That feeling
when your foot
is stuck
and you know
you have to sacrifice
your boot
to the mud god
is fleeting
as summer’s heat
dries up
any proof
that you were brave
enough to
slug through
the mire
of yesterday
to find the firm ground
of today.
Don’t try to change
my mind
like God changes
the wind
when he finds himself
lying on his stomach
on a lazy summer day
longing for clouds to billow
and twist like earthly balloons
into cotton-candy animals
and dream of far-away days
when all he had to worry about
was forming mud-pies
into imaginary children
who could be his friends
instead of today’s looming
clouds of destruction
that threaten to blow it all
away.
The dark summer night
hid their desire
till the stars came out
and kissed their skin.
Her breath came slowly
only a sigh
but he inhaled it
till it filled his soul.
The rhythm of the night
lulled her to sleep
and he blew out the stars
with only a sigh.
Summer offers
her warming light
so playful children
can butter their chins.
Finally going to seed
it takes only a puff of air
to tear them limb from limb
and send them flying.
Each little fluff
flies to a tender place
that welcomes it
and lets it grow.
And dandelions, too,
want nothing more
than the wind to lift them
and carry them home.
Warm drips melt
on my shoulders
falling down my arms
like dappled leaves
gently spilling sunshine.
Warmth can’t be cupped
cold and hard
like snowballs
forming a sheltering fort
to challenge you from.
Summer, you vixen,
my long distance love,
you have teased me again.
I ache for your taste,
your heat on my tongue.
Every woman desires
the kind of summer
that blushes in heat
where mothers glance
away from shock
clutching their pearls
with a string of woes.
But hell be damned
you went to bed
that summer night
with warnings and jewelry
away on the shelf
clutching him tightly
where men would moan.
Every woman deserves
the kind of memory
that lingers with time
allowing elderly smiles
to remember the past
away from today
clutching their loves,
not a string of lies.
I was thinking about bread
how you mix the dough
form it into shapes
maybe even flavor it
with raisins or cinnamon
and raise it
and bake it
till it’s done.
There seems a finality
to the loaf
and you have to eat it
rip off chunks
or slice it
just like it is
and as you eat
you really taste
its goodness
slowly
with butter
and a glass of wine.
But then I was thinking
that there are other things
that you could slather on it
like peanut butter, apple butter
or jam
and you could make a sandwich
and fill it with an endless
variety of things
like leftover chicken
or roast beef
or ham.
That should be enough
to satisfy
until I realize
that the last of the loaf
could still become
a filler for quiche
or bread pudding
and stuffing
if left to dry enough.
And if by chance
it is forgotten
for a further undisclosed
amount of time
it is shown off at school
in science.
Today I’m toast.
Damn.
I am sluggish
annoyed by the sun
too lazy to move
from my chair
when a buzzing fly
far too energetic
in this summer heat
finds the time it takes
for me to slam my
rolled up newspaper
on the table laden
with the tribute
of the farmer’s market
is far too short
as he comes to realize
I am a vengeful god.