Summer(A) Poems

Tortured: Poet and Seasons

i feel tortured in winter, the fog reminds me of good times, 
when my gray world turned to pink
i feel tortured in autumn, a season spent missing someone,  a total love blackout
i feel tortured in summer, a summer meant to be full of love turned to gray
i feel tortured to see rain, it reminds me of weeping nights and when i was in pain
a tortured poet and his tortured seasons
a tortured poet forced to be tortured by torturous peoples because of their torturous sin
a question why did i associated my memories 
and made my seasons tortured ?

A SEASON DISCREET

A SEASON DISCREET

Summer comes and goes, I know
Perhaps I just missed it, this year
A season that hardly differs here
Slow to appear, and is soon to go

Summer arrives yet leaves so fast
Rarely ever in any mood to linger
Autumn merely has to lift a finger
And daily sunshine is gone at last

Summer again just came and went 
Daily heat barely lasting a few days
And exceptionally, it might amaze
Yet soon all of its warmth is spent

Summer, thought the ideal season
It’s love and laughter, kids at play
For some, too soon to pass away
Yet it has both rhyme and reason

Summer, a memory that is fleeting
Nature, with the bounty of spring
It may think that it has everything
Perhaps only a heart that’s beating

Rotation

I bid summer a fond farewell today
Months have sped by and now it is Autumn
Seasonal rotation will not delay
What can I say? Mother Nature, awesome
An Indian summer might surprise us
More warm days would certainly be a plus
Hibernation calling am on the cusp.

Last hurrah before cold winter arrives
Baltic conditions compromise the sun
When old bones ache I ask: will I survive?
Frozen ground, brittle air, icicles spun
Long, cold wait until the season does turn
Safe underground on my soft bed of fern
Spring flowers uplift, silently I yearn..

Changing Seasons, Changing Moods

I'm raised in SoCal, calm weather agrees,
and you, from Boston, know weather, severe.
Our states of mind match these climates I fear.
Like Winter sadness, leaves fall from your trees, 
and then I'm missing those green absentees.
Like Summer, a hot flare up may appear.
The reasons are celestially unclear.   
Oh, how will I deal with moods such as these?

Deciduous trees, specialists in change -
variety and beauty they will bring.
These shifts do add the color to my life,
as days with you I would never exchange.
In Winter, I am sure there will be Spring,
and I'm happy that I made you my wife.

The Sun Rose Red

Summer a time of heated fun
But no fun time for me because
The sun rose red again this morn
Red rising sun means trouble, Hun
Will storms come our way this hot day
Will it be another big gun
Maybe a knife or crazy wife   
Lord intervene, protect loved ones 
Let it be warning, time for pause
Again, this morn, the sun rose red
Let saying be a myth home spun

A Grind

     grinding sausage
       grinding teeth
     grinding pepper
       grinding ground beef

     elbow grease and grit
       no room for a butterfly to flit… 
     Wherefore is summer ‘a grind’
       ~ when to its beauty we are blind

try to rest

Those sparse promises are put to bed
Yet they ripen like a lie
The County Kingdom
is made from last years chancers
Darkened coaches reach their destination
Our smokey trails
are honed like marbled mantles
Predictable success are nothing
compared to the chirping of the birds
Call Summer a lie
Those bright mornings
folds its wings and flies
I cannot sleep

A springtime showers upon us like a quilt of stars

A springtime showers upon us like a quilt of stars,
The empty house warms in its vacant heart:
Through it pours the summer a river of melted lights,
And days tread softly upon soles of leaves;
Pain and pleasure, timid sisters, murmur in chorus.
Beneath the canopy of nights, I wove illusions in the moonlight,
In a silent film, with frames of untold fervors,
I wrapped up love, beautiful and mad,
Pure freedom, without heavy norms, a soul in a bird's nest.
The days twist, moist weavers in rooms spun silver
And we, in the calm of the everyday,
With simple words enchant the portraits of simplistic moments,
Building our shelter in the warmth of a waking dream,
An open book, pages speaking dreams aloud,
Corners adorned with jewels of oblivion,
Melancholic cats, lazily purring in the silence's casket,
We, tireless creators of worlds cradled in our palm.
In this theater of moments and scents, a verse is our altar,
Carved in eternity by our breath:
A stanza that endures, that cannot be torn from us,
Etched in the heart, like a leaf undefeated by autumn.

In Memory of Backyards

Back then,
backyards were big enough
to nurture a growing soul
and provide a space
for the earth to play out
its seasons in full rehearsal.
There were wide tracks 
of grass, trees to climb, 
old sheds to rummage
with their interiors full of tools 
and bric-a-brac 
webbed in history.

