Poetry Sunday: Late Spring Easing to Summer by Deanna Samuels

This poem seems to me to perfectly describe this time of year as we move from one season into the next. See if you agree.

Late Spring Easing to Summer

by Deanna Samuels

Early Spring has eased into late Spring,

foliage is at its richest deep greens,

trees thick, full branched,
boughs heavy with leaves and budding fruits.

Crop fields sprouting, growing,
each day getting stronger, taller.
Road verge grasses high, overgrown, lush,
a would-be splendid meal for grazing.

Birds chirping and tweeting loudly,
hidden in the dense hedge rows
while frogs croak intermittently,
concealed amidst damp roots and long grass.

Hidden streams gurgle sluggishly,
slowly moving downstream,
attracting menacing mosquitoes
ready to eye a warm-blooded victim.

Birds are nesting, patiently rearing young
while pond and lake edges
become platforms of discovery
for young waterfowl to swim.

Small mammals suckle their new born,
teaching the brood to hunt safely in the wild
while ants, bees and other creepy crawlies
build nests around their queen.

Dandelions have passed their day of golden wonder,
leaving delicate, white puffy balls in their stead,
quickly to be lifted and scattered by the wind,
ensuring the seeds make for more flower growth.

Summer is no longer too far behind,
soon the Spring scene will be transformed,
transformed to the fullest of nature's growth,
richness of colorful blooms and bounteous harvests.

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters! Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...

The Nature of Things

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