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Poems On / About JUNE  11/29/2015 5:03:07 PM
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The Lanes Of Apple Bloom

DOWN the lanes of apple bloom, we are treading once again,
Down the pathways rosy red trip the women-folk and men.
Love and laughter lead us on, light of heart as children gay,
June is smiling on us now, bidding us to romp and play.

Sun-kissed now are maiden's curls, bare of head the children run,
Love and laughter call us home when the long day's
toil is done; All our cares are borne away on the breezes, perfume
sweet, Down the lanes of apple bloom now we dance with flying feet.

Through the open door once more comes the pleasant breath of June,
Through the open windows now lullabies that mothers croon,
Caught upon the evening breeze, reach the toilers homeward bound;
Love and laughter rule the world, happiness once more is found.

Down the lanes of apple bloom gray-tressed age goes walking now
Minding less the weight of years or the wrinkles in its brow.
'Tis the evening hour of life, gloriously calm and sweet
June is dwelling in the heart! June is guiding weary feet.
Edgar Albert Guest

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Cold Bed

Can’t believe real life has ended so soon.
The nurse takes my bed pan with a fake smile
I’m watching repeats of Terry and June

They feed me liquidised mush with a spoon
Soiled underwear joins some stinking pile
Can’t believe real life has ended so soon.

I’ll do this in private? No. Not opportune.
My stench means Visitors only stay a while
I’m watching repeats of Terry and June

I’m ancient. It’s decades since my high noon.
My body is wrecked failing and vile
Can’t believe real life has ended so soon.

This world is dancing to a younger tune
Oh God can’t I end it all with some style?
I’m watching repeats of Terry and June

No esteem left. I’m howling at the moon
Clerks say I’m a bed blocker. They’re hostile.
Can’t believe real life has ended so soon.
I’m watching repeats of Terry and June
Edwin Hopper

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Wisteria woke me this morning,
And there was all June in the garden;
I felt them, early, warning
Lest I miss any part of the day.

Straight I walked to the trellis vine.
Wisteria touched a lifted nostril:
Feelings of beauty diffused, to entwine
My spirit with June's own aura.
Ann McGough

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The Diary Of Anaοs Nin, Volume 1: 1931-1934

"Am I, at bottom, that fervent little Spanish Catholic child who chastised herself for loving toys, who forbade herself the enjoyment of sweet foods, who practiced silence, who humiliated her pride, who adored symbols, statues, burning candles, incense, the caress of nuns, organ music, for whom Communion was a great event? I was so exalted by the idea of eating Jesus's flesh and drinking His blood that I couldn't swallow the host well, and I dreaded harming the it. I visualized Christ descending into my heart so realistically (I was a realist then!) that I could see Him walking down the stairs and entering the room of my heart like a sacred Visitor. That state of this room was a subject of great preoccupation for me. . . At the ages of nine, ten, eleven, I believe I approximated sainthood. And then, at sixteen, resentful of controls, disillusioned with a God who had not granted my prayers (the return of my father), who performed no miracles, who left me fatherless in a strange country, I rejected all Catholicism with exaggeration. Goodness, virtue, charity, submission, stifled me. I took up the words of Lawrence: "They stress only pain, sacrifice, suffering and death. They do not dwell enough on the resurrection, on joy and life in the present." Today I feel my past like an unbearable weight, I feel that it interferes with my present life, that it must be the cause for this withdrawal, this closing of doors. . . I am embalmed because a nun leaned over me, enveloped me in her veils, kissed me. The chill curse of Christianity. I do not confess any more, I have no remorse, yet am I doing penance for my enjoyments? Nobody knows what a magnificent prey I was for Christian legends, because of my compassion and my tenderness for human beings. Today it divides me from enjoyment in life."
p. 70-71

"As June walked towards me from the darkness of the garden into the light of the door, I saw for the first time the most beautiful woman on earth. A startling white face, burning dark eyes, a face so alive I felt it would consume itself before my eyes. Years ago I tried to imagine true beauty; I created in my mind an image of just such a woman. I had never seen her until last night. Yet I knew long ago the phosphorescent color of her skin, her huntress profile, the evenness of her teeth. She is bizarre, fantastic, nervous, like someone in a high fever. Her beauty drowned me. As I sat before her, I felt I would do anything she asked of me. Henry suddenly faded. She was color and brilliance and strangeness. By the end of the evening I had extricated myself from her power. She killed my admiration by her talk. Her talk. The enormous ego, false, weak, posturing. She lacks the courage of her personality, which is sensual, heavy with experience. Her role alone preoccupies her. She invents dramas in which she always stars. I am sure she creates genuine dramas, genuine chaos and whirlpools of feelings, but I feel that her share in it is a pose. That night, in spite of my response to her, she sought to be whatever she felt I wanted her to be. She is an actress every moment. I cannot grasp the core of June. Everything Henry has said about her is true."

I wanted to run out and kiss her fanatastic beauty and say: 'June, you have killed my sincerity too. I will never know again who I am, what I am, what I love, what I want. Your beauty has drowned me, the core of me. You carry away with you a part of me reflected in you. When your beauty struck me, it dissolved me. Deep down, I am not different from you. I dreamed you, I wished for your existance. You are the woman I want to be. I see in you that part of me which is you. I feel compassion for your childlike pride, for your trembling unsureness, your dramatization of events, your enhancing of the loves given to you. I surrender my sincerity because if I love you it means we share the same fantasies, the same madnesses"
Anaοs Nin

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Poems On / About JUNE