Deep Summer

It is necessary that we in the Southern Hemisphere hold summer’s memories closely to our hearts, or we risk their loss –

those holiday summers,

lazing on the grass

or the sand –

as winter thickens around us,

we crave to keep

that leisurely haze.

A liwuli for FridayWritings #133 at Poets and Storytellers United, inspired by the quote: 'Deep summer is when laziness finds respectability.' ~ Sam Keen. (I'm thinking I'll need to rewrite it at some point and take out the reference to Southern Hemisphere, which was just a response to getting a summer prompt in my winter – but what I say really applies whenever the seasons happen in one's own locality.)

Longing [Revision]

I’m haunted now by longing, as I age –

the remembered longings of youthful loves –

like an old book, where I turn to a page

back near the beginning, to see if it moves

my spirit now as then. Such treasure troves

of beauty and sorrow I hold within! 

Yet why, after so long, do they return

to haunt me? I’d resolved to relegate

all to burial chambers. But they burn,

those old flames, flaring ... as the hour grows late. 

                                                    

[Revised 25 June 20204. Earlier draft posted 19 April 2024.]

On Being Asked to Tell a Tall Tale and Make it Funny [Revision]

But I don’t feel like laughing, and I’ve no tales to tell 

tall enough to top the reality of our world right now. 

                          

Once upon a time a species on this planet grew too fast, 

too large. Dinosaurs? No, us: breeding and breeding.

You’ve seen it with other animals. Overcrowding 

leads to aggression, fights to the death. 

Sometimes earth creates plague, or famine, to interrupt

burgeoning numbers. Sometimes that’s not enough.

This species became so big it blotted out the sun. Or 

perhaps it was the opposite? Anyway, climate changed.

 

A sudden plague wiped out millions … 

still didn’t quite do the job. New wars began – 

though most of us knew this was not the way home 

to a safe place, living in balance with nature.

What price revolution, if it uses

the same old weapons? Yet –

what price change, if gentle means slow?

We fight for breath. The trap closes.

[Revised 24 June – 23 July 2024. Earlier draft posted 12 April 2024.]

Torment [Revision]

(Wuthering Heights remembered)

Little rich girl

forbidden passion

wild-hearted orphan boy

the savage moors.

Respectable marriage

dull but wealthy

life inside walls. 

Lover 

married for revenge

hating his wife.

Surly. Tyrannical.

How did Cathy die? 

How do I not

remember?

The story begins and ends 

with her ghost,

crying through the window 

to be let in.

Unheard 

by the man who lost her –

for all his fierce desire.

Alone, sobbing, 

begging her wandering spirit,

please come in 

come back to him.

(I understand 

that longing 

for one dead.)

[Revised 18-19 June 2024. Earlier draft posted 2 April 2024.]

The Cage [Revision]

As I grow

the cage of time

shrinks. My years 

expand, filling it. 

More and more 

the walls close in.

The only window 

obscured by a blind,

my little view

is dim, shadowy,

larger vistas

unknown.

In youth, breathing deep

I spread like the branches 

of a cedar, yet 

with room to spare –

unaware then 

of restraining walls.

Present reality 

pierces: 

a sword.

Almost

I impale myself …

but, pausing

I glimpse

from the corner of my eye

a jester playing a flute.

His song hints 

that time 

might be fluid.

What if the walls 

are frail, soft

not fixed – if

stepping through 

I find that time 

is an ocean?

[Revised 11 June 2024.  Earlier draft posted 1 April 2024.]

Soon there will be no more

 

talks with Amanda
coffee with Angela

each leaving
this expensive
flood-prone town.

Love and friendship
are lasting but

their smiles
voices…  

 

 

What is the light

to turn towards 

to follow?

that which rises 

inside you:

beacon signpost

illumination

bright sparkling

excitement

fireworks

heat source

enlightenment

joy 

Helpless?

 

our world

more and more 

authoritarian

we look away

yet a man creates 

a new kind of school 

based in democracy

a woman writer advises

keep responding to light

Sharing this with Friday Writings #137: "begin by doing small things" at Poets and Storytellers United. This wasn't written for that  prompt, but seems to fit.

Connection

Oh, the lust I had 

for that man of magic!

He was drawn to me too.

Power and Karma fused.

But the rite disappointed ...

and we lived far apart.

Email, MySpace, facebook.

Years of friendship growing

to include our life partners.

Confidences shared

in deep understanding.

Workings across distance.

And, just occasionally,

an affectionate exchange

turning ever-so-slightly flirty.

For Friday Writings #131 at Poets and Storytellers United, we are invited to write about re-purposing something – or someone. So I couldn't help thinking of this particular magical collaborator, a one-time lover who became, by mutual choice, a longstanding friend instead. We were undoubtedly bonded by a powerful karmic tie; it seems we initially mistook the nature of the attraction. Or perhaps – as my time in his country was short, but our connection both fated and necessary – our guides made sure it would be almost impossible for us to resist interacting!

Evaluation

'How many carats should I weigh this love?'

This love

can’t walk on water

won’t fit your finger

doesn’t melt pain

 

promises nothing

rescues no-one.

 

This love

sees with the heart

walks through walls

gives the invisible

 

a dream that grows

real roses.

From my recent chapbook, Letters to a Dead Man,* released 

2023. (This piece first written 1982.)  

For Friday Writings #130 at Poets and Storytellers United, 

Magaly invites us to be inspired by a quotation from a book 

we've just read. I just read the delightful The Lost Bookshop 

by EvieWoods, in which one character tells another that a 

certain inscription in French 'means that one sees clearly only 

with the heart.' He then notes that it is a quotation from 

Antoine de Saint-Exupery – which is where I first came across 

it, in the book The Little Prince, translated as: 'It is only with 

the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible 

to the eye' (the original source of my allusion in this poem – 

which, obviously, was not written for the present prompt, but 

fits it serendipitously). 

*Letters to a Dead Man is obtainable via my website 

www.nissen-wade.com