Tag: summer

Orion’s Belt

Summer begins the wait for Orion’s Belt

I have always felt it was ironic, or perhaps unfair that summer starts with the longest day then shortens with each daylight.

It is Summer that speaks in light.

Memories of glistening Beach Sand,

Then waves lapping on rocks

Clear Blue Horizon with Orange burned in its center.

We close our eyes at a day at the park,

Behind our eyelids burned red orange

We hold a blade of grass in our lips

A Saturday

Maybe the 4th of July

People Dancing,

People laughing,

This is a memory,

Shared.

It is a day that lives in Barbeque, Trumpets and Drums, a Guitar strum’s.

A Balloon has caught its string on a power line,

Fireworks clumsily play with classical music.

And it is a time for Diesel engines.

Around the field marching dust covers footsteps,

That just made patterns.

Patterns of the stars are called constellations.

Each constellation has a story, a myth,

A lesson to learn.

It is placed in the sky for us to see.

We just told many stories while we made patterns in fields.

But those were the days when summers were something different from the rest of the year.

Something different from just another season.

Seasons are what tracks the sky.

It is the entrance of stars in their grand parade over our heads.

As you stand on your grass crouched to your telescope,

Aimed to the heavens with its stories that have been told and waiting to be heard and told again.

It is here that you sip your wine, or your brandy and remember

The waves deepening Blue horizon and Orange burn.

You listen to your stories again as they run again on the patterns made from the craters on the moon

Her Dark hair run through your fingertips in a morning in Santa Fe

Like a Pattern by Georgia O’Keefe

It flows perfectly, abstract, but with direction.

And, there is that story.

Like so many stories that is now being shared with those constellations,

Your place under, with those stars.

It is a procession.

One that could be played by a

Koto, or a Guzheng

As only those instruments could describe your peace, or place or your time underneath these stars

In a way that would connect your stories to theirs as something that does not end with your story or theirs.

It is part of the cosmos.

And I will ramble on as a mind will,

And speak of Fireflies near midnight on the edges of a field in Kansas

The Top of Mt Spokane under full moon getting ready for a midnight run down through the trees at full speed for the fun of it.

Sitting with my Design Teacher at a Japanese Garden feeding Koi talking about Godzilla

My mind wanders and wonders, what my favorite story of summer is

I simply remember warmth,

Being spoken to me by light.

That is my memory of summer,

As I aim my telescope to the southern sky and see the edge of Orion’s Belt.

The Beautiful

Somehow the warmth of the air brings us inside the perfume of flowers, trees, breeze bringing us nearby kitchens, clicks of glasses with ice, somehow the light and shadow with its strong contrast creates a focal point.

 

 

She walks south on Freemont ave, Red Dress hangs just to the knees, small white floral pattern, brown sandals perfect with the summer dress, her dark hair pulled back to a pony tail, Olive skin, her right hand holding white daisy’s, her left gently swings lose, each step graceful like an ice skater, her head glides like on a rail, she moves through the shadows of the trees, the light dancing on her like she is center staged, people notice her, girlfriends holding hands of their lovers join their lovers in a long look as they hold their breath.

Summer is the time for such moments,

Somehow the warmth of the air brings us inside the perfume of flowers, trees, breeze bringing us nearby kitchens, clicks of glasses with ice, somehow the light and shadow with its strong contrast creates a focal point.

She walked through the sidewalk crowd lost in her thoughts, provoking thoughts of others

She is early 20s, she lifts her hand with the flowers and smells them as she passes an elderly couple, He uses a walker, she has her on his arm , white hair, white wrinkled skin fresh to the sun step into the shade of the tree and  watch her walk by, he kisses her hand then they turn back slowly moving on their way.

A 40sh male riding his bike slows to look at her, loses the rhythm of his pedals, he shakes his head as he regains his rhythm, energy well spent.

I turn my bus west on 46th, 12pm on a Monday, its quiet on this street, not so many shadows as the sun is now overhead, not so many trees, cars on each side.

I think of the time I met my lover at a QFC, we bought Sushi and Ice Tea, we walked to a near by park and talked, we had winter jackets on, hers a light blue, mine kaki, I did not notice it was cold.