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Summer, how we've missed you!
The tackle's been waiting, we're long last debating on where to go. The camps, overcrowded, with lakes that are drying and beaches now frying its denizens. Oh, Summer, stay longer! I've built a strong lean-to with logs, or I mean to, in baking brush. It's one hundred and five, a glorious season of pain for no reason, and we like it. Oh, Summer, please help us discover vacation without this frustration and sweltering... Autumn, how we love thee! 
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Unexpectedly, my morning of gardening had an audience. 
Midweek marina,
your sails long for open sea. While naked masts point upward to the Wednesday sky, sailors are anchored to desks. 
What would we ever do without your towers?
A grace that stands against the cobalt sky. Your silhouette could fascinate for hours, the height and deft of muscle you supply. A beam of gray floats silently above me, suspended from a ribbon made of steel, from left to right you swing around the birch tree and carefully your gears unwind the reel. While each of levered arms supporting lattice of trusses and a maze of countless walls, without your Herculean apparatus, there wouldn't be skyscrapers, cities, malls. My eyes perceive the beauty of your profile, and like the gentle birds that share your name, you rise above the turmoil and the junk pile, with little thought of what the world became. 
The winemaker's season begins with a crush
And bountiful harvests of grapes, Machinery turning the fruitage to mush, The barrels removed from their capes. The vintage assured in a very fine year, When weather and timing agree, The soil is tested, its chemistry clear Of all microscopic debris. The grapevines are withered, succumbing to cold, Their branches are barren and dry, Devout revolution as seasons unfold, Deplete and replenish supply. A winemaker's hope is unswerving and true, Despite a poor yield professed, The master fermenter's best values accrue When wines of the past are assessed. Aware of sensation upon the first taste, The cordial libations perceived, These blended elixirs are fully embraced For tender emotions achieved. With fleeting fulfillment of palate success, The trust of the vintner still weighs, They cultivate art of sommeliers finesse, Explaining the winemaker's gaze. 
With one look they can change people's woeful despair
with their oversized petals of gold, unaware of attention they garner with impassive flair by the odd passers-by, a hushed whisper of wind gently sweeps without care, as if nothing's awry. As the sun tracks the sky, it is followed by those pretty sunflower faces, together they pose in a field of poetry harboring prose, and if only they could, they'd uncover their stalks and set out for, who knows? without limits, for good! 
The dim of dusk calms delta's shoal,
and soon begins cacophony, its tenants anxious to patrol. The dim of dusk calms delta's shoal, the feral night would soon console nocturnal beasts' disharmony. The dim of dusk calms delta's shoal, and soon begins cacophony. 
The sun relaxes as it sets
as if to leave the world alright. When winds die down, again you feel an eerie calm before the night. The dusk takes hold and air is cool, quite different from the hectic day, but wearied eyes now contemplate the placid eve now on display. A gift presented by the lake to all who wander on its shore, is slivered sun, a final glimpse, which now will offer new rapport. That eerie calm, I've come to know, is just the chaos letting go. 
Horizons from his tower room
reach out beyond the city's brink... the urban squall would not allow a focused mind that yearns to think. This lonely room with lab arrays implores to find the missing link. Diseases' cures are still in need of finding by the precious few who hide behind a mask or wall, avoiding public déjà vu, but free to concentrate their skill on brilliant deeds long overdue. The world is better off, indeed, because the doctor has a place where he can study, take his notes, experiment, and yet, embrace his view from windows high above the chaos of the human race. 
I think dusk becomes you,
With darkening roads and signs, A sharpened horizon Contrasts with your pale confines Of dimmed observation. My traffic and focus, Which dutifully holds my heed, Succumbs now to beauty Of sundown and clouds that precede Twilight's hesitation. Brown sky after sunlight, You've paled from your brilliant day, But yet to elapse In noble attempts to delay Your cold transformation. 
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AuthorJack has published over 350 poems in his career, many with his own photography. He specializes in a view of the commonplace and Americana. All poetry and photos are copyrighted © 2007-2018 by Jack Huber, all rights reserved. Archives
September 2018
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