Sestina Summer Poems | Sestina Poems About Summer

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

If you don't find the poem you want here, try our incredible, super duper, all-knowing, advanced poem search engine.


The poem(s) are below...


Details | Sestina |

A Changing Heart

Longing for heart-quiet
in the inevitable fall
into Winter’s short days of sun
forwarding to Spring’s
longer days — a circling back
in the sameness of time.

Heart-and-mind-numbing time
with no respite. A longing to quiet   
those thoughts playing back
battle after battle. The awful
repetition. Mind and life wasting.
And, in the darkest season,

the conviction that the sun 
will only half-rise in this lifetime
of mine. Feeling that sting 
as from a bee’s disquiet
of green slumber. Swelling to a fault,
every damned day. Slamming me back,

season upon season. Holding me back.
Chilling me with doubt that sun-
shine can overcome rainfall
and that, invariably, given time, 
better times will come and quietly 
advance into Spring. Fast forward, past Spring 

to Summer, and onto Fall springing
back to Winter, and round again. Flashbacks
ever more glaring under the sun, then, quite
out of the blue — a glance, a nod. Overrun 
with fluttering, my heart paces in time
with fledging love’s free-fall.

And, with the passing of another Fall,
Winter heralds in the sweetest of Springs:
daffodils and Easter bonnets — a lifetime
of celebration ahead, no looking back.
Past risk and reason, I bask in the sun
that is love’s shine. Rain or shine, quiet

in the peace of it all, Fall after Fall, back
to Winter, Spring, Summer. Quiet as a Spring sun 
bursting through clouds. Love, for all time, requited.

Copyright © Ruth Sabath Rosenthal | Year Posted 2014



Details | Sestina |

First Red Rose Of Summer

As the first red rose blooms
The first bloom of summer__see
It reminds me of you dear
For I know how much you
Love roses especially those of red
I long to see you soon

But our eyes won't gaze soon
I'll have to enjoy the blooms
All by myself__ they are red
Like all my blood flowing see
From my broken heart that you
Broke when you left my dear

I loved you so much my dear
But you found another love soon
I just could not share you
But miss you when roses blooms
There is another that I see
And he really doesn't like red

I'll just dig up roses red
Then I'll forget about you dear
This new person I finally see
I will really enjoy marrying soon
We will marry when pink blooms
Adorn the running rose__ forget you

I'll just forget all about you
Except now when blooms roses red
Next year there will be blooms
Of pale pink everywhere dear
I will enjoy planting them soon
I hope that you will see

All the red roses disappear see
Soon they will go then you
Remember our lost love very soon
Every time you see roses red
You will remember me my dear
You'll remember when red roses blooms

Red roses see over there red
Ones that you really love dear
Full bloom soon red rose blooms   

(First try at a Sestina...Thanks for the challenge Jared.)

Copyright © Sara Kendrick | Year Posted 2010

Details | Sestina |

Mid July

When the clock ticks towards the end of July,
I begin spending all too-hot summer days painting the blue-jay,
A rare and almost-majestic mini, hard to find the right color paint
For.  But on good days after sunset the air becomes crisp
Enough for me to enjoy the change in temperature corresponding with my change
Of mood or palette, all-encompasses occurring under

That unfabulous shroud of melancholy, that, under
Which I cannot keep safe-keeping in July.
When the colors on the page scream for need of change,
I ignore the plight of the real blue-jay
As he exists in this reality of crisp-
Air-fragility which causes my paint

To dry and crumble like the immature cheap paint
Of a five-year old hanging just under
My incomplete summer canvas crisp
With hopes of an increasingly hopeful July.
I stroke the brushed-over blue-jay
Feathers fake on canvas which changes

With every motion of my hand, changing
The color of my paints
As I allow them to drip over the image of my blue-jay,
The reality now out of sight making reality more clearly hidden under 
The lie of a canvas in late July.
It lies hidden under remorse of lies, crisp

With not-yet-oncoming autumn crispness
Teasing me with surreality which changes
With every movement of a hand this time of July.
I methodically repetitiously move my hand to paint but what I thought was real 
was revealed as not under
The surreal thought of the canvas as the actual blue-jay

Who fluttered his meaningless blue-jay
Wings a long time ago out of sight—crisply
Seen crawling around or over, when it should’ve been under
The hammock tree in the rain, recently changed 
To my favorite willow peaceful-painting
Locale no matters the month, even July.

The time the blue-jay wants most to be changed
By the crisp stroke of a masterful painter
In the yard, under the hot sky just after mid-July.

Copyright © Brooke Wolfe | Year Posted 2007