Here is a poem about the memory of my neighbor. I had many a sweet Summertime experience in her yard.
Goldie said bubbles can grow into flowers.
I pretend float to the sky and form castles with towers.
The fall to ground another day in the form of sudsy, showers and generously water the bubble flowers.
PS Goldie used to blow bubbles and did say they would grow into flowers. I think I half believed it.]]>
Except with AC, we don’t hear those words that much anymore.
And even though we have AC, I notice that few men (at least of my generation and younger) wear suit jackets at church anymore.
But it’s a good haiku nonetheless.]]>
as for an original:
Four glorious words:
“Brothers, remove your jackets,”
Summer comes to Church.
For Once, Then, Something
by Robert Frost
Others taunt me with having knelt at well-curbs
Always wrong to the light, so never seeing
Deeper down in the well than where the water
Gives me back in a shining surface picture
Me myself in the summer heaven godlike
Looking out of a wreath of fern and cloud puffs.
Once, when trying with chin against a well-curb,
I discerned, as I thought, beyond the picture,
Through the picture, a something white, uncertain,
Something more of the depths—and then I lost it.
Water came to rebuke the too clear water.
One drop fell from a fern, and lo, a ripple
Shook whatever it was lay there at bottom,
Blurred it, blotted it out. What was that whiteness?
Truth? A pebble of quartz? For once, then, something
I’ve always been an ee cummings type. Here’s one of my faves:
i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes
(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday;this is the birth
day of life and love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)
how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginably You?
(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
I’m too damn stupid
to write anything profound
in seventeen sounds.
Here’s one from Wallace Stevens:
Hymn From A Watermelon Pavilion
You dweller in the dark cabin,
To whom the watermelon is always purple,
Whose garden is wind and moon,
Of the two dreams, night and day,
What lover, what dreamer, would choose
The one obscured by sleep?
Here is the plantain by your door
And the best cock of red feather
That crew before the clocks.
A feme may come, leaf-green,
Whose coming may give revel
Beyond revelries of sleep,
Yes, and the blackbird spread its tail,
So that the sun may speckle,
While it creaks hail.
You dweller in the dark cabin,
Rise, since rising will not waken,
And hail, cry hail, cry hail.
I’ll have another one for you, not written by me, in a few, MCQ.
Here we go … Weather, by May Swenson
I hope they never get a rope on you, weather.
I hope they never put a bit in your mouth.
I hope they never pack your snorts
into an engine or make you wear wheels.
I hope the astronauts will always have to wait
till you get off the prairie
because your kick is lethal,
your temper worse than the megaton.
I hope your harsh mane will grow forever,
and blow where it will,
that your slick hide will always shiver
and flick down your bright sweat.
Reteach us terror, weather,
with your teeth on our ships,
your hoofs on our houses,
your tail swatting our planes down like flies.
Before they make a grenade of our planet
I hope you’ll come like a comet,
oh mustang – fire-eyes, upreared belly -
bust the corral and stomp us to death.