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Summer

the_four_seasons

Days start to get shorter as the seasons change

Each has what they feel is their favorite time

Whether Spring or Fall, Winter or Summer

Voicing that preference is not any real crime.

 

Winter has to be my least favorite season

The sun can be pretty reflecting on fresh snow

Drinking hot cocoa and cuddling, curled by a fire

But unfortunately I can’t stay in 3 months, I know.

 

Spring and Fall give a change that is welcome

But they don’t seem to last long enough for me

The gentle rains on the roof as you try to sleep

Just hope there is no damaging weather to see.

 

Summer will always be my favorite time of year

Sure it gets hot, but so much better on my bones

Lay by the pool or straddle the bike for a day trip

Not to mention bodies in all those tanning tones.

 

I recognize others have their reasons for a choice

Whatever season they prefer that differs from mine

Guess that us just another example of personality traits

 

Enjoy what you will, let me have months of sunshine

Charles Townsend

Garden Magic

magic garden
This is the garden’s magic,
That through the sunny hours
The gardener who tends it,

Himself outgrows his flowers.

He grows by gift of patience,
Since he who sows must know
That only in the Lord’s good time
Does any seedling grow.

He learns from buds unfolding,
From each tight leaf unfurled,
That his own heart, expanding,
Is one with all the world.

He bares his head to sunshine,
His bending back a sign
Of grace, and ev’ry shower becomes
His sacramental wine.

And when at last his labors
Bring forth the very stuff
And substance of all beauty
This is reward enough.
-MARIE NETTLETON CARROLL

Please send your poetry to:gillianandthomas@yahoo.com

A new York story


 
 
 
The city played Gershwin loud
 
Too much heat, extreme weather
 
Each avenue appeared to glue together
 
High summer bewildered the crowd
 
 
 
Eddie Silver sat, foot upon his knee
 
Business on hold; for lunch – pastrami,
 
Onions and relish, on rye
 
A reflective time for the private eye
 
 
 
In breezed the dame – buxom and jilted
 
Stood by the window to sensually smoulder
 
Eddie looked up from a trilby that tilted
 
Out to the mean streets, over her shoulder
 
 
 
Looking at her weeping, an unsteady broad
 
Beautiful brunette from the south-side of town
 
A letter thrown open, words tumbled down
 
Gershwin played on – in a far lower chord
 
 
 
Eddie stared through her dark damson eyes
 
To the reason she stood close to him
 
Softly speaking of hardship and lies
 
Trying to unburden the notion of sin
 
 
 
Eddie Silver: private investigator
 
Discretion totally guaranteed
 
Every diploma from murder to law
 
All cases taken – religion and creed
 
 
 
The sun beat down on Times Square
 
Yellow cabs swerved in tandem to
 
The beat of the people who share
 
The sound of a rhapsody in blue.
 
 
Stephen Holloway.
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