Eileen Carole

Summer Soundscape

Summer sounds, day and night

Flocks of birds darting in the sky

Wings flapping as the group flows

Left and right in a pattern of Starlings

 

I hear the wind influencing their direction

As geese fly, in perfect formation

Aerodynamic wind resistance strategy

Each bird flying slightly above the bird in front,

 

The sun makes no sound

But one hears the heat as it prickles the skin

The gentle repetitive slap of arms

Beset by flies and mosquitos who have nothing better to do

 

Summer water is the gentle sound

Babbling brooks and singing streams

Sprinkler sounds of children at play

Soft rain splatters a tune in syncopation

 

The summer wind is a caress

A soft whistle through trees

The leaves play their part in the song

The cacophony of sounds, a Summer concert

 

Croaking frogs discordant to the ear

Contrast the pleasing sound of crickets

Chirping long into the night till their pattern

Lulls one to sleep with summer sounds in their head.

Patrick Thomas Jeffries

In Loving Memory of Barry Schwam

A Father of Voice

There are relationships

That are the great blessings of existence

That radiate with brilliance and excellence

Nuanced dances of shared and mutual reliance

Ones that represent our existential community

And signal a metaphysical unity

Where we find our identity

Through a natural and divine form of acceptance and belief

When you’ve found someone that not only celebrates who you are but challenges you to dig deep

And discover the true self buried and stretching to reveal itself in a wild and mystical form to achieve

Recognition

When there is no shame and just compassion

When you are allowed to be brave and courageous, silly or outrageous

When you are beheld by gentle eyes of wisdom and appreciation

Where you are free to be anything infinitely

Discovering that self eternally

That is family, a sacred place to explore emotionally

A bond made by an intuitive choice

Like the sun shines, and rains light, rejoice

In the appreciation, trust and guidance of a Father of Voice

Hungry for fame and notoriety

He allowed me to become who I wanted to be

And to be great to him was often enough for me

We fall to rise high

Crawl and climb the sky

We all want all want to give each other something before it is time to say goodbye

Once I am forsaken

Trapped in the echo chamber

And I hear him call my name in the infinite vacuum and void

I will rejoice, for he is always with me,

A Father of Voice

Gwendolyn Fleischer

Sounds of the Sun

Throw off the masks

Run through hot sand

in new flip flips

into the salty ocean spray.

Waves after waves crash onto the placid shore.

You are still here.

We have been away too long.

Build sandcastles with wet sand,

shovels and buckets.

Let them remain til the tide

 washes our work away.

Next door, children laugh

splash, jump into a child's wading pool.

Parents sit by with ice cold lemonade 

sunscreen and towels.

Big colorful striped beach balls

land on my lawn.

Little bare feet retrieve them

unmasked

voices shouting with glee.

Sounds of too many cars at the gas pump

filling up for a freedom trip

on a packed highway

away from being behind closed doors

away from take out only.

Lay on the beach in bikinis

boogie boards and surfboards 

stack upright in rows 

Grandmothers under beach umbrellas

guard the sandwiches from greedy seagulls.

You are my sun,

Like Icarus I flew too close to you.

I melted

and fell back to earth.

Don Kingfisher Campbell

Almost summer aubade

Near the possible

End of a pandemic

Year old black and white

Portraits of us hang on

The opposite bedroom wall

In the warm green aura

Of a western hemispheric

Night weakly supplied by 

A party bulb in a pole

Lamp beside the bed half

Occupied with digits

Translating text messages

Exporting salacious videos

7,500 miles away to her lunch

Hour, leaving a sexy scene

Before her nap, then back she goes

Reluctantly to the hotel office

Three floors up, I will wait

Until four hours from now

To see her dinner photos

And maybe something more

After that if we’re both in

The mood to light passion

Still in this forced separation

Of two engaged lovers while

Governments bicker with each other

Coco

4 Track Memories of Summer

If you would have asked me What are the Sounds of Summer as I child I could easily tell you…Summer is the sounds of waves crashing at the beach. Sand between toes as its squelched in each step along the shoreline. The slopping sounds of sandcastles being built as shovels and pails dug into muddy sand crab filled wet sand. As seagulls cawed and flew above the glistening sun kissed waters every now and then swooping down to feast on the summer beach goers delectables. The sounds of beach balls and volley balls smacked to and fro as sweat dripped brows and glistening beach bodies jostled in glowing Athenian Olympiad style.  

