Late August is not summer in arrears;
It's September that marks an
equinox.
Yet, the wasps have grown mad from
The barmy
wave of heat and fuss...
Sizzling
cicadas sing non-stop,
Poppies
bloom and wilt
In Augusts'
incense;
The sky
grows rich as
Butterscotch
pudding...
The shade provides no pretense.
poem by L.P.-G.
'Twas the night
Before "pull-out"
And all through the land,
Sharia was rising
Across desert
sands...
Joe Biden had promised
Our troops would
Come home;
But Trump made the first call
[As cited on Chrome].
A mountainous country
So steeped in raw grief;
[ Kandahar lies southward
And Kabul is east ].
The Taliban movement
Praises Abdul and Omar;
(Each planned brutal conquest
For
years 'neath our radar)...
"Indoctrination" is both
Evil and lame;
Afghan will suffer,
We know who to blame !!
poem
by L.P.-G. 2021
The Interment of This Certain Summer
August remains the cruelest month!!
Its abundance of summer fruits are there
Merely to tempt us into thinking
That more lay waiting in repose...
The secrets of burnished sunsets
And sea-spray
make us joyful;
Fine-tuning a deep longing to
Toss the dewdrops of sun-rays
Into every magical angle of
Our own little world...
Yes, August kept us
warm, it did...
And at times Sirius covered
us
With lovely, molten blankets;
Wraps that Canis Majoris
Deftly wove,
Through true practice
and
Chastened patience...
All the same, I know
Autumn will soon expose
its
Imminent arrival, (time
and again):
A prickly streak
of ill will
Rambling over the horizon
Just as we least expect it;
Its later debut spins
Recollections of wicked winds
That threaten to extinguish
The last vestige of tender
Sun-lit tributes.
Dampened by a late summer rain,
Plum-colored
mums glisten under the pergola;
The bright August sunlight hurts my eyes.
Still, its glare
Casts a more exquisite shadow
Than that of snow-squalls...
And, for that,
I apologize for cursing
All that it really has to offer...
poem written by L.P.-G.
c. 2021
As sharp as any canine tooth ever dared to be
Sirius thumbs its nose at us, with a certain
sort of glee;
To mad dogs and Englishmen...
Is there a plethora of bad fate you see?
The heliacal rising
of this star system promises
Heavy droughts and lethargy...
Each left upon a summer wind:
The seventh month, and June;
One departed 4:00 AM,
The other close to noon.
I touch the memories left by
both –
Some poignant and some light –
Such keepsakes yield tremendous dreams...
Into this quiet night.
poem by L.P.G.
