6.21.2026 – my father paints the

my father paints the
summer, caught summer always
an imagined time

A smoky rain riddles the ocean plains,
Rings on the beaches’ stones, stomps in the swales,
Batters the panes
Of the shore hotel, and the hoped-for summer chills and fails.
The summer people sigh,
“Is this July?”

They talk by the lobby fire but no one hears
For the thrum of rain. In the dim and sounding halls,
Din at the ears,
Dark at the eyes well in the head, and the ping-pong balls
Scatter their hollow knocks
Like crazy clocks.

But up in his room by artificial light
My father paints the summer, and his brush
Tricks into sight
The prosperous sleep, the girdling stir and clear steep hush
Of a summer never seen,
A granted green.

Summer, luxuriant Sahara, the orchard spray
Gales in the Eden trees, the knight again
Can cast away
His burning mail, Rome is at Anzio: but the rain
For the ping-pong’s optative bop
Will never stop.

Caught Summer is always an imagined time.
Time gave it, yes, but time out of any mind.
There must be prime
In the heart to beget that season, to reach past rain and find
Riding the palest days
Its perfect blaze.

My Father Paints the Summer by Richard Purdy Wilbur in The Poems of Richard Wilbur (Harcourt, Brace: New York, 1947).

About Mr. Wilbur, Wikipedia says, “Richard Purdy Wilbur (March 1, 1921 – October 14, 2017) was an American poet and literary translator, and one of the foremost poets of the World War II generation. Wilbur’s work, often employing rhyme, and composed primarily in traditional forms, was marked by its wit, charm, and gentlemanly elegance. He was acclaimed in his youth as the heir to Robert Frost, translated the verse dramas of Moliere, Corneille, and Racine into rhymed English, collaborated with Leonard Bernstein as the lyricist for the opera Candide, and in his old age acted, particularly through his role in the annual West Chester University Poetry Conference, as a mentor to the younger poets of the New Formalist movement. He was appointed the second Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress in 1987 and received the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry twice, in 1957 and 1989.”

About the photo, if I think about my Dad, I cannot but think of my Dad at what we called ‘The Cottage.”

In the Spring of 1964, when I was 4 years, my Dad but a piece of property on the shore of Lake Michigan, a straight drive out M-45 to the lake from Grand Rapids where we lived.

It became our summer place and our place for summer time and it is where my Dad painted the summer.

In a letter written home from Europe during World War 2, my Dad told the woman who would become my Mom that “He liked to live in the whole house” which I took to mean that in his home, their would be nothing for show, no rooms reserved for company, he would live in the WHOLE house.

You could not have described life at our cottage any better.

My Dad lived in the whole place.

Every inch of property, cottage and beach was set aside to be used and used pretty much for anyone’s personal enjoyment.

I have never been any where else in the world that I experience such freedom to live, explore, think or do anything that came to mind.

There was a lot of trust involved here and for the most part, we repaid that trust and just LIVED the heck out of this place.

Look at the photo.

A large, ungainly structure covered with windows for viewing the lake, chairs for sitting, towels drying, toys scattered all over for playing, a grill for cooking, sails for the sailboat propped up against the stairs and thousands of footprints of the 100s of people that made up our summers at the lake.

All in a place provided by my Dad.

My father painted the summer with a big thick brush and broad strokes.

The year after my Dad died, Mom sold the place.

She said, and understand the entire time we had the cottage it was the Hotel Lorraine and everyone was welcome, she said, “It was my place to be with Dad.”

Caught Summer is always an imagined time.

Time gave it, yes, but time out of any mind.

There must be prime

In the heart to beget that season, to reach past rain and find

Riding the palest days

Its perfect blaze.

Forgive but I have to repeat that line again where Mr. Wilbur writes, Caught Summer is always an imagined time.

Was it real?

Could it have been that way?

Caught Summer is always an imagined time.

I am here to tell you, it was all too real and when I think about it, I think of my Dad and I say thank you for the gift of all those summers you painted for us.

6.20.2026 – summer when the lungs

summer when the lungs
of the earth take a long breath
I look for you

Do you know how the dream looms?

how if summer misses one of us the two of us miss summer –

Summer when the lungs of the earth take a long breath for the change to low contralto singing mornings when the green corn leaves first break through the black loam-

And another long breath for the silver soprano melody of the moon songs in the light nights when the earth is lighter than a feather, the iron mountains lighter than a goose down-

So I shall look for you in the light nights then, in the laughter of slats of silver under a hill hickory.

