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Poems On / About SUMMER  4/25/2015 8:15:09 PM
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Best Poems About / On SUMMER
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Summer Days

The air is alive on a summer day
it compliments the sweet aroma that weaves within,
The air is humid on a summer day,
it sticks to the world in such a way that the wind must shake it off,
The air sings on a summer day
it rises and falls with the melody's sway,
The air is love on a summer day
it watches the lovers enjoying the weather and wonders itslef 'What could be better? '
The air surrounds on a summer day
it surrounds all and loves all and is the foundation to such a sweet summer day
Katy Lue

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Kora In Hell: Improvisations Xxvii


This particular thing, whether it be four pinches of four divers white powders cleverly compounded to cure surely, safely, pleasantly a painful twitching of the eyelids or say a pencil sharpened at one end, dwarfs the imagination, makes logic a butterfly, offers a finality that sends us spinning through space, a fixity the mind could climb forever, a revolving mountain, a complexity with a surface of glass; the gist of poetry. D.C. al fin.


There is no thing that with a twist of the imagination cannot be something else. Porpoises risen in a green sea, the wind at nightfall bending the rose-red grasses and you—in your apron running to catch—say it seems to you to be your son. How ridiculous! You will pass up into a cloud and look back at me, not count the scribbling foolish that puts wings to your heels, at your knees.


Sooner or later as with the leaves forgotten the swinging branch long since and summer: they scurry before a wind on the frost-baked ground—have no place to rest—somehow invoke a burst of warm days not of the past nothing decayed: crisp summer! —neither a copse for resurrected frost eaters but a summer removed undestroyed a summer of dried leaves scurrying with a screech, to and fro in the half dark—twittering, chattering, scraping. Hagh!


Seeing the leaves dropping from the high and low branches the thought rise: this day of all others is the one chosen, all other days fall away from it on either side and only itself remains in perfect fullness. It is its own summer, of its leaves as they scrape on the smooth ground it must build its perfection. The gross summer of the year is only a halting counterpart of those fiery days of secret triumph which in reality themselves paint the year as if upon a parchment, giving each season a mockery of the warmth or frozenness which is within ourselves. The true seasons blossom or wilt not in fixed order but so that many of them may pass in a few weeks or hours whereas sometimes a whole life passes and the season remains of a piece from one end to the other.?
William Carlos Williams

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Mid Summer Beauty

Thou blossomed into a true beauty that summer.
Thy hair grew more golden as the summer progressed.
Thy eyes, took on the deep blue of the summer sky,
and thy complextion, as soft as a summer cloud.
Oh! How I hope for thee,
that thy bright summer sky-blue eyes like glowing sapphires,
be not be dim,
like a dark cloud passed over the sun.
For truly, thou are a mid summer beauty.
Laura Nnamdi

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U Mess Up The Summer

u mess up the summer year around

u mess up the summer u made me frown

u mess up the summer with your rules

comeing in at 8: 00 is not cool

u mess up the summer with your games

u mess up the summer it is now plain

u mess up the summer cause you are my morther

but i am gald that we still got each other

i love you mother

L& H
moriah puriefoy

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Poems On / About SUMMER