My mind seems to be a little bit full of the draw of this shortest night of the year and resists the slumber that has typically long since cajoled a dreamscape from my eyes. Rather tonight it seems i am called to share a bit of my own poetry found on father’s day while cleaning out all sorts of nooks and crannies from my own desk. i came across these few verses scribbled hastily, in terrible handwriting and with no care for perfect meter or rhyme. they were simply childhood moments, places romantically recalled from a girl’s thoughts holding some magical draw for moments lost to all but memory.
and so on this all too magical midsummer’s eve i cast my own magic into the cauldron, recalling the potent draw of childhood imagination and dream making, a treasure hunt of place and time out of time!!!
Springtime’s ripeness doesn’t last long
One false step could do you wrong
a slippery shaky place to trod
for one who passes here unshod
Don’t get no jam between your toes
a respite here will stain your soles.
(as children we would climb on top of the horse shed, just to the base of the mulberry tree and spend delighted hours coaxing ripened purple berries to fall into our fingers, staining palms and lips and toes with their succulent juices–i wore these stains as a badge of honor rejoicing in the arrival of summertime)
Our childrens’ game consisted oft
of flying high, propelled aloft
down pirate’s path to murky brine
which now is stiff with broken spine.
(on long hot summer days, we children would spend hours in the swimming pool coming up with elaborate games to pass the time. rarely did we leave the pool without some imagined game of walking the plank down the diving board whose spring is all but lost and board very near broken)
If pirates had been ladies gay
it is certain that with ribbons they would have liked to play
and bows and dresses and shoes and dolls
to masquerade at madmen’s balls
(when summer storms threatened our fun, at least the sisters came indoors to continue our games, dress-ups were pulled from the best of piratey-looking treasure chests, where we spun yarns fit for children’s tales and grand conjuring indeed)