Category Archives: Seasonal

April gets a bad rap

The lush young flesh pot
Of a season starts in 
March's shadow, answers 
To the call of the rain
Filling the soil with a
Promise of budding new
Sprouts and blossoming
Flowers, brightening in
The sun's light, touched
By its warmth and by its
Brilliance. It's April
When hopes rise and buds
Bud, April so intense it
Scares the poet into a
Reverie over power and 
Longing, into accusations
Of cruelty and need. April,
The gentle month, ushers
In summer's tranquil ease

Summer’s ending

Shorts, sandals, boys to
Men would never have when
I was a girl. Not shorts,
So unAmerican, not macho.
No sandals either. Times
They've a-changed. We're 
More cosmopolitan. More
Comfortable. Wearing out
The summer in shorts, a
Little casual, a little
Self-conscious, cooler
Then when I was a girl.

Heated

Is it the heat felt in sun baked
Corners or the heat fueled by passion?
Is it the slow steady beat of desire? 
Sentiment, a fervor that motivates but 
Immobilizes, or is it the slow heavy
Air that oppresses movement under 
The weight of nature's outdoorsy circumstances?
I have always associated hot days 
With the high temperatures that link
Sensuality with the liquid, languid,
Hot of summer, stilled by heated air, 
Yet impassioned to undertake trysts
Encouraged by a slow steady beat of desire 
Not stifled under a blanket of humidity 
To lie beneath an undulating fan
In the darkness and the sweat of fantasy

Fall sky

There it is. Just enough red in
The evening sky to put me on
Notice for one more glorious
Fall day. Autumns that aren't 
Too chill for a quiet outdoors
Sit. Not too cool for school, so
I can be as dorky as I like when
I walk around marveling at new
Turned leaves, some redder than
This dusk sky, some tricked out
In pumpkin orange. A season I 
Favor over even the spring, that
Season of awakening promise.
The fall has the bite that melted 
In the summer, but no, it's not
Too cool. Not now. Not just yet.

Thunder

Is it the way that the sound 
Lingers, providing its own
After glow? An echo of the
First rumble rumbles behind
Holding the sky while a flash
Flickers reminding me that
Thunder and lightning are a
Team, in an event like a relay,
Together they are the threat, 
A storm brewing has brewed,
Filled the atmosphere with its
Effects. There is noise. There
Are raindrops dropping and 
Dripping. There are visuals as
Light reinforces the promise
Of discomfort thunder made.

May

April was "the cruelest month"
T. S. Eliot had his sway, being
Right only goes so far and now
May comes in teasing, blowing 
Hot and cold like a lady in waiting
Flowers, famously made hers
By the showers of anticipation
From the clouds of the month
Before sit unsure of themselves
In beds strewn around tree trunks
Cast too early for their colorful
Debuts, appearing papery and 
Transparent in the iffy sunshine
Of overcast May days, seeking
Succor from the chill winds, not
Quite secure in their nesting 
Places. Chaucer spoke of the
Renewal that is spring. I say it's 
A process and a time of year.

Cool it

You can feel the weight 
Of the air, its hot breath
On your elbow, on your
Knee. Its heavy pressure
Slows every step you take.
Even your mind objects
To a physical oppression
So early in your day. Act
As if you could shake it
Off. Take your walk back.
It's only air and you have
Your own atmosphere. It
Is where you thrive, live,
Love. The weight of the
Heat is nothing to the
Power in your heart, in
Your head. You, you're 
Cool. Like the proverbial
Ice cube, like a cucumber.