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Poems On / About JUNE  7/1/2015 1:33:48 AM
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Best Poems About / On JUNE
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Anna's Memory

Her mum wept aloud on her birth bed she still does remember that day
At the birth of June her youngest sister now in her mid forties and turning gray
At that time Anna in her sixth year was too young to understand why
Her mother seemed so very unhappy at what should have been her moment of joy.

At the birth of her new baby sister she watched her poor mother in tears
As she held her crying eight baby she realized with the passing of the years
That her mother did not weep with elation but with the sorrow of one more to clothe and to feed
And with a husband too fond of his liquor one more problem she did not need.

A memory she retains from her childhood and something she will never forget
Her mother wept as she held baby June not tears of joy but of regret
That she had given birth to another baby into hardship and to poverty
And she worried that she could not cope with the needs of her growing family.

Anna was fifty one on her last birthday she is one who was raised in the hard way
And though she still looks rather pretty her brown hair is now flecked with gray
Her most vivid memory from childhood was seeing her mother in tears
Whilst holding June her new baby sister a memory not faded by years.
Francis Duggan

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In Pursuit Of The Poetic Soul Of Ryan Adams

In Pursuit of the Poetic Soul of Ryan Adams

By Uriah Lee Hamilton

Last day of summer, football Saturday afternoon. A Warm breeze was pushing me toward Ann Arbor like a happy autumn leaf in pursuit of the beautiful poetic soul of Ryan Adams. Lovely charming mood all the way playing Easy Tiger and Demolition and feeling like the universe was kind and smiling.
Exit off 94 West onto State Street and all excited to make my way to Liberty Street and the heart of the College town I love. Kids were milling around everywhere in their gold and blue, gleeful and happy that Michigan is now playing 500 football after a discouraging start. Parking spaces across the street from Michigan Theater in the parking structure are all taken, I have to drive to the roof and still wait for a football fan to leave.
Me and my friend Cassandra start walking around and dig everything and everyone we see. Ann Arbor brings out your gentle Jack Kerouac nature, the part of you that wants to praise everything for it’s sad but beautiful, integral purpose to this existence.
We enter an Eastern clothing and folk art store that is positively charming and enlightening. I can’t remember the name of the store. Perhaps, it is called the Enchanted Sarong. It almost felt like George Harrison was there with us, beautiful carved statues of Buddha and Krishna and Ganesha were everywhere. The sales lady was friendly and helpful and said sweetly, “we’re Om friendly” as we asked about carved symbols for the breath-word Om. The serene incense Nag Champa drifted through the room but it was now time to leave and make our way to the Ryan Adams concert at Michigan Theater.
I purchased my tickets the very minute they went on sale and prayed I had front row despite my tickets saying double A. No Such luck, but I was still happy to be in row 27. As I was waiting for the show to begin, I saw my concert friend Jeremy and got his attention. He looked as happy and as excited as myself and said he had spent a fortune at some cool record store. Jeremy then handed me a beautiful soundboard copy of Ryan Adams at the Gem Theater in downtown Detroit June 20th 2007. Man, how I’ve been longing for that show! I then gave Jeremy a copy of Ryan’s punk rock band the Finger.
Now the lights go out and the music begins. Ryan Opens with Goodnight Rose and closes with Goodnight Hollywood Boulevard. Everything in-between is just magical. The first auspicious sign was that Ryan came out playing guitar! ! In June, he only sang, he didn’t play any instruments, some injury sidelined him. The June Show as a result was more subtle, almost like MTV Unplugged. Subtle but amazing. Last night was more rocking and adventurous with reworked extended arrangements, ala the Grateful Dead. In particular was a long and lovely version of Off Broadway from Easy Tiger. At the completion of Off Broadway, I shouted, “That was gorgeous! ” Of course, I may have added an expletive, all in the interest of ecstatic joy for music.
Ryan told a story during the show about running into a girl on her way to the concert that didn’t recognize him because he dresses like a plumber. My friend after the show said she thought she saw Ryan Adams on the street near the theater. I asked, “Really? ” She said, “I saw someone that looked like a plumber.” I can say, I didn’t see Ryan on the streets anywhere in Ann Arbor yesterday, but I have been known to miss a plumber or two in my day.
The first two songs in the encore made the whole show for me. Ryan came out by himself with an acoustic guitar and sang Call Me On Your Way Back Home. Toward the end of the song, Ryan played harmonica and I screamed like a schoolgirl, pretty much the way I do whenever Bobby Dylan plays harmonica! And if that wasn’t enough to make the end of summer completely magical, Ryan then sat down at the piano and sang Sylvia Plath: Oh my God, the point of tears! I’ve waited six years to hear him sing that song live from the Album Gold. As I told my friend, that was the song that sealed the deal making Ryan Adams my modern hero! If you want to get my attention and loyalty, sing about one of the tragic poets I love.
Uriah Hamilton

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Dear Love And The Rain

Dear love; rain
Shake me like the wind of the June
Hold me baby in your hands up to moon
Hugs to beams of the moon
Kisses warm of the wind of the June
What I miss baby is your arms
And the warm rain of June
Like the soil of the Hawd
I want you as the rain
To shake the whole
The body and the soul

Just the same
Your love
And the rain
For me
For the soul
And the soil
For that divine love
For the both we cry
sallam yassin

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Being June

Being June
the fickle minded drizzly strands of monsoon
moistened with your ideal and real self
of dreams, of ambitions, of endurance
as humid as the thoughts brewed
across the malevolent sky
fizzles by half asleep eyes at noon.
Being June
dull white sandwiches
prostrate on stark white porcelain
keeps life briskly alive
except for that soggy feet
and your favourite sandal
that sticks and dips into water filled puddles
but somehow held you happy to tread.
Being June
I hereby sit and brood over T.S Eliot
And thus stare at this “Wasteland”
Or so I feel.
Gargi DuttaKundu

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Poems On / About JUNE