how good it feels, the heat of the sun between the shoulder blades

I began to talk.
I talked about summer, and about time.
The pleasures of eating…
About this cup we call a life.
About happiness.
And how good it feels,
the heat of the sun between the shoulder blades.

– Mary Oliver, from “Toad” in New And Selected Poems, Volume Two


Notes: Photo – Elena Stepanova (via Seemoreandmore). Poem – via Everything Matters

the summer we’re all sharing still has a few breaths left

beach-summer-weekend-breeze-grass-sand-dunes

From behind me in the heat, beneath a cloudless sky, I hear happy shouts. Treasure every moment you are given; savor every summer’s day. From the time you are a child there is the sanguine suggestion that you will have a supply of those days stretching to the horizon and beyond. The greatest gift of summers, even as they conclude each September, is the winking promise that next year a new one will be rolling around. Waiting for you up ahead.

Labor Day weekend: Soon autumn will arrive, cool days for rekindled ambition, a time for fervent vows and ardent goals, of fresh determination that this may be the season when your ship comes in. But before that, even now, the summer we’re all sharing still has a few breaths left, each with an expiration date. To squander a single one of them would seem a shame.

~ Bob Greene, excerpt from Summer’s Greatest Gift Is That Next Year There Will Be Another


Photo Sand, wind & jazz by Fintlandia (via couvertures de sérénité)

 

 

Lightly child, lightly

fingers-hand

Four in the morning, cold and still but for the buzz of my yard light as it talks to the one up the hill at my neighbor’s. Mine says it feels the earth spinning it out to the end of its post, like a drop of light that might at any instant shake off into the stars, but my neighbor’s says that’s nonsense, the typical thing you can expect to hear from a poet’s lamp: Nothing on earth can feel that centrifugal force. As for me, I know how light on their legs the fat mice are as they carry the dog food, nugget by nugget, feeling the warmth spin away from the earth, and how the trees are flushed at this time of the year with the effort of holding leaves. Oh, yes, there is a steady tug from the Milky Way, and I can feel my fingers lifting just a little away from these keys, not touching and then touching again, one tap and then another.

So light I am, so light is my heart when I am up early, trying to write.

~ Ted Kooser, September. The Wheeling Year: A Poet’s Field Book


Notes:

  • Photo: NoelleBuske – “Magia” (via Mennyfox55)
  • Prior “Lightly child, lightly” Posts? Connect here.
  • Post Title & Inspiration: Aldous Huxley: “It’s dark because you are trying too hard. Lightly child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly. Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them.”

 

Saturday (September)


“It was September.  In the last days when things are getting sad for no reason.  The beach was so long and lonely with only about six people on it.  The kids quit bouncing the ball because somehow the wind made them sad, too, whistling the way it did, and the kids sat down and felt autumn come along the endless shore.

All of the hot-dog stands were boarded up with strips of golden planking, sealing in all the mustard, onion, meat odors of the long, joyful summer.  It was like nailing summer into a series of coffins.  One by one the places slammed their covers down, padlocked their doors, and the wind came and touched the sand, blowing away all of the million footprints of July and August.  It got so that now, in September, there was nothing but the mark of my rubber tennis shoes and Donald and Delaus Arnold’s feet, down by the water curve.

Sand blew up in curtains on the sidewalks, and the merry-go-round was hidden with canvas, all of the horses frozen in mid-air on their brass poles, showing teeth, galloping on.  With only the wind for music, slipping through canvas. […]

I ran.  Sand spun under me and the wind lifted me.  You know how it is, running, arms out so you feel veils from your fingers, caused by wind.  Like wings.

~ Ray Bradbury, The Lake


Notes:

90° F, and simmering. That in earth, on leaf, in air, seethed.

heat-wave-sun

Around us in our shade and hush
Roared summer’s fierce fecundity,
And the sun struck down,
In blare and dazzle, on the myth of the world, but we
Safe in the bourne of distance and shade,
Sat so silent that, from woods coming down
To the whitewashed fence but yards behind me,
I heard the secret murmur and hum
That in earth, on leaf, in air, seethed.

~ Robert Penn Warren, from “Safe in Shade,” Being Here: Poems 1977-1980


Credits:

Just when you’d begun to feel you could rely on summer

beach-walk

Just when you’d begun to feel
You could rely on the summer,
That each morning would deliver
The same mourning dove singing
From his station on the phone pole,
The same smell of bacon frying
Somewhere in the neighborhood,
The same sun burning off
The coastal fog by noon,
When you could reward yourself
For a good morning’s work
With lunch at the same little seaside cafe
With its shaded deck and iced tea,
The day’s routine finally down
Like an old song with minor variations,
There comes that morning when the light
Tilts ever so slightly on its track,
A cool gust out of nowhere
Whirlwinds a litter of dead grass
Across the sidewalk, the swimsuits
Are piled on the sale table,
And the back of your hand,
Which you thought you knew,
Has begun to look like an old leaf.
Or the back of someone else’s hand.

George Bilgere, “August,” The Good Kiss (Akron, 2002)


Notes: George Bilgere Bio.  Poem Source – The Journey of Words. Image: Precious Things

It did

 

and

all

at

once,

summer

collapsed

into

fall

 


Source: Modern Girls & Old Fashioned Men via ...Just Saying

Goodbye August. Hello September.

charlie_brown_and_snoopy


Source: Father Jim Chern’s Blog

That old September feeling

angle of repose - wallace stegner

“That old September feeling, left over from school days, of summer passing, vacation nearly done, obligations gathering, books and football in the air… Another fall, another turned page: there was something of jubilee in that annual autumnal beginning, as if last year’s mistakes had been wiped clean by summer.”

— Wallace Stegner, Angle of Repose


By one my favorite authors from one of my favorite books, the Pulitzer Prize Winning Angle of Repose.


Quote Source: Stalwart Reader. Find book on Amazon here.


October 1

image


Source: everconstant via an-introspective-heart

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