In adolescence Summer sounded like splashing water and children laughing as water sprinkles droplets of fun filled memories on their skin. Summer sounded like meat grilling and sizzling on a charcoal grill. That smokey charbroiled burger slapped between to fluffy buns piled with crisp and crunchy toppings. As feet slapped the pavement circling the outside of the pool to climb the ping, pong, bong, long diving board. A cannon ball diver tucks in legs and holds firm as the booming waters disseminate across the pool grounds and all occupants of the pool. 

During teenage rebellion summer sounded like juicy watermelon slurped between luscious lip glossed lips. It was long car rides singing Bohemian Rhapsody’s whilst playing air guitar. Readying to display new slinky two-piece swimsuits to ogling crowds of on lookers, as siblings snap and whip towels at each other.  The sounds of aerosol sprayed sun block and lathered lotions slapped on the skin. The smells of coconut and tropical sweets lingered on perfumed pores. It was youthful beauty at its peak and I can still hear the taut arrogance playing on the strings of platitude. 

Here in my middle age summer sounds like a fan blowing cool air and the humming of the air conditioner on full blast. The sounds of the front room door opening and closing as my children turn into Mermen swimming like fish in the community pool in front of my door. The sloshings of wet clothes and dripping water drops that fall under carpeted feet. The cracking open of aluminum cans of soda. The sounds of refreshment escapes their lips in an AHHHH. Squished fresh lemons into a glass of water and clanking spoons of sugar stirred into thirst quenching lemonade. The greatest sounds of summer are the sweet smiles and laughter that bring life joy and meaning. 

Destitute

I hang my thoughts of grief from the tress of trust 

paper and pen my only solace in this forest of loneliness 

were do these thoughts come from that shadow the light 

my toes are colder than a fresh dead corpse on a morticians table 

I can feel nothing and everything ubiquitously as I hover in thought

Every whip of the lash of words spoken in contempt burn and bleed 

they are carved into my flesh like whittled transgression memories 

every second of thought is torture – a flash flood of waterlogged tears 

There is no escape from this marred inheritance 

I am charred

Explosive 

Corruptible

Demolished 

hope

Extinguished and set a blaze in a looping infinity of chaos

My screams of torment are the winds that cool your face in summer 

My agony the lemonade you drink to quench the thirst of uncertainty 

Hold me captive, keep me secluded, latch the chains, confine, and gag me 

These binding constrictive harpooned deceptions 

will never be enough to snuff out my light – 

my truth –

my love – 

my forgiveness – 

my strength to keep reaching for unity a togetherness that brings you fear 

drops you to your knees revealing your ignorance and privilege 

Summer Love of 1996

Summer sunsets have faded like blue jeans

along with the love that we shared 

Sunbeams floating on the ocean swallowing 

this day revealing the mirage of our love  

My closed eyelids glow a grapefruit hue

as memories flaunt summer bodies entwined 

Eyes wide open blink more water into 

this sea that stands between us

Fairytales are rarely true but these 

lucid dreams of true love felt so real

I should have heeded the warning and waning whales 

of mermaid’s captive as they sang out to me 

I sit on the rocks that kiss the shore, watch 

as they ebb and flow my tide of longing

Swept away, pulled under, left to drown 

my heart sinks into the abyss of unseen fathoms  

They all ask me “why can’t you just be happy?” 

Because I don’t know what happiness is — 

I don’t know how to hold it like a newborn babe 

without the fear of all the ways I will disappoint as a parent

I don’t know how to taste it like fresh fruit in summer 

without knowing when it’s gone, it’s just gone no other fruit will taste the same

I don’t know how to wrap myself in it like a new lover’s embrace

without thinking about how many others have felt this warmth – I’m no one special

I don’t know how to breathe it into me like the scent of fresh cut flowers 

without realizing that each petal will wither and die, to be tossed in the trash 

I don’t know how to look at it as butterfly wings flittering by 

without contemplating how fleeting a life is lived and morphs into death

I don’t know how to drink it in like a glass of Screaming Eagle Cabernet  

without tasting tannins of sediment that tell me who I am

I don’t know how to speak a language I never learned…

Christopher Askew

A Hope of Irony

you say you are not boring 

yet you would have me walk 

with you down buttoned halls 

of block and glass, past cubicles 

fluorescent-lit where bodies 

bend to thankless tasks -

oar-slaves to the ebb and flow

of an implacable paper tide

where numbers swirl in wordy 

pools: fiscal fears, fiduciary 

claims, markets, margins, clients' 

tears, regulators’ undersights - 

eddies into maelstroms

in some raging monetary sea

then, drifting hour on Sunday hour

on rivers of inchoate sound

flowing from that glowing 

screen, where shifting shapes 

run senseless round, dissolving 

motion, meaning, mind 

into a suffocating mire. 

