Poetry Album #5 – July

July 

There was something about that week in July, 
mostly spent painting the house with a brush, 
standing on that old alluminum ladder. 

Then there was the way the sun came up over the house, 
settling, first, on my face, 
then upon my shoulders as the day went on. 

Then, when the work was done, 
there was that metal cup of ice water, 
that comfortable chair, 
afternoon storms, 
thunder shaking the windows. 

Life felt simple, 
predictable, 
July, 
bringing a hot and rising sun, 
afternoon storms, 
then time to be passed in comfort, 
as if summer would never end. 


2. 

Fireworks

July was the time for fireworks, 
we could see them from the end of the road, 
when it was dark but still humid. 

There were explosions of color, 
against black sky, 
that summer, 
night, 
sky. 

There were vibrations and flashes, 
one after another, 
sound and light fading into summer, 
remaining in our minds. 

When we were older, 
we rode our bikes to the end of the road, 
always promising to be back as soon as the show was over.

(smoking cheap cigarettes on the way.) 

Fading noise and diminishing flashes, 
light shows in our minds, 
killing time ot make it last, 
fooling ourselves that the night would last forever. 

3.

A sunday in Ordinary Time 

That Sunday, 
was a Sunday in Ordinary Time, 
the in between liturgical season.

The sermon centered on forgiveness, 
on the need to give up on vengeance, 
letting go. 

(those words you long to speak are not healing words, forgiveness is not for them as much as for you.) 

In between the joy of Advent and the passion of Easter, 
Lent and Advent, 
an Ordinary Sunday in late July. 

4.

The Confessional

it has been so hot and muggy all month,
thunderstorms and lightning, 
cloud to ground. 

Boredom had settled into me, my mind and my routine, 
like hte clouds, it comes and goes, 
only pieces of it staying, 
as if trying to steal my joy.

I feel myself growing older,
times changing, 
this Saturday I will make my way to Church, 
to spend some time in the confessional, 
to leave these skeleton bones behind. 

5.

Mountain Valley 

I loved the way the mist of cloud would wind itself around the top of the mountains, 
holding onto the branches of trees that still managed to grow that high up, 
burned off later by the July sun, 
the sky promises rain, 
a heavy rain, 
washing bugs into the rivers flow. 

Further down the mountain, 
birches stand out with their white bark, 
it peels and hangs off their trunks. 

In the early morning quiet I made my way to the river that runs down from the mountains, 
there is no stillness like this valley stillness.

River, 
running over rock.
River, 
swift and cold.
River, 
my mountain valley alibi. 
River, 
story telling ripples.
River, 
punctuated by fallen logs.
River, 
boulders smoothed by constant running water.