There was food - ripe tomatoes
and corn from a vegetable patch, 
grapes swelling 
under a cool canopy of vines, 
soft skins bursting 
their dark sweetness
inside expectant mouths, 
almonds, apricots and the luscious 
dribble of a warm peach
down sticky cheeks.
Some had roaming chickens
with their bounty of eggs.

Backyards were blotting paper
for a child's hurt, a hiding place
to get away, a theater
for projecting the phantasies
of a sheriff or a princess
high in a golden tower. 
And in summer, a sprinkler
casting a gauntlet of cold spray
for tiny feet to challenge.

Then it all ends
when backyards become
too small and more exotic places
call a restless soul to leave
its Eden and break the spell
of its beginning.

Mango

Peach and mango, nature's sweet embrace, 
In taste, they share a harmonious space, 
Juicy, succulent, with flavors that chase, 
A fruity symphony, a delightful grace.

In the orchard's shade, beneath the sun's warm kiss, 
I savor ripe mangos, pure tropical bliss. 
With skin so tender, hues of yellow and gold, 
A story of summer, a tale to be told.

Alfonzo, the king of the lot, 
With golden flesh, a taste so hot, 
Juicy nectar, a fragrant pot, 
In mango's realm, it hits the spot.

Kent, with its skin so green and smooth, 
A tropical delight, a real behoove, 
Sweet and luscious, it'll make you groove, 
In mango feasts, it finds its groove.

The seed at the center, I won't cast away, 
It's a part of this mango's story today. 
With lips to the core, I suck on that stone, 
Extracting every bit, not a morsel alone.

The seed, it holds memories too, 
Of the mango's seedling journey, the rain and the dew. 
I savor it all, from the flesh to the pit, 
Each bite, each drop, in this moment, I commit.

August

Air is warmly scented with flowers and hydrangea blooms in blue,
Unusual birds and butterflies appear in beautiful colors and vibrant hues.
Gusty thunderstorms envelope with wild winds that cool the steamy air.
Ultimate country fairs and shopping excursions are found everywhere.
Strawberries, blueberries and blackberries are robust, sweet and fresh.
Take time to enjoy the last stretch of summer, a time to relax and refresh!

Summer

High-spirited sports car enthusiasts, burning rubber
and speeding in the wind. Motorcycle lovers, making
high-sounding noises. Birds singing by day; crickets
by night. Fight off the mosquitoes, wasps, and
all creatures desiring the insides. In heat and
humidity, stay highly hydrated. Drink a lot,
stick with water and soft drinks but stay away
from the hard stuff. Be happy and be wedded,
but also, be wise. Catch a fast plane; be safe
and go far. Or take a slow train and enjoy
the terrain. Her name is Summer, a relative
of April and friends with June and August.
Going kayaking or will you fight the water rapids?
Stay-cations are out; vacations and family reunions
are back. For many a year, the roads always took me East.
But this year, my family is beckoning me to come North.

Swimming With the Ducks

The sun blazed hot, no cloud for a respite.
Life was hopeless, wretched and desperate.
The grass a withered brown, and tree leaves sparse.
No shade for the living, summer a farce.

Rockeries were lichen free, the rill dry.
Hopefully, the food caters would pass by.
Sally and I sought rest in our cottage.
The air conditioner used its wattage.

The best thing was that behind was a pool.
Where all our dark ducks could swim and feel cool.
In our gear, we jumped quickly with the ducks
Until the caters came with their big trucks.



 Just a scribble
for want of better things.

Wings of Spring

“Does the robin sing because the cold of winter is leaving or the warmth of spring is coming? Or might he be singing because each without the other would lessen both?”
-- Craig D. Lounsbrough



The song of hope returned last night at three
A gentle trill from out my window heard
My spirits rose and I was filled with glee
To hear the chirp of spring’s first “early bird”

My outdoor lamp cast light on his red breast
His wings were still as on a shrub he sat
I knew his nightly song meant I’d not rest
Still I extended him a welcome mat

He sang as if to say, “Spring will arrive”
I knew the jays and finches should come soon
And then the frailest flowers would revive
As if awakened by the robin’s tune

In summer a full chorus will rehearse
And in their glory, hopeful hearts immerse

Mother Nature 's Seasons

Summer- a season of warm weather
Although at times gets hot and humid
Hurricane weather and other storms 
Thunder showers come and passes 
Flower gardens of all kinds growing
Farmer's crops grow tall in the fields
Going to beaches when the sun shines
Boating, sailing on the wavy water

Fall- a season when it gets colder
No more summer clothes to wear
Jackets , sweaters, jeans are worn
Playing baseball or football in the park
The leaves begin to change colors
Mother nature paint box spilled
Watching the colors of the leaves
It is a beautiful sight to be seen
It is a chore to rake the leaves

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