(Ennui is fatal to relationship)

free me to flee your measured 

murk, and run through vibrant 

jungles of illimitable life 

until you exorcise your inner suit and tie.

Mira N Mataric

Summer Dream

I wake up suddenly

from the la-la land of sleep

after a beautiful dream.

 

My room is dark.

as I look around

and see nothing.

But can’t let it rest.

I have to see something.

If nothing else, my ceiling.

as I focus on it. Wow.

suddenly it seems to come alive

like a whole other world

of soft pastel colors

and dim shadows

dancing joyful in patterns

Oh, there is so much to see!

My ceiling has awakened too

into a whole new world.

Is it possible that I had it

all this time without knowing?

 

A powerful aroma captures me

and envelops all of my senses

I don’t think I am ready for this

but I am getting lost in it…

I want…I want…In my mind is

a picture of an endless ocean.

with water clear as it can be…

In it another life, big and small,

visible now like never before.

Oh, I am jumping and swimming

in this astonishing but different life,

much richer than any other

I have ever known.

 

I have always belonged here

just never knew.

Swim…swim…this must be

my true world.

No need to swim just give myself

to the current.

It will carry me to where I belong.

 

 

Summer Wish

The summer day is singing

in the branches of the old oak tree

the sun’s rays gently caress the

colorful blossoms in flowerbeds

a shimmer of light reflected off

the glimmering surface of the river

as mothers gather with their children

in the cool shade of that old tree.

 

If only I could visit you

on such a bright summer day

in the splendor of my native city,

to just pass by your window

and see your familiar smile

although I already know

I would not see you

I could not see you

not anymore.

 

To just walk past like long ago

when I knew you were there

I too was very much there,

to feel again what I felt then…

but nothing is the same

nothing.

R A Ruadh

When I was Summer

When I was three

Summer rattled with the surf

Across a pebbled beach

When I was five

Summer sang the soaring choir of

Cicadas on a hot Virginia afternoon

When I was seven

Summer blinked firefly morse code

And brushed wings in the Blue Ridge moonlight

When I was ten

Summer sparkled loon laughter

Skipping in the sunlight of a New Hampshire lake

When I was sixteen

Summer exploded in lightning and thunder

Echoing across Lake Michigan again and again

When I was nineteen

Summer was a moped humming down country lanes

Between magical chateaux and downy peach orchards

When I was thirty-four

Summer was my toddler counting ducklings

In a small Dutch harbour

When I was thirty-six

Summer was the story of the wise salmon

Dancing with fairy lights in the waves of Galway Bay

When I was forty-one

Summer was a deep throated blackbird

Enchanting an old Danish forest

When I was fifty-two

Summer was the river below the whispering cedars

While bald eagles surveyed the Lilloet Valley from above

When I was fifty-seven

Summer was coyotes and sweetgrass and

Honour songs rising into the starry desert sky

When I was sixty-two

Summer was the planeless skies of plague and

I could hear Canada from coast to coast.

The Three Sisters are corn, beans, and squash, traditionally grown together by many indigenous peoples of Turtle Island  (North America).  For us they represent the gifting relationship between earth and all who live with her.

Sacred Sisters of Summer

The black soil beckons

Waiting patiently in an old bin

Welcoming my fingers

As I gently push the first sister

Down into the warm

Embracing depths

She bridges and connects me

One with our mother

Her gift multiplied

Down in her roots and up to sky

Once my first sisters have awakened

From their abiding sleep

Ready to hold their younger siblings

As they learn to dance sacred rounds

I will reach again with seeds

Tucked in a circle around and

Around and around they will

Climb with the sun embracing

Holding each other


Waiting for third sister

To be shed from my fingertips

Into the welcoming womb of our mother

There to root and rise

Spread shade and protection

With leafy vine

This year’s rain gatherer and

Next year’s rain holder

Summer will tease the tassels

Bees their buzzing business

Will provoke beans above and

Squash below

Every sister bearing

New generations

New gifts

For now it is enough

To give tobacco and thanks

For the blessed gift

Of laying my first sister

In the earth

To be born again

When summer is coming in

When I sit quietly enough

And still my breath

I can hear summer coming in

The fiddleheads push through the forest floor

Uncurling each leaf

With restless reaching rustle

The pond is alive with mayflies

Stealthy strokes of frog legs and

Mud bound bubbles bursting to freedom’s sunlight

Each tiny bud of lilac lazily allows

A juicy eddy of fragrance

To join the whispered wandering winds

Grasshoppers collide with stalks of grass

Crickets creak and squeak in cadence

With the first sing song of the cicadas

When I sit quietly enough

And still my breath

I can hear summer coming in

Alicia Viguer-Espert

 

