The Circling Sun

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
How many times have there been poems written about summer? Too many. For those of us who feel lonely in the summer, and prefer the movement and life of any other season.

Submitted: July 10, 2012

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Submitted: July 10, 2012



What is it about a summer day that makes a poet string words upon a line

And send them buzzing down a string like little model planes?

Release them into a world that will snatch them down with greedy hands,

Without a thought about their weightlessness?

That a man with a vintage mustache would lean out a window

Over a trellis of ivy and blow bubbles that burst into words like "alabaster" ?

A summer day with its parched heat and sweaty brow

Inspires the artist to capture the world around him

And confine it forever on a canvass.

How many endless fields delighted eager eyes?

How many fresh breaths of air?

How many a rushing stream spoke sweet nothings to an ear?

So hundreds of poems littered the streets with their whispering words.

In someone’s basement lies stacks of paintings

Depicting the lilac or a willow tree.

The same scene.

By different hands.

Somewhere lies the archives of man’s “original thought”

From people who swat as an idea drifts overhead.

Creativity, in thread

That one must grab before it gets away.

And rushes in the blood, softly speaking:

“It is living, it is living”

Summer like sticky fingers and the smell of heat.

Lingers in air so thick with possibility

We cannot take a breath.

Ah, to melt like wax in the horrid sun.

And gaze outside yourself

To bumble bees that cannot stay aloft.

For the human was given wings of lead

And they grow heavier in the summer.

And so the image of the magpie or the monarch

Becomes a reminder of the things we cannot have.

And thus the birth of rage.

Summer’s distorted little infant; give us years of skinned knees

Give us kites that are engineered to fail.

Give us peeling, stinging burns from the sun.

Give us fruit, and find it harboring wasps.

And the desperation to get cool

As our lungs stick to our ribs.

And yet.

It is curious.

The tulip with its burst of color gives the mind some depth.

I much prefer the higher elevations, where it is never summer.

And the snow is so thick the clock hands cannot push it away.

And no one goes and goes and goes

and justly never has to come back.

Because “its cold outside; you need a jacket”

Like an acrobat needs a safety harness

To keep us from being thrown off the world as it spins faster.

Instead, the slowly creeping summer

Grinds to a halt in the deep sand.

While the sun still circles over head .

Circles like a vulture circles.

Ever closer.

While the waters of all the seas gargle deeply in their throats,

And slowly freeze.

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