In the listening tops of the hickories, in the wind motions of the hickory shingle leaves, in the imitations of slow sea water on the shingle silver in the wind –

I shall look for you.

Silver Wind by Carl Sandburg as published in Smoke and Steel in The Complete Poems of Carl Sandburg (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1950).

On the beach today.

In the listening tops of the hickories, in the wind motions of the hickory shingle leaves, in the imitations of slow sea water on the shingle silver in the wind.

I look for you.

But you took the picture.

BTW, recently talked with my sister who had the opportunity to spend some time on the Gulf of MEXICO and on the Lake Michigan shore.

She noticed that in going to the Gulf to swim, the water was always warm … every day … you could count on it.

On Lake Michigan, the question every day if not every hour is, how does the water feel right now?

A stiff north wind and the water on the beach on Lake Michigan can go from 70s to 60s in a matter of hours.

Today for me, the water was 82.

The air was in the high 80s.

It will be that way all summer long.

And another long breath for the silver soprano melody of the moon song.

6.19.2026 – old foole, unruly Sunne

old foole, unruly Sunne,
why dost thou thus through windows,
through curtaines call on us?

For midsummers day I wanted a photo of the sun at its highest point on the compass for sunrise … and it rained so this a photo from last week when I did catch the moments just after sunrise.

But as I checked and found out that midsummers day and the summer solstice may not mean the same thing to all people, I thought, oh well.

Anyway for the longest day of the year or the day with the most sunlight, if the sun is out, here is John Dunne’s The Sun ne Rising, from 1633.

I list it first it was it close to the english of the day and then a more modern spelling.

I will point that even 400 years ago, no one wanted to get up.

The Sunne Rising

Busie old foole, unruly Sunne,
Why dost thou thus,
Through windowes, and through curtaines call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers seasons run?
Sawcy pedantique wretch, goe chide
Late schoole boyes, and sowre prentices,
Goe tell Court huntsmen, that the King will ride,
Call countrey ants to harvest offices;
Love, all alike, no season knowes, nor clyme,
Nor houres, dayes, moneths, which are the rags of time.

Thy beames, so reverend, and strong
Why shouldst thou thinke?
I could eclipse and cloud them with a winke,
But that I would not lose her sight so long:
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Looke, and to morrow late, tell mee,
Whether both the’India’s of spice and Myne
Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with mee.
Aske for those Kings whom thou saw’st yesterday,
And thou shalt heare, All here in one bed lay.

She’is all States, and all Princes, I,
Nothing else is.
Princes doe but play us; compar’d to this,
All honor’s mimique; All wealth alchimie.
Thou sunne art halfe as happy’as wee,
In that the world’s contracted thus;
Thine age askes ease, and since thy duties bee
To warme the world, that’s done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art every where;
This bed thy center is, these walls, thy spheare.

As published in The complete English poems of John Donne by John Donne, Edited by C. A. Patrides is G. B. Harrison Professor of English Literature in the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor. (London: Dent Collection, 1985).

The Sun Rising By John Donne

Busy old fool, unruly sun,
Why dost thou thus,

Through windows, and through curtains call on us?
Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run?
Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide
Late school boys and sour prentices,
Go tell court huntsmen that the king will ride,
Call country ants to harvest offices,
Love, all alike, no season knows nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.

Thy beams, so reverend and strong
Why shouldst thou think?

I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink,
But that I would not lose her sight so long;
If her eyes have not blinded thine,
Look, and tomorrow late, tell me,
Whether both th’ Indias of spice and mine
Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me.
Ask for those kings whom thou saw’st yesterday,
And thou shalt hear, All here in one bed lay.

She’s all states, and all princes, I,
Nothing else is.

Princes do but play us; compared to this,
All honor’s mimic, all wealth alchemy.
Thou, sun, art half as happy as we,
In that the world’s contracted thus.
Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be
To warm the world, that’s done in warming us.
Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere;
This bed thy center is, these walls, thy sphere.