Summer with Pinus Halepensis and Photons

It took the ages of my two great-grandparents for them to reach their twisted girth.

Past June,

torridity presses them down into sand,

salt and wind hold their growth in check.

Today, sea murmurs embrace shivers from raindrops

surprising bathers who run to cover their sun-screened bodies.

 

Soon a fiery sun reappears roasting 

adolescents’ chestnut hair, 

children’s laughter pushes open the door of summer.

 

Everyone is invited into this wall-less abode,

little girls play princess, ruling from sand-castles,

youngsters dance to the sound of wind and love songs,

older women seek the shade of trees

cooling themselves with fans under an umbrella of pines.             

 

Luminosity has tired the birds,

which remain silent

until evening takes its lizard-lazy place,

and their trills join the sound of kisses. 

 

Unlike the old trees

life, in the bright photons which orchestrated the party,

ebbs fast.

By dusk millions weaken,

their sparks no longer blind us,

instead, their soft light melts the shores of hearts.

 

As the night invades the beach           

a few remaining photons drag themselves West.

Facing the inscrutable altar of the sea

they kneel, 

praying for the return of their god

to grant them resurrection.

 

Out of the dark, my mother steps under a pale half moon

holding a colorful towel,

tells us it’s time to return home,

our other home.

Stephanie Logan

On the Porch                                

Steamy summer night                                          

Dog barking in the distance                                                        

Sounds of loss haunt me

Jeffry Michael Jensen

 

Blistering Enlightenment

the crushing obligation of behemoths deep

in the woods drives angels into frijoles hysteria

harpoons on the back of flight pray

on those running in guacamole desperation

a river hooked on bounty is blocked

by a giant body sock turned nacho slick

rain clouds take an exposed crease

into all ghostly gulps of God’s smoke

interpretation pledges to condition

all allergic breathless cubic taco divinity

a neck of missing skin slithers tabletop

to exotic belly bounce siege mentality

I distance myself from a pumping manifesto

purity has cornered the market on disgrace

sweetness is a form of running low on forgiveness

the sun blazes above all transitory albondigas aspirations

a baby bird flutters toward a transmutation

I take a solitary tangled enchilada jump

my fingers declare a greasy doorway to be paradise

childhood chairs circle the angry remains of migration

sand funnels into an ancient bulging sorrow

I huddle inside the expanding dense sounds of quivering

fruitless equations as my summer flesh blisters enlightenment

Thom Garzone

Endless Summer Mentality

In my mind’s prison cell delusions fill its space.

I struggle to sleep at night, contending with the

facade of my existence.

Peace is sparse and I am unable to flee

the fires of the summer, a burning hell

among fears I face.

I want to free myself of my responsibilities,

to ride along Idaho’s riverbanks, letting winds

flow against my body.

Promises I give myself, academia at my feet, success bleeding

from words are weak branches of my being as I pass

through these lengthened seasons, these snapshots of time.

Shadows of Light

Understanding and its long, dusty road,

meanings, forgotten stones under the sun.

Why has this path led me here?

Summer leaves guide me

to visions crowded with limbs, colorful landscapes

broken in odes of time.

I lie beneath the shadows of trees

revolving with tension, yet drift downward

to comprehend these peaceful inner waves.

Solo Trek in June

A highway opens, barren, free, but useful

Time inherits me, Idaho’s son

driving east on I-84

listening only to the silence of my soul

watching desert’s bugs splatter against my windshield

I pass one town where once taking refuge

it had towered upon a delivered height,

and I recall when it led to crags braced before

an earthly yet heavenly domain

Below me, the meandering Snake River

follows my brain with its release

Horses, mules, bulls, goats, and the

landscape that flows with crops

moors me to its power

Nature brings me to my destination

as I slow down for towns & their low speed limits

till then I find the oasis sunken

in a wondrous glow of horizon’s end I seek

Jack G Bowman

Spring Séance

Days of Spring pass

as the virus slowly dies

nowhere to go

the sun burns small blades of living grass,

kills them before they rise

 

a man feels the weaving and shaking

transformations

where he should rise,

he sits calmly in the backyard

dog at his feet

stares at the distant palm and eucalyptus

over the corral

feels his essence begin to pull westward toward them

the dog looks at him, sad,

but he sits there,

beneath the calls of wondrous, strange birds, 

gets close to a sense of peace

with nowhere to go.

