This week, find a tablespoon of summer. Nothing big. A sound, a sight, something unimpressive. Give it to a poem, and let the poem give it life.
Summer has officially cut off her jeans and stepped into the river here in eastern Washington.
Temperatures will be in the high 90’s all week. And next week too. (She is late this year because just yesterday morning I contemplated firing up the wood stove just to “take the chill off” while we ate breakfast).
So, we are back to summer.
L.L. Barkat doled out the High Calling Blogs Random Acts of Poetry writing prompt. I wish she would have handed it out individually–perhaps written the directive on popsicle sticks. Yum. That would have been best.
Before trying my hand at some rhyming, rhythmic pose, let me tell you what summer is to me…
- Summer is sweating without even exercising.
- Summer is the frayed edges of cut-off jeans tickling the backside of my knees.
- Summer is crisscrossed tan lines on feet from Chacos (not tacos, Chacos–it’s a river sandal).
- Summer is bountiful vitamin D.
- Summer is watermelon.
- Summer is pink watermelon juice sticking with sweet kisses to cheeks and lips and fingers and arms.
- Summer is hot feet in cold creeks.
- Summer is homemade honey lemonade.
- Summer is sleeping with covers tossed off.
- Summer is the smell of hot pine needle blanketed forest floors.
- Summer is splashing and frolicking.
- Summer is ice cream plopping out the bottom of a cone.
- Summer is hair not in a ponytail, but blowing wild and loose with the windows rolled down.
- Summer is inner tube rocking on the lake.
- Summer is getting tossed off the end of a dock.
- Summer is sand.
- Summer is rodeos.
- Summer is Wranglers, straw hats, boots, cowboys, cowgirls, horses, dust, hot bleachers, and bull snot.
- Yes, bull snot. You should see it fly through the air in a wild rodeo frenzy. Could you guess that I wanted to be a bull-rider when I grew up? Hmmm. (Hey, I have some stories about that and I reckon my mamma has some gray hair…)
- Summer is Chris LeDoux’s County Fair (give a look & listen below)
- Summer is smokey s’mores and morning pillows that smell like campfires.
- Summer eating lunch, barefoot in the garden.
- Summer is playing baseball while letting the horses mow the lawn.
- Summer is panting dogs.
- Summer is swimming.
- Summer is sunscreen, swimming suits, bare feet in sneakers, cut-offs, and muscle shirts.
- Summer is eating cherries, spitting seeds.
- Summer is eating sunflower seeds, spitting shells.
- Summer is love.
- Summer is hugging in the water, before your man dunks ya under.
- Summer is a teenager, off from a waitress double-shift, hot and sticky with other people’s food, just before cannon-balling off the dock by the light of the moon…
Hmmm, most of my favorite summer memories come from teen years. Why is that? I reckon it is because teenage summers were so full of possibility and fun and freedom. Yes, that’s it. Freedom.
Freedom to do (almost) as you want, but not yet shackled by adult responsibilities. Oh man, I want a taste of that again!
Hey L.L., it’s okay that you didn’t give the prompt with a popsicle, but won’t you come over and share some honey lemonade as I wade my cut-off Wrangler-wearin’ self into some melted snow?
Here is my poem. When contemplating the “unimpressive” things of summer, I thought of the often overlooked. All this poor guy tastes for summer are people’s feet…
sandals, sneakers and flip-flops
buried beneath towels, t-shirts and cut-offs
are even painted
with lipstick hues
with deep fissured
are rubbed smooth
with pumice stones
preludes to cannon-balls
with trepidacious tip-toeing
and finger-squeezing, nose-plugged jumps
with purposeful, serious strides
before splash-less dives
my squeaky board
they jump into
a wildly, wonderful
* You might have gotten more than a taste of A Simple Country Girl at this summer picnic, with my Chris LeDoux menagerie and all. His tunes are part of me, I reckon it is the tenacity and tough and gritty parts…
* Ta-ta-for-now people. I am gonna talk my man into taking a day off from work, grab some towels, pack a cooler with cherries, don my cut-offs, find a lake, and eat me a nice big ole hunk o’ summer. Ooooh, can you taste it? Wanna come?