Hot August Night


First, you should know
this is not a poem for summer.
This poem is for the darkest winter hours,
near Solstice, I should think.

Not for tonight, when swallows 
are chasing each other through the sky,
and reckless seagulls are climbing
those tall ladders of clouds.

Not for tonight, when flowers and weeds
are all blushing rose, when the sun is sinking
into a featherbed of gold, purple-clad
paramours dancing attendance.

Pull out this poem when the first
blast of nor'easters hits,
when you're trying to recall warm,
the smoky voice of that jazz lady

up there on the stage tonight,
this orange light shining between us.
Save a couple of Summer Shandy ales
and stretch out with them by the fire,

on that blanket with old burn marks
and wine stains in the shape of roses.
Forget that another year is gone.
Forget what lies ahead.




​
Beach Road 7:00 A.M.


The August morning is steamy.  A crow calls, halfheartedly, as a timid sun climbs above the orchard.  In the garden deer have visited during the night, checking the young, tasseled 
corn.  Queen Anne's Lace and chicory dot the grass, moist in morning dew.  Beach Road is quiet -- a neighbor's garden on the corner its usual flamboyant self, but all else is shy, Summer's green robe still wrapped tightly about her.





In August


Bless this sun, this summer day,
bless the lake, the trees,
the thrush singing in the oak.

Bless that black-as-the-devil-raven,
muttering old prayers.
Bless you and me.

Immerse us in August heat
till we burn with joy,
till we remember what has been forgotten.