 

Remembering Past Insomnias

Vicious painful ice fills his right ear, a frozen spike,

so he rolls over, only to hear a buzzing of close by,

blood lusting, winged insects

he remembers

the feeling of being trapped on a 1988 sweat soaked aging mattress,

worry, a darkened insecurity that filled him,

works on him now

his eyes crank open, unwilling to return to closed position

3:24 AM

his scalp begins to itch in several places, invisible parasites,

he repeats checking, to no avail

it is this negative fear

that blankets over him

connects to everything; from nearby asteroids

to political criminals with multitudes of powerful followers,

heat, drought, gnats and hostile commentary

his weary head pounds,

covers both ears, listens to the internal sound

of air going in and out

as long as it can.

 

Love, Peace and Knowledge 

Jack G Bowman MA LMFT 42855 

http://www.youtube.com/JackGBowman 

http://www.facebook.com/jackgbowman 

https://www.goodreads.com/jackgbowman 

http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00F5DJ6TI   

http://deviantart.com/jackgbowman

My Poetry Books:  

1. Thanatos on a Southland Freeway 

    (2001) 

2. Paranormal Libido (2002) 

3. Incarnate Canals of Mars (2003) 

4. Unnatural Fire (2004) 

5. Diamonds in the Sand (2007) 

6. Moths Singed by Moonlight (2008) 

7. Vision and Presence (2009) 

8. Serpents in the Stratosphere (2010) 

9. A Walk into Darkness (2011) 

10. Red Velvet Apocalypse (2012) 

11. Other Realms of Being (2013) 

12. Incandescent Silence (2014) 

13. The Troublesome Tales of Frank Macabre (2015)   \

14. Ego Syntonic Jasmine (2016)

15. Metamorphic Consequences (2018)

16. Eucalyptus Rex (2020)

17. High Strangeness (2021)

Therapy Books:   

18. The 8 week Self-Esteem

      Workbook (2011) 

19. The Dilemmas of Men (2014) 

20. Reading People (2017)   

all books available at Http://www.Amazon.com or http://www.thebookpatch.com/SiteSearch.aspx?q=Jack%20G.%20Bowman

original music also available on www.cdbaby.com &

http://www.Amazon.com see 

"Jack Bowman and the VIPs" 

  Dark Passages Vol. 1,2,3 & 4.     

http://cdbaby.com/cd/darkpassagesvol4

Rick Leddy

Gidget Goes to Hell

Harbinger summer moon hugs the horizon

The Suburban Lawns screeching art school punk

Su Tissue a psychotic bird

Her eyes wide darting, warbling comatose helium-induced screams 

We are filled with Ludes and cheap pitchers

As Rick shanks the mosh pit with his rage

Growling at the world 

Elbows jabbing, legs kicking to the staccato beat

His body a tsunami on the dance floor

overwhelming all in its path

He gouges the smoke-filled room with bare hands

ripping out the still-beating heart 

of the Long Beach night

Lakewood Punks circle

Sharks sensing blood

Predators swimming in waters

Where they are not welcome

Our Ocean 

Our Beach

Our Club

Fuck Off, Lakewood

You post-war, cookie-cutter gateway to Hawaiian Gardens

Grand-slammin’ burb-ghetto of the original Denny’s

Our bodies move in slow motion blur

Lips and cheeks numb from prescription hypnotics

while Rick dances first-degree murder

He thinks about his brother's cells rebelling against themselves

He fights the Monster the only way he knows how

Lashing Out

Wounding Air

Looking to bare-fist the cancer

But knowing tonight, anything will do

The Suburban Lawns play Gidget Goes to Hell:

Gidget gets a hand

Into Daddy's pocket

Silver keys, shiny red sports car

Speed-shift, baby, on PCH, yeah

She's not goin' to school

Surfer's rule!

Oh, Gidget goes to hell!

