Holiday Plans

The Ragtag Daily Prompt this morning is LITTORAL

Actually, I was thinking of the sea this morning, as I just read a poem about the sea, written by someone who loved it dearly. The verse is long-winded but delightful, written in the early 1800s. I’ll post it later for those of you who enjoy such poetry. But now for my response to the prompt…

Holiday Plans

Ellen, studying the inviting seaside scene on their calendar, turns to her spouse. “Fancy a LITTORAL holiday this summer, dear?”

Ed frowns. “Littoral? Nah. I don’t want to hang out in libraries, or spend a week wandering through bookshops, either. Or were you thinking of Stratford, taking in Shakespearean plays and such? I find them rather boring, to be honest.” He looks up at the calendar. “I’d rather go fishing.”

Ellen laughed. “Actually Littoral and Literary are different genres altogether. Mind you, I’d love to spend a few days visiting bookshops. Especially used bookshops…finding some old classics I haven’t read yet.” She pondered the thought. “There are some huge ones in Toronto.”

“Blah! Coping with all that traffic and the crowded streets, carting around a ton of books? Not a holiday for me!” He points to the calendar. “Why don’t we rather go to the coast this year? Some place like that.”“Walk along the sand, hear the sea roar, maybe watch the whales.”

“An excellent idea, Ed. I’ll see what I can find.”

“That we can afford,” he adds.

Image: dimitris vetskias 1969 — Pixabay

Summer Stillness

We’ve been having some very warm days lately, which brings to mind a few heat-related poems. This verse is my latest exercise in “finding” a new poem; I’ve derived it from Archibald Lampman’s HEAT and included his verse below mine. I’m still learning, so if you have any insights on writing found poetry, please feel free to share them in a comment below.

SUMMER  STILLNESS

from plains southward
the road beyond,
upward melts into the glare
nearer the summit
a hay-cart moving,
the wagoner slouching
half-hidden in the blur
of white dust

from sky to sky
the heat-held land
beyond me in the fields
the grass, the marguerites,
the buttercups are still,
on the brook not a breath
disturbs spider or midge

where far elm shadows
patch the burning grass
the cows, with peaceful cud,
lie waiting in the depth
from the slope nearby
a thrush’s thin tune
cricket, grasshoppers
spin small sounds in my ear 

the burning sky-line
blinds my eyes,
the woods far off blue,
hills drenched in light
in the shadow of my hat
I lean at rest -- I think
some blessed power
has brought me
wandering here
in the furnace of this hour

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Heat
by Archibald Lampman

From plains that reel to southward, dim,
The road runs by me white and bare;
Up the steep hill it seems to swim
Beyond, and melt into the glare.
Upward half-way, or it may be
Nearer the summit, slowly steals
A hay-cart, moving dustily
With idly clacking wheels.

By his cart’s side the wagoner
Is slouching slowly at his ease,
Half-hidden in the windless blur
Of white dust puffing to his knees.
This wagon on the height above,
From sky to sky on either hand,
Is the sole thing that seems to move
In all the heat-held land.

Beyond me in the fields the sun
Soaks in the grass and hath his will;
I count the marguerites one by one;
Even the buttercups are still.
On the brook yonder not a breath
Disturbs the spider or the midge.
The water-bugs draw close beneath
The cool gloom of the bridge.

Where the far elm-tree shadows flood
Dark patches in the burning grass,
The cows, each with her peaceful cud,
Lie waiting for the heat to pass.
From somewhere on the slope near by
Into the pale depth of the noon
A wandering thrush slides leisurely
His thin revolving tune.

In intervals of dream, I hear
The cricket from the droughty ground;
The grasshoppers spin into mine ear
A small innumerable sound.
I lift mine eyes sometimes to gaze;
The burning sky-line blinds my sight;
The woods far off are blue with haze;
The hills are drenched in light.

And yet to me not this or that
Is always sharp or always sweet:
In the sloped shadow of my hat
I lean at rest and drain the heat;
Nay more, I think some blessed power
Hath brought me wandering idly here:
In the full furnace of this hour
My thoughts grow keen and clear.

Haiku Views 3

contract deadline
novelist pens her tale
around the block

walkway tiles
heaved by frost
custody battle

evening picnic
happy mosquitoes
coming to dine

day at the fair
cotton candy drum spinning
threads of memory
.......................................................
Image: Open Clipart Vectors — Pixabay

Beauty Rises Again

A Summer Day

by Edgar Guest

Blue in the sky and green in the tree
and a bird singing anthems of gladness for me,
a breeze soft and fair
as a little girl’s hair,
with nothing that’s ugly or base anywhere.
A world that’s swept clean
of the doubtful and mean,
with nowhere a hint of the care that has been.

I stand at my gate with the sun in my face,
and I thank the good Lord for such beauty and grace.
Time was, I declare,
when the snows drifted there,
and those boughs with their blossoms were ugly and bare.
Now the sin and the wrong
of the cold days and long
are lost in life’s splendor of sunshine and song.

God makes it all right in good time, I believe –
we doubt when we’re troubled, we doubt when we grieve;
like a stark, barren tree
looms the wrong which we see.
Hurt, anguish and care hide the splendor to be
but at last from the pain
rises beauty again,
and there’s never a bough that has suffered in vain.

Perhaps at the last, ‘neath a lovelier sun,
when the anguish and hurt of life’s growing is done,
we may rise from our pain
showing never a stain
of the cares of the years which fell on us like rain.
When the soul is set free
all the flaws we now see
may be lost in the joy of the new life to be.

From his book, Collected Verse of Edgar A Guest
© 1934 by The Reilly & Lee Company