Barbara Crooker: Two Poems for Summer
And tomorrow, another hot one,
and that sweet juicy sun
will pop up again, staining
the horizon red, orange, gold.
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Barbara Crooker: This Summer Day
We are still ripening
into our bodies, still in the act of becoming.
Rejoice in the day’s long sugar.
Praise that big fat tomato of a sun.
Mary Jane White: Summer in Waukon, Iowa
The curly-haired cherub, maybe
Eleven, if that, seated on a concrete step,
In his grey t-shirt, blazoned with the
Slogan “Virginity Rocks” is plucking
The late dandelions and rolling them up
Into spit-wads…
Richard Levine: Solstice
We approached the solstice from a Ferris wheel,crowned and paused between day and night. We held onto each other and each spoke-like hour, immersedin beach-tide sounds, briny scents and banking … Continue reading
Barbara Crooker: Credo
You can till the earth,
hoe the rows, but each seed is an act of belief
that somehow in the dark something
is happening:
James Crews: Hello, Little Sun
On the rusty tin roof of a red barn
in rural Quebec, someone has carved
the words, Bonjour, petit-soleil—
Hello, little sun
Barbara Hamby: Ode to Skimpy Clothes and August in the Deep South
A young woman is walking with her boyfriend, and it’s deep
summer in the South, like being in a sauna
but hotter and stickier
Rose Mary Boehm: Summer Trance
As large as the hill, I become a green, languid
animal, a soft giant with giant eyes, become
green love. Fat bees buzz in my lavender bushes
Sharon Fagan McDermott: Grateful
And now it’s summer and the word for that is ‘strawberry,”
its bright green cap and freckled fruit.
Dawn Potter: Play Clothes
How many summers
did that red and white sundress last?
It was my mother’s before it was mine
Barbara Crooker: Happiness
This is all there is: the red cherries, the green leaves,
sky like a pale silk dress, and the rise and fall
of the sweet breeze.
Conrad Aiken: Summer
the vascular jukebox throbs and sobs
expounding hope propounding yearning
proposing love, but never learning
Barbara Crooker: In the Middle
Each day, we must learn
again how to love, between morning’s quick coffee
and evening’s slow return.