Arms like psychotic wheat

Lakewood punks pinballing off Rick

Slamming, bouncing, boomeranging

Until Rick detonates his suicide vest intention

A body flies into the drumkit on the beat

The stage now a black hole sucking in violence

Another Lakewood Punk rolls over a table

Leaving spilled beer and anger in his wake

It’s an All-American Movie Barroom Brawl

With Rick as its sun, pulling in furious worlds

Fighting three to one, a Lakewood Punk pounds his back 

as he smashes another to the floor

Beer mugs fly in slow motion 

Missiles leaving thick golden liquid contrails

of alcohol assured destruction

I bushwhack through flesh and bone 

past bodies thrown into the tempest’s path

I am spun around by unseen hands

a knuckle introduces itself to my forehead 

My glasses fly, shock stars burst

Blind and suddenly enfolded in tree trunk arms

A bouncer from a thousand miles away shouts:

Stop that shit!

As my inner child screams

I didn’t start it!

Secretly glad I was saved from future hurt 

Ashamed at the cowardice of the thought

My pride more pummeled than my face

But then it stops 

All of it, as suddenly as it had begun

The Eye of the Storm

A dark cloud front of panting bodies part

Revealing Rick

Half-naked dangling commando

An exhausted, exposed Noah punch-drunk wavering 

His pants shredded, gone, Houdinied from the brawl

Like magic, Grandfather clocking for all to see

The house lights up as wounded punk warriors limp off

Slipping on minefields of beer-soaked French fries and nachos

The Suburban Lawns gingerly reassemble on stage

Theatre Art kids traumatized at dress-up suddenly real

A Lakewood Punk staggers into frame

Spitting sparks into dry tinder

Yells at Rick

WHY? WHY DID YOU START THAT FIGHT?

(My brother might die, and I don’t know what to do)

But, synapses refuse to connect with speech

Rick pauses, fish-gasping explanations

But, sometimes a fist is worth a thousand words

So, he answers with a hard right to Lakewood’s temple

And the room explodes again

My eyes visionless in fuzzy conflagration

A soft filter belying a war zone

The crowd becomes a single beast of faces and body parts

A living entity, its maw chewing rage 

Electrified, feeding and enlarging

A summer thunderstorm threatening apocalyptic wildfire

Quick, unpredictable, violent

Then just as suddenly

Gone again

Christie and Rick stand bloodied Tony and Maria

Bathed in light, alone on the dance floor

Christie covers Rick with a borrowed flannel shirt

A 99-cent thrift store kilt with sleeves

She tenderly wipes taffy spit strands from his face

The crowd thins, dissipates, sniffing for the next thing

Searching for new chapters written in blood and insanity

The Nugget-A-Go-Go fades to grey

The tchotchkes of violence sprawl on the sticky floor

To be swept up and sanitized

Until the next show

I search for my glasses in house twilight

And find them cowering under the bar

The damaged frames twisted and wrecked

I put them on

One lens scuffed and dangling

As we stagger out,

licking wounds both real and psychic

I drive home alone under the ghostly nightlight pall

The satellite reflection stings my face

El Camino roaring alone in breakneck 405 emptiness

Window-open, wind rushing, nearly blind

My foot pedal to the metal  

I’m Gidget Gone to Hell

breathing the hot, frictioned air of the summer night

Howling at the fast lane’s bitter, leering moon

 

Dean Okamura

Sage Tiago

The summer sounds teased me 

on the trail with no one around. 

One is never alone when surrounded by nature. 

Listen to the sound of bird calls. 

Swishing sounds of thin stem rapiers through the air. 

Hear the swift stirring of hummingbird wings. 

See the Mesquite Tree of Repose. 

Under its waving branches, sits Sage Tiago Del Cerro, 

who is our peninsula respected bodhisattva. 

Talking to Sage Tiago does 

wondrous good to improve the soundness of the mind. 

I wish I had met him earlier in life. 

Reaching the Mesquite Tree, he sits 

in repose, dwelling in profound sound sleep. 

He answers us with eyes shut. 

We count on him for sound advice. 

Speaking in his mother tongue, hands clasped on his lap, says, 

"It starts with you." ("El inicio de todo, comienza contigo.") 

     "It starts with you." 

          "It starts with you." 

               Then drifts off into the divine sound of Om. 

Oh, I wish there was a sonar 

sounding device whose penetrating waves 

revealed a person's hidden reefs — 

     reefs that upset, 

          reefs that abuse, 

               reefs that betray, 

          reefs that serve self, 

     reefs that torment. 

