“2.99 for the box,
on sale.”
"How much was the burger meat?"
"Nine dollars. Meat is always expensive, Ben."
Ben stirs his Italian ice
into lemonade
The bathtub is full
of cold water
The dryer is full
of damp clothes
The sink is full
of half-eaten meals
My 13-year-old wedding plates
used to showcase birds on branches
but the birds flew away
It is ten at night in July in North Carolina
I can't decide
if I am satisfied
or complacent
I count days between rain
because it is more honest than time
or clear-cut certainty
Turtles know true direction
and monarchs always know
their way home
I am jealous of them, too
I watch Ben stir his melting ice
to consistency
I adore his fascination
for little things:
the circumference
of his thriving watermelon,
the yellow flowers
of cucumber plants,
his pride in making things grow
“Try the lemonade, mom”
I bought some lemonade from a youngster
Selling from his front lawn table and chair
And I bought some strawberry ice cream
From my hometown local fair
I mixed the two together
To make a tasty summer drink
But when I drank about half a glass
My pee turned a yellowish/pink
I really didn't think much of it
Until I had to reuse the John
Because my tummy kept on telling me
That there was something going on
I sat there in my bathroom
Because my tummy really started to ache
Well, low and behold, just like that
I made a strawberry/lemon-like shake
The vigor of lemons heals the soul. Squeeze the sun,
and be taken for a wild ride through space and time.
—Poet
The Lemonade of the Sun
By clouds, meditation may be solemn,
but in fizzy of quenching rays, awesome.
Squeeze the lemonade of the sun, Sugar!
Not a bouquet, but a single blossom.
Dramatic wings detach; they’re on your spine.
Pink, red, orange and yellow; so divine.
The panorama of bittersweet juice.
You’re ready for liftoff; look at your shine!
In zero gravity suit; grass rises
to meet your boots. Life’s filled with surprises.
A royal purple and steel blue pitcher
poured into the dawn; drink energizes.
You walk on the water of space and time.
Your pinions strong, and feathers - soft, sublime.
Why dally on the earth; you want to fly.
An artist and poet - oh, how you climb!
Dread, or fingers, or daffodils.
You don’t make them fit in.
Flipped over, crossed legged.
There was nothing to make it taste right.
Let the music be a fistful of thumb tacks.
Or a whimsical lightning strike.
Let the insects on the cove.
Discover.
They live on the cove year round.
Rummage so fast that no mountains can pile high.
Just the gravity.
As rain drizzles like a cross legged moon.
You don’t make them fit in.
The slow down, drumming feeling.
Dread, or fingers, or daffodils.
You can’t.
Dread, or fingers, or daffodils.
Are just electric banging sounds.
They taste like-
Lemonade.
Today, my lemon tree is dead.
"Plant a tree of oranges or peaches".
In their consolatory speeches,
that's what my friends said.
How low it is that I've been laid -
I can no longer do what I have done
since I was very young.
I can't make peaches into lemonade.
Life lends lemons, not lemonade,
Which, from lemons ought we get made.
So is it with AI,
Add we must our HI
To forge out things value-added.
________________________
Happenings | 42.08.2025 | technology, creativity
Note: HI= Human Intelligence. Creativity does not end with a full stop; it is always a comma. The first AI-driven film called Hanuman, The Eternal, made in India (and made so well) has sparked a debate on the subject.
When life leaves you lemons
deserved or not
some sunny summer's day
neither fret nor sweat
if citrus is all you've got
to show for your lot
to keep the blues at bay
be creative pull out all stops
keep calm stay cool
either squish or get off the pot
think of a drink
(old fruit)
and you're made in the shade
easy peasy lemon squeezy
simply put... make lemonade
I may have written this for a band to sing,
or maybe I just wrote it for me.
Maybe it’s for the kids in dirty Vans,
or those reppin’ spiked Converse hi tops.
To the ones sipping ten dollar lemonades
in the merch line? This is for you.
This is your anthem.
Indoctrinated, you know the lifestyle is law.
Be kind, be generous, and always go hard.
For the kids with patches and liberty spikes
who mind the pit and the fallen?
To the ones sipping ten dollar lemonades
in the merch line? This is for you.
This is your anthem.
Spiked with music you hear the fine print,
no need for drugs that hard edge just hits.
False flags can’t hang when a guitar shreds,
it branded the rules right on to our hands.
To the others sipping ten dollar lemonades
in the merch line?
This is for me and this is for you.
You know what to do.
This is our anthem.
Perfect blend of tart and sweet,
beats the summer heat,
a favorite taste of mine,
it's bottled sunshine!
Sure-'nuff genuine,
it's fresh and
fine.
You taste as if twilight were—
lavender swirling like smoke from the earth
licorice lingering with the full moon’s soft pull
a sweetness both dark and divine.
Your skin sparkles with starlight
electric and soft as moth wings.
We sip the pink sky
lemonade lakes cascade through our fingers
time unspools between our hands
while the past drinks from our open palms.
The air crackles with floating florets
each breath a promise, unspoken but heard.
If love were a color it'd be you—
violet and velvet
honey and slow-mountain dew
the universe holds its breath;
galaxies halt their ancient waltz
as they struggle to name us.
And if forever had a flavor
it would stain my tongue—
sweet, dark, endless—
a love so vast
even creation forgets what came before it.
We are the first poem ever written
and the last song left unsung
our love the verse that never fades—
Just like lavender licorice and lemonade lakes.
Blood tends to sparkle at midnight,
the kind that follows a hard bite;
Such fearsome calcium is trite;
Fangs in starlight, fangs in starlight;
There is no need to feel afraid,
of this decision that you made;
Just flood him with an accolade;
Spiked lemonade, spiked lemonade.
If life gave you a pink lemon,
Would you be always wondering
Just what to do with it?
If that's all there is, then just go for it.
Nothing rivaled the lemonade in Georgia.
Now, you could also find some damn good lemonade in the neighboring state of South Carolina. Virginians liked to think they too made fine lemonade, and it was better than anything north of the Potomac.
But the best was in Georgia.
And people in the good old days really did drink their lemonade on a lazy, late summer afternoon on the front porch of their wooden house as their kindly old dog, usually a Labrador or a golden retriever, lay down by their feet.
It happened exactly like that.
Just the way you’ve always pictured it.
"Life's problems will be a little less bitter if we
sweeten sour lemons with the right attitude."
~ quote by poet
There are moments in our lives, perhaps days
when we thirst to leave our troubles behind.
A bitter taste upon the tongue that stays
'til a sweeter flavor we seek and find.
The cliche' about making lemonade
is great advice that everyone should take.
Life can be more delicious when it's made
without sourness when its our thirst we slake.
Lemonade, a metaphor used to show
that bad situations can become good.
Plant a symbolic tree and watch it grow
into something much better. Understood?
Sweet lemonade served with a sprig of mint...
The drink leaves an indelible imprint.
water so warm now
cool wind blowing soothes my soul
lemonade session
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Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.