warm summer sun shine
shine kindly here – southern wind
blow warm, softly here
Based on the poem, Warm Summer Sun, By Mark Twain
Warm summer sun,
Shine kindly here,
Warm southern wind,
Blow softly here.
Green sod above,
Lie light, lie light.
Good night, dear heart,
Good night, good night.
Written as a eulogy for his daughter Susy Clemens, who died of meningitis at only 24 years of age
summer world bright fresh
just far enough away seem
dreamy, reposeful
Saturday morning was come, and all the summer world was bright and fresh, and brimming with life. There was a song in every heart; and if the heart was young the music issued at the lips. There was cheer in every face and a spring in every step. The locust trees were in bloom and the fragrance of the blossoms filled the air. Cardiff Hill, beyond the village and above it, was green with vegetation, and it lay just far enough away to seem a Delectable Land, dreamy, reposeful, and inviting.
From Tom Sawyer by Mark Twain.
The prelude to Tom Sawyer whitewashing the back fence.
After painting this word picture and opening the door to an early summer day, which I have used for the first day of summer, the longest day of the year, Mr. Twain slams the door shut with the words, “Tom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of whitewash and a long-handled brush. He surveyed the fence, and all gladness left him and a deep melancholy settled down upon his spirit. Thirty yards of board fence nine feet high. Life to him seemed hollow, and existence but a burden.“
I have to take my hat off to Mr. Twain and stand in awe of the simple combination of simple words that takes us to a mountain top.
All the summer world was bright and fresh, and brimming with life.
There was a song in every heart; and if the heart was young the music issued at the lips.
There was cheer in every face and a spring in every step.
… just far enough away to seem a Delectable Land, dreamy, reposeful, and inviting.
Then with the same use of simple words, Mr. Twain shoves us off the mountain.
… all gladness left him and a deep melancholy settled down upon his spirit.
Thirty yards of board fence nine feet high.
Life to him seemed hollow, and existence but a burden.
I can see it.
I can feel it.
I can hear it in my soul.
make us one new dream
us who forget out of storms
let us have one star
Adapted from a Prayer after World War by Carl Sandburg, in Smoke and Steel as published in The Complete Poems of Carl Sandburg, by Carl Sandburg, Harcourt, Brace, New York, 1950.
Wandering oversea dreamer,
Hunting and hoarse, Oh daughter and mother,
Oh daughter of ashes and mother of blood,
Child of the hair let down, and tears,
Child of the cross in the south
And the star in the north,
Keeper of Egypt and Russia and France,
Keeper of England and Poland and Spain,
Make us a song for to-morrow.
Make us one new dream, us who forget,
Out of the storm let us have one star.
Struggle, Oh anvils, and help her.
Weave with your wool, Oh winds and skies.
Let your iron and copper help,
Oh dirt of the old dark earth.
Wandering oversea singer,
Singing of ashes and blood,
Child of the scars of fire,
Make us one new dream, us who forget.
Out of the storm let us have one star.
far ends of the lake
where no one lives or visits
no roads to get there
I just heard a loon-call on a TV ad
and my body gave itself
a quite voluntary shudder,
as in the night in East Africa
I heard the immense barking cough
of a lion, so foreign and indifferent.
But the lion drifts away
and the loon stays close,
calling, as she did in my childhood,
in the cold rain a song
that tells the world of men
to keep its distance.
It isn’t the signal of another life
or the reminder of anything
except her call: still,
at this quiet point past midnight
the rain is the same rain
that fell so long ago, and the loon
says I’m seven years old again.
At the far ends of the lake
where no one lives or visits —
there are no roads to get there;
you take the watercourse way,
the quiet drip and drizzle
of oars, slight squeak of oarlock,
the bare feet can feel the cold water
move beneath the old wood boat.
At one end the lordly great blue herons
nest at the top of the white pine;
at the other end the loons,
just after daylight in cream-colored mist,
drifting with wails that begin as querulous,
rising then into the spheres in volume,
with lost or doomed angels imprisoned
within their breasts.
THE IDEA OF BALANCE IS TO BE FOUND IN HERONS AND LOONS, by JAMES HARRISON
because you’ve got to
a desperate solution
that was imperfect
Adapted from the article, The Masters: A Gesundheit Unlike Any Other By Alan Blinder where writes:
Greg Norman, who spent 331 weeks as the world’s top-ranked player, recalled last month that he would load up on anti-allergy medicines. It was, he said, a desperate solution that was decidedly imperfect.
“That doesn’t really make you feel great either,” said Mr. Norman, who had three runner-up finishes at the Masters and twice won the British Open. “You do it because you’ve got to, really.
Moving to the south, no one told me.
Moving to the south, no one warned me.
Moving to the south, I had no idea.
Springtime came.
Springtime came and the air filled with green dust.
In my eyes.
In my throat.
In my nose.
On me.
On my car.
I have this strong memory of using my laptop with the window open to let in the warm spring air and watch in … horror … as the electro static nature of my monitor drew the dust out of the air to cover it surface.
I wiped and wiped and wiped and the screen got darker and darker.
This, I realized, is inside.
This, I realized is in my lungs.
Then I moved further south.
Atlanta is now ‘Up North’.
And the springtime pollen season lasts longer.
I can’t breathe.
My eyes itch.
I feel cruddy.
Which is appropriate as down here its called ‘The Low Country Crud.’
It’s a way of life.
Nobody told me.
No Haiku For You 