Oh, how nice it would be to dive 

deep into a person as a whale sounds to the depths of the sea, 

rather than dive into the depths of despair. 

Time passes. Best memories remain. 

Maybe lost love presents itself afresh — from 

summer fifty years ago at Puget Sound. 

Does she remember me? 

"It starts with you." ("El inicio de todo, comienza contigo.") 

Tim Tipton

My feelings for you are ripe like

huckleberries on a hot summer day

I treasure my love for you

nestled in a huck paradise

I give you my

heart that bleeds purple

Feasting on indigo

like the power of gemstones

Blue stars

August love is my number one antioxidant

favoring the most fruitful month

 

 

Trying to Write

I reached deep into a empty well 

with questions, not words

Questions such as 

will I ever write again?

My body cries to lie down 

but my heart refused to obey 

I struggled to form

anything from the pen

The house was quiet like the backyard

so quiet you don’t even know you’re alive

Moon shined hot florescent white

on a humid summer night

I sat for hours trying to write

my hand resigned the pen and turned

out the light

Nobody could blame me if I 

crawled inside a warm bed, could they?

There was nothing new inside me

the well was bone dry

I studied the paper gleaming from the 

moonlight where I saw it quivering 

when my breath touched it 

Before long, before I knew it, 

morning came 

The sun was ripe for the eye

The well was full and plentiful 

Morning nourishes me, everything was

fulfilling. 

I took all the time I pleased as

pen came together with paper and

words flowed from the ink, this pleased 

me dearly.

 

 

Suppose I write down August,

and the word coast,

Put it under your pillow

When you read it

You will recall

Those days along

The shore

Marveling at the changing

Colors of the ocean

The sea lions

We saw

Sleeping on the sand

Like shifting black rocks,

The formation of birds

Writing poetry

In the sky, us, gazing in a field among cows 

and horses You will recall how we let 

the wind tangle our hair

Lori Wall-Holloway

High Above the Pier   

It is summer and my lover

and I sit in a yellow round 

gondola high above the pier 

Machine gears grind as they pull

a roller coaster up a track

beneath us before releasing

it to zip around making a whoosh 

sound accompanied by delightful 

screams of the occupants inside 

Other rides spin, rock and thrill 

those who desire adrenalin rushes

Our bucket comes 

to a standstill

suspended at the top

where a morning breeze 

caresses our cheeks 

We see families delight 

in the beach as they run 

laughing towards white cap waves 

We hear the surf collide 

against the coastline

mixed with music 

from an electric violin 

below and squawks 

from seagulls

Refreshed by the sea

as in the past when

we were first married 

our day out is special

because it is my husband’s 

first time riding

the Ferris Wheel

I delight in seeing 

his adventurous spirit

rejuvenated 

which otherwise

has a fear of heights

Fireworks in the Sky

The sound of a whistling 

rocket flying into the air 

synchronizes with a boom

before colorful shapes 

manifest in the dark sky

During a summer light

show an illumination 

of flowers and waterfalls 

make different colors 

against a black canvas 

Geometric patterns

paint the night

The finale magic is created

with multiple firecrackers

being quickly shot out of a cannon

to produce splatters of brilliance

against an ebony background 

They leave behind smoke clouds

of memories for me until the next 

fireworks display

Summer sounds of kids

splashing water in big pool

Silence comes at night

Weary children in deep sleep 

wake refreshed for more fun times 

Scott C Kaestner

Desert Song

The sun sings in falsetto

over the Mojave Desert

an incessant blue

sky hums along

their sound blisters

fury unsung

the silence

deafening.

Maria A Arana

Waking

 

take time

to be with family

don’t run ahead

don’t let the wind

catch up to you

and take you

in its embrace

 

allow the heart

to seek the touch

of flesh

seek the sounds

of laughter

from them

 

time plays

with the memory

it wants you to forget

the importance

of touch

 

don’t squirm

at the thought

don’t let the chance to feel

fly away with the wind

whose touch brought death

and the challenge to even cry

 

 

luck III

 

remember hindrance

gentle music

sound promises

like night spirits

singing to a strong goddess

and evening gods

belonging to the dew

mutual love

quiet joy

 

Summer Stroll

 

animal rests by ancient bough

vivid spirit breathes

sweet air

follows green path

 

intuition tree

too wild though

sanctuary watches nature

wander

from forest blossom to breeze

Mark A Fisher

 cicadas

walking through

suburban wilderness

there is the calling of birds

in the stifling summer heat

as things unknown

slither through grass

and splash into ponds

or flutter invisibly

between green oak trees

while the oppressive buzzing

forms acoustic beats

that form lazy waves

to flow like tides

across this tiny island

in a sea of streets

and houses closed up

silent to the cicadas

listening only to

their own songs

Joan McNerney

White Heat

This dry moment

we lay in sweat beds.

