red glows of the autumn fires,
A haunting time we are bewitched by the smell of burning leaves,
The fires dwindle, there are glittering stars in the frosty skies,
Under those frosty skies an autumn breeze sighs around the eaves,

It is a time in which to walk during the shorter but brighter hours,
Dressing warmly, enjoy the tranquil splendor of a fresh greenness,
Time to be thankful for the good and the beauty of a summer gone,
Spring will soon return and the renaissance will be a glory to behold.


Details | Prose Poetry | |

If I Were Young Again

Piecemeal summer dies;
the spread of long winter blanket again.

For ten years I have lived in exile,
locked in this rickety cabin, shoulders
jostled up against open Alberta sky.

If I were young again I’d sing of the coolness of high mountain snow flowers,
the sprinkle of night glow-blue meadows; I would dream and stretch slim fingers
into the distant nowhere, yawn slowly over the endless prairie miles.

Prairie grassland is where in summer silence grows; 
in the evening eagles spread wings
dripping like wild honey.

If I were young again I’d eat pine cones, food of birds,
share meals with wild wolves, I’d have as much dessert as wanted,
reach out into blue sky, lick the clouds off my fingers.

But I’m not young anymore, my thoughts tormented,
are raw, overworked, sharpened with misery from torture of war and childhood.

For ten years now I have lived locked in this unstable cabin,
inside the rush of summer winds, outside air beaten dim with snow.

-1985-