6.18.2026 – man whose idea of

man whose idea of
principle – anything that
suits his need, pleasure

If it is Thursday, I must be turning to the NYT Opinion piece titled The Conversation, where two men, Frank Bruni a contributing NYT Opinion writer and Bret Stephens, a NYT Opinion columnist review the past week.

Mr. Bruni takes the liberal, Democratic view and Mr. Stephens take the conservative, Republican view of what went on and they discuss their views and compare and contrast.

Did I mention that Mr. Stephens is the Conservation Republican in this conversation?

According to Wikipedia, Stephens was previously a foreign affairs columnist and deputy editorial page editor at The Wall Street Journal, overseeing the editorial pages of its European and Asian editions.

From 2002 to 2004, he was editor-in-chief of The Jerusalem Post.

At the Wall Street Journal, Stephens won the Pulitzer Prize for Commentary in 2013.

Stephens is known for his neoconservative foreign policy views, including support for Israel and US military intervention in the Middle East.

In todays’ opinion piece titled, Trump Has Found a New Way to Fail Us, Mr. Stephens writes:

I supported the war from the outset and thought the cause was necessary and just.

But facts are stubborn things, as John Adams said. And the central fact of our time is that we are led —

I am using that verb in the loosest sense —

by a man whose idea of courage is bullying,

whose idea of honor is knavery,

whose idea of loyalty is convenience,

whose idea of patriotism is self-idolization,

and whose idea of principle is anything that suits his need and his pleasure.

Now excuse me while I throw up.

Just think if Mr. Stephens and that man currently in office weren’t on the same team?

Mr. Stephens also wrote:

But I’m struck by the way in which authoritarian pretensions and atrocious taste always seem to go hand in hand. Maybe it’s that moral ugliness tends so often to produce aesthetic ugliness. Whatever the case, the job of the next president will be to erase every vestige of Trump from the White House and any other federal property. Getting rid of Trump’s name from the Kennedy Center was only a start; I look forward to seeing the East Wing restored to exactly how it used to be.

Vance may be the only person in the administration who makes Trump look good. I mean, other than Pete Hegseth. Or Robert F. Kennedy Jr. Or Howard Lutnick. Or Linda McMahon. Or, well, my point is: better an honest hypocrite than a pious opportunist.

As Mr. Bruni responded, “He may soon get a midterm comeuppance. Then the clock on his presidency starts ticking more and more loudly.”

In one of his books about Franklin D. Roosevelt (The Lion and the Fox), Historian James MacGregor Burns writes: In America, as Mr. Dooley once remarked, people build their triumphal arches out of brick so that they will have something handy to throw at the hero when he comes through.

But Mr. Burns fails to supply a citation.

I have if from my online research the Mr. Dooley (A Chicago Bartender in the late 1890s as imagined by writer Finley Peter Dunne) really said was, When ye build yer triumphal arch to yer conquerin’ hero, Hennissey, build it out of bricks so the people will have somethin’ convenient to throw at him as he passes through.”

But I cannot find a proper citation for that as well.

Still, let us repeat and heed the advice.

When we build a triumphal arch to that man currently in office, lets build it out of bricks so we will have somethin’ convenient to throw at him as he passes through

6.17.2026 – out she swung – far out

out she swung – far out
twixt heaven and earth .. curfew
shall not ring tonight

According to Wikipedia, Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight is a narrative poem by Rose Hartwick Thorpe, written in 1867 and set in the 17th century.

Thorpe wrote her poem in 1867, following the American Civil War, while living in Litchfield, Michigan. She traded the manuscript to a Detroit newspaper in exchange for a subscription. The original newspaper printing has never been found, but the poem was widely printed before the first version in book form in 1882.

Thorpe’s poem, a favorite of Queen Victoria’s, was one of the most popular of the 19th century, but later faded into obscurity. An 8-foot monument in Litchfield, Michigan along State Highway 99 honors the poem and author’s connection to that town.

Litchfield adopted the title of the poem as a symbol, having fire trucks and the city website show the symbol of a bell reading “Curfew Shall Not Ring Tonight”. A bell in the center of Litchfield commemorates the poem and Thorpe’s time spent in the town

Oddly enough while Wikipedia entry for the poem, it mentions that the poem was written in Litchfield, Michigan and that a highway marker commemorates that fact, the Wikipedia entry for Litchfield does not list Rose Hartwick Thorpe under famous people from Litchfield.

