Artist, actor, poet, teacher, songwriter & actor with 4,000 poems & almost 1,000 songs written, performed recorded & published on line.
The intricate beauty of the seasonal changes
Three poems of spring and summer
I. April's golden tresses grace willow trees and bless forsythia tips near my mountain porch, my heavenly perch. it is here and everywhere that I find April May Dance until June. My dog catches zzzz's paws moving to squirrelly-cued dreams, but melted snow rushes faster to the river flowing towards valleys below. Clouds almost touch my world misting pastures, while a rainbow bends to color their gray and white canvas. Summer slowly ascends slopes below me bearing the scent of honeysuckle and devil's paintbrush. I remain a speck of flesh a pigment of imagination on God's incredible palette, trying to capture his marvels on these pounded, ground up remnants of some trees I've never climbed. Author notes written by a cabin I used to frequent when I needed escape from the world at large, things seem much smaller on a mountaintop, as far as the world's troubles go. II. Just another Summer night my feet still damp from a walk in the grass across the patch that I call home. <> Toes delighting times ten in the soft lush carpets that I've walked so often before. <> A patchwork quilt of memories such as my childhood yard where my tinier feet ran energetic under the moonlight, scrambling home before the streetlights came on. <> That was mom.... her rule and oh, how often the nieghbor kids would break the streetlamps nearest their home just to have a little longer to frolic in the embrace of darkness. <> Mom has long ago embraced that darkness herslf but her love shines on brighter than any streeetlight could glow. <> The firelies were all a buzz tonight carrying torches that I used to capture in old mayonaisse jars. <> Little bits of a summer day flying quickly away in the musk of dusk. <> I caught one earlier, cupped it in my hand and studied its luminescent gift to all who stroll the edge of night. <> And then I set it free to mate and die so that others long after me could watch them fly polka dotting the sky. <> I stopped to pat the gravel and whisper "You were a good boy" over the grave where my Corgi lies. <> He bled to death internally on May tenth, at only seven years old. He would have loved this walk in the dark but he is ashes in a can sealed in an airtight bag with a couple of yummies and a bone. <> Life fades from us a little bit at a time we all need to get out more and be touched by the darkness as it encroaches in tiny increments. <> It is a place we are all headed to whether seven or seventy. <> I believe all poets were born in the inky black of a Summer night, and then driven with an urgency to bright, white rectangles. <> Each needing to capture what their souls felt in the nothingness of eve blanketing the earth. <> I have been empty as of late, I needed the immersion into the simplest joy of Just another Summer night. <> It was almost as if the creases in my brain and across my forehead were pressed smooth, and I found that stress free inner voice that we seldom hear until we grow desperate in the silence of what will never be. <> The night is an acceptance of all of the brighter things we cherish slowly vanishing to pinpoints far above. <.> The dawn is a renewal of trying to recapture what was always lost before. <> And in between both if we are truly lucky there is love, to soothe away the losses and heat the passion that is often found on just another summer night. <> So now I sit in the quiet of my studio struggling to explain it all in a language that can never match it's sheer beauty. <> Yet still I try, it is my calling anything less would be lifeless, loveless, and oh, so bittersweet on just another Summer Night. III.
Watermelancholy on a summer afternoon, spitting seeds into the grass that frames the fields of June. Juices run in rivulets pale pink across his chin, which almost match exactly to his lips formed in a grin. Sunlight warms the tee-shirt stains from watermelon spills, each piece excised carefully through 7 year old skills. Breezes whistle soft tunes only heard when we are small rinds lie scattered in green commas that paused upon their fall. Watermelancholy is a youthful joy I miss, thus I lift my pen to savor long ago sweetness.
© 2009 Matthew Frederick Blowers III
theherbivorehippi from Holly, MI on June 03, 2010:
Oh my gosh...I must go buy some watermelon tomorrow! lol Love this!