 

Limp flowers turned

into themselves.

 

Lightning scorches

skies with hot zigzags.

 

Will it ever rain, when

will cicadas be silent?

 

Memories of a white room

burning pains…shunts, stains.

 

A bottle bursts filling the

sidewalk with rancid beer.

Throat of bird

swollen, screaming.

 

Rendezvous

That was the name of a paint

can from J&M Hardware.

 

With sweat lingering on her

face, she colored her room.

 

Tinted now like insides of

ripe plums, like perfect grapes.

 

When the sizzling lemon sun

dropped from heaven...night

became moist and black.

 

Her fan whirled thick air

stained with cigarettes

coffee, turpentine, white wine.

 

She sank into her wicker couch

as fog horns trail the horizon.

 

Locusts screech relentlessly for water

always wanting more more more water.

 

Closing her eyes, remembering him

now tasting the feast of his smile.

 

Summer Solstice

Trees outline the

horizon in green lace.

Beneath boughs float

galaxies of blue bugs.

Crimson clouds smudge

a sapphire sky.

 

Listen to swish of

branches as cicada

swell and swarm.

Hiding under shadows,

beating their wings,

hissing their mating calls.

 

Evening is coming…

the dawn of nighttime.

We are suspended now

between light and dark.

Clouds rushing over heaven.

Sun drops from sky.

 

The air is fragrant with 

sweet blooming jasmine.

Southern winds sweep

across the hemisphere

brightening star after star

awakening this night.

Shih-Fang Wang

Lion-Leopard Rain

Summer is rich with sounds

In my subtropical homeland

People chat under shades

Children frolic and giggle outdoors

Cicadas shriek incessantly from trees 

Beat all are the loud blares of 

The thundershowers

Sultry early afternoon 

The blazing sun scorches the land

Moisture-laden air ascends 

Cumulus clouds formed 

The sky soon darkens 

Fleeting lightnings ignited as

Opposite charges mingle in billows

Explosive roars of thunders are preludes for

The thundershowers dubbed as

Lion-leopard rains by Taiwanese

The rain comes down hard and fast

Before one has time to find cover

Big drops percuss forcefully 

In presto tempo on 

Tin roofs glass windows wood barrels

The loud sounds shroud all other noises 

A quick chill pours through the stifling atmosphere

Not for long nature’s symphony 

Swiftly turns into adagio

then a terse finale

The clouds disappear

The sun reclaims the sky 

Air cooled and people refreshed

The Unwelcomed Summer Sound

It’s a low hum 

Yet loud as a roar in my dream 

Arouse me from sleep

So annoying and menacing

The hated summer sound is

Coming from somewhere in the dark

Getting closer and closer

I must be the target 

Now it blares in my ear

Ready to attack 

I hear her demand

Give me your blood

Just a little bit

For me to breed

I do not concur

Can’t see unlighted

No time to flick the switch

Slap my own face hard and fast 

A brief silence

Then humming recurs

I missed

She is coming back

Jesse Rey Tovar

Summer Sounds at a Megachurch

based on a true story

Chuck, a megachurch pastor, left a liquor store with a small, black plastic bag.

Larry, a church member, captured Pastor Chuck’s visit on cell phone video.

When Larry’s video circulated, members were pissed. 

Aly, a member, was pissed because Pastor Chuck sat down Ron, 

a former usher, for guzzling beer years ago, though Ron really tried it 

for the first time, yet Ron was treated like a jumper who hit the pavement. 

Hasley, Pastor Darrell’s wife, overheard Aly and Zeriah, another member, 

mumble how not even Pastor Chuck is above his rules. All season,

summer sounds about Pastor Chuck at a liquor store were spreading.

Jackie Chou

Sidewalk Symphony

i pick up scraps of sounds i hear

on city streets

the rustle of leaves under hedges

the yowls of mating cats

& sing a poem of my own making

each syllable a raindrop

descending into an ocean

drowned by the swish of cars

the footfalls of the masses

my father's voice 

warns me of twists & turns 

in the road ahead

the thumps of my heels

just small heartbeats

in the grand scheme of things