Bio Note: These poems are obviously about summer. Only one of them, August Evening, has been previously published (in Your Daily Poem). Even though I've retired from teaching, I'm still furious about the shift to starting school in August. That's just plain wrong! August is too hot anywhere for kids to have to be in school, plus, August is summer! Oh well.
June is Friday: weary of winter exhausted by spring, brightened by hope of rest and warmth and green things stretching toward the dear sun of summer. July, then, is Saturday: brown-limbed, easy, moving slow through the long hours of sand, of fish lifted by clear waves with the light shining through, of warm nights with Mars glowing gold near the rocking moon. August, alas, must be Sunday: there’s still time, the days still balmy and long, the sun still hot, Mars still bright in the warm night sky, the sea still glittering with the coins of the sun. But the shadow at the end looms longer every day. And then it’s September: a cheap and painful parody of summer – hotter than August but the days grow shorter and we are stuck wherever we have to be as wildfires devour the hills of spring leaving us pining for July when time stretched out before us on the sand, naked and smiling.
I will not dwell upon the evils of the world while the sun setting red burnishes the surf a black dog leaps in coppery waves sea water foams at our feet and the half moon glows, a ghost in the shore’s wet mirror.
Author's Note: "To Swimming" was written during the early months of the pandemic for all of us swimmers who weren't allowed to swim during the shutdown.
in clear water, prism ribbons rippling on a flat white bottom in the calm green waters of the bay where the mind wanders in an endless lap in a pool whose chlorine smell stings while snow dances down dark windows on a chilly day when rain pocks the surface tattooing my arms as they reach wet air over kelp columns rising through coastal swells, garibaldi feathering among the amber leaves in water roiled by wind where I become a fish sheltered in the pond’s calm sway I want to pull water past me again, thread myself – weightless – through the water’s unseen eye.
©2022 Tamara Madison
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