But I digress.

Wikipedia does mention that An illustrated version of this poem is contained in Fables for Our Time and Famous Poems Illustrated by James Thurber (1940).

My research shows that the James Thurber’s Illustrated Poem first appeared in the New Yorker Magazine 87 years ago today, June 17, 1939.

In his book working at the New Yorker Magazine, The Years with Ross, Thurber writes that editor Harold Ross was fond of the Illustrated Poem series writing, “Why in God’s name did you stop doing the illustrated poems? There are forty million other verses in the English language, many of them unquestionably suitable for Thurber illustration.”

Thurber says he responded, “As for the illustrated poems, they began when I sent St. Clair McKelway, from Frederick, Maryland, the Barbara Frietchie drawings, and they ended when I tried Poe’s Raven, and it turned into a common cornfield crow.”

My research shows that The Raven never appeared in the magazine, but was published in the book, Thurber and Company, in 1966.

Here is the complete poem.

Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight

England’s sun was slowly setting oe’r the hilltops far away,
Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day;
And its last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair,–
He with steps so slow and weary; she with sunny, floating hair;
He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she, with lips all cold and white,
Struggling to keep back the murmur, “Curfew must not ring to-night!”

“Sexton,” Bessie’s white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old,
With its walls so tall and gloomy, moss-grown walls dark, damp and cold,–
“I’ve a lover in the prison, doomed this very night to die
At the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help is nigh.
Cromwell will not come till sunset;” and her lips grew strangely white,
As she spoke in husky whispers, “Curfew must not ring to-night!”

“Bessie,” calmly spoke the sexton (every word pierced her young heart
Like a gleaming death-winged arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart),
“Long, long years I’ve rung the curfew from that gloomy, shadowed tower;
Every evening, just at sunset, it has tolled the twilight hour.
I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right:
Now I’m old, I will not miss it. Curfew bell must ring to-night!”

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow,
As within her secret bosom, Bessie made a solemn vow.
She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh,
“At the ringing of the curfew, Basil Underwood must die.”
And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright;
One low murmur, faintly spoken. “Curfew must not ring to-night!”

She with quick step bounded forward, sprang within the old church-door,
Left the old man coming slowly, paths he’d trod so oft before.
Not one moment paused the maiden, But with eye and cheek aglow,
Staggered up the gloomy tower, Where the bell swung to and fro;
As she climbed the slimy ladder, On which fell no ray of light,
Upward still, her pale lips saying, “Curfew shall not ring to-night!”

She has reached the topmost ladder, o’er her hangs the great dark bell;
Awful is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell.
See! the ponderous tongue is swinging; ’tis the hour of curfew now,
And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow.
Shall she let it ring? No, never! Her eyes flash with sudden light,
As she springs, and grasps it firmly: “Curfew shall not ring to-night!”

Out she swung,– far out. The city Seemed a speck of light below,–
There twixt heaven and earth suspended, As the bell swung to and fro.
And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell,
Sadly thought that twilight curfew rang young Basil’s funeral knell.
“Still the maiden, clinging firmly, quivering lip and fair face white,
Stilled her frightened heart’s wild throbbing: “Curfew shall not ring tonight!”

It was o’er, the bell ceased swaying; and the maiden stepped once more
Firmly on the damp old ladder, where, for hundred years before,
Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that she had done
Should be told long ages after. As the rays of setting sun
Light the sky with golden beauty, aged sires, with heads of white,
Tell the children why the curfew did not ring that one sad night.

O’er the distant hills comes Cromwell. Bessie sees him; and her brow,
Lately white with sickening horror, has no anxious traces now.
At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands, all bruised and torn;
And her sweet young face, still haggard, with the anguish it had worn,
Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light.
“Go! your lover lives,” said Cromwell. “Curfew shall not ring to-night!”

Wide they flung the massive portals, led the prisoner forth to die,
All his bright young life before him. Neath the darkening English sky,
Bessie came, with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with lovelight sweet;
Kneeling on the turf beside him, laid his pardon at his feet.
In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face upturned and white,
Whispered, “Darling, you have saved me, curfew will not ring to-night.”