And so, this week marks another “end of Summer”. Although the weather conditions around here (Buffalo) call for brilliant sunshine and temperatures in the 80’s, Summer will give way to the Autumn of our year (as some of us bask in the autumn of our years!)
But before we pay full homage to the Fall season, let us have one last fling – one last dance with this Summer. Maybe your conditions were optimum; the perfect Summer. We know our friends, brothers and sisters have suffered greatly in the south and southeast due to the damage caused by Hurricanes Harvey and Irma. But we can all find something on which to hang our garland.
I ask that you think of those moments, play your favorite summer song and dance (in poetic terms) in tribute to the last days of summer. And to keep you on point, include the idea of a “dance” and be use to include the word somewhere in your poem or title thereof. Summer goes so quickly, it seems. Give her one last go-around!
WALT’S SUMMER DANCE:
WALTZ: SUMMER DANCE
The soft summer sunset
places our silhouettes against the sky
and the cast of evening magic in your eyes.
The crash of the lake at our feet
as we shuffle in the heat of our dance,
is like the single sound of two hearts beating.
You, the gardener of my soul,
I am lost in the music of your laughter
and your gaze robs me of simple speech.
I love you with the truest love,
it is nothing compared to an eternity.
I find myself riding the red-eye to morning,
because you have charmed the love right out of my heart.
Your influence permeates everything I touch,
and the blessing of you has been a well dealt hand in my life.
I live every waking second in loving reflection of you.
Summers may come to a close, but my heart knows.
I will dance with you until the music fades.
© Walter J. Wojtanik – 2017
Keep good thoughts and prayers for Salvatore Buttaci as he undergoes surgery this morning.
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Last Dance
The summer dance is near the end,
As breezes blow through verdant leaves.
The sun smiles down like leaving friend,
While weather offers short reprieves.
Adventurers will rush about
To get in just one last hurrah.
They’ll camp and sail, and try new route,
A summer thrill to give them awe.
And soon the leaves will dance in time.
They’ll drift and lift in autumn air.
In bright new dress, they’re quite sublime.
Let summer end with splendid flare.
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A magical dalliance with the season, Connie! Quite descriptive and fine!
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Monarch Mambo
It’s the last dance the
last chance to sip the
nectar util they’re tipsy
warm autumn days
just right for gliding riding
currents – spinning and fluttering
orange and black in aerial
display testing, resting new wings
till time is up and they must fly
migration begins
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A good progression here, Candy! We’ll all fly when time is up! I keep winding my watch.
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crisp night air gives way
to days filled with warm sunshine ~
leaves dance at my feet
** Just a bit of reminiscing of autumn days in the Midwest. Summer dances on for much longer, here in South Texas. **
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Well, you can tell both sides of it, can’t you? Just watch for those dancing leaves! 😉
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No dancing leaves here in San Antonio…I’ll just have to watch out for cacti!
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Farewell Dance
Ah poet, partial to the piracies of golden gilt
And empirical lyrics writ with bit of petal spilt
From Duty’s beauty-métier, Love casts a wistful eye
Where earth pours tints of cabernet to limbs of lullaby
The earth and the fullness thereof belong-eth to the Lord
So too each day; Summer’s tray spills a bittersweet reward
For always with the holding comes its sacred severed tie
Flamboyant frolics folding into hymns of hush-a-bye
Tomorrow’s tabled tombstones, some we guess at; some we know
Ah poet, dip your quill into time’s inkwell of hello
For where fair flower-rivers rush through dreamy stare and sigh
It drains its rainbow-giddy gush in leaf-by-leaf goodbye
The orchard bows beneath the boon of harvest-swoon, red-sage
Forever is a feather-flourish on a fragile page
Where summer, like shadow or a friend lost far too soon
Fashions thought’s tender splendor in the soul-song of the moon
Ah poet, prone to lament the monotone undertow
That dwindles in its giving and grasps in its letting go
Like a slow dance of sorrow-joy, troubadour caught between
The bliss of what is waiting and the kiss of what has been
Wrote this, then saw the prompt so I tweaked it a little…hope it’s okay.
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It’s always OK, Janet. Good to read ya!
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Walt, what a love-filled beauty this is! I love, ‘gardener of my soul’
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Thanks, Sara. Love grows where its seeds are sown. It takes the special touch to blossom!
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Stacking Logs
In glow of September moon
two silhouettes dance
on cooled grains of sand
creating memories
like flickering orange
flames of a fireplace
that crackle in the face
of a white winter night.
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I often contemplate what it is about the moon that is just soooooooo romantic. “September moon,” all by itself, offers visions of a moonlit waltz. Love this, Sara.
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Thanks so much, Marie!
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Oh, you just warmed me tremendously and it’s 80+ in Buffalo! But this image made my heart flutter and my words stutter. Love this.
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And you even managed to rhyme your comment! Thanks, Walt.
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BEAUTIFUL, Walt. For me, especially “the cast of evening magic in your eyes,” “music of your laughter,” and “your gaze robs me of simple speech.” WOW …
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Even complex speech is a bother. But thank you all the same! She truly is.
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MARIA
reckless gyration
with no cessation in sight
expecting to smite
#seventeensyllablesfortwentyseventeen
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Need my glasses. Read the title as MARIE and the last line “expecting to smile”. Just as it’s always been! Sweet seventeen, Pard.
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HA! 😀
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September Box Step
Summer has gotten old
and slow. It’s forgotten
how to make, to shake it,
how to sway sensually.
Tomatoes from this same plant busted the June and July scales
with plate-sized, bend-over-the-sink-and-eat-’em-like-peaches
tomatozillas. Now the branches just drag. And no amount of
squeezed out hurricane rain will lift its leaves toward gratitude.
Now the squirrels ignore
the small, cat-faced fruits
hiding in the marigolds
and gone-to-seed basil.
I haven’t taken care of the garden in more weeks than I will
admit. When I do carry snips and a bucket to the plot near
the water tap, the bucket is only for dead plant matter. But
there’s a thin plastic grocery bag in my back pocket, in case.
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Especially love your opening stanza!
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Love the opening stanza, Barbara. Keep the bag handy.
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I hear ya!
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A gardener’s treatise, great images in this, Barbara. Hopefully, next year’s harvest will more than make up for it!
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Summer 2017
We danced our way through the summer
in spite of hurricanes, forest fires,
and Korea’s Rocket Man
shooting his fireworks to wow the world.
Meanwhile, I spent the summer obeying my Lord’s request
to record audio files of “God’s Little Miracle Book”
I, II, and III, so when my days are ended here
I’ll leave behind a recorded account
of His merciful, mysterious ways.
I say, “Farwell, summer,”
as the last notes linger on the balmy breeze.
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Nice. And would be interested in hearing those audio files!
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They’ll hopefully be available on iTunes, Audible, and Amazon hopefully within two weeks. =)
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Great to hear, Sally. Write me up a promo and send it to poemsofgardengnomes@gmail.com and I can post it on site.
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A wonderful poem, and a fervent charge, Sally. It will be a lasting offering eventually (but not too soon!)
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