Summer Constellations: A Summer Romance

In the summer sky now, the solstice behind,

the Virgin, the Lion, and the Great Bear have moved

westward, leaving the northern sky’s vista

from my window and replacing them these warm

summer nights with the Eagle, the Swan, and the Lyre.

 

The eagle of Jupiter, Aquila, carries Zeus’ thunderbolts,

but also carries away to Olympus, stolen, the young boy

Ganymede, the bearer of the cups of the gods. Thus honored,

this symbol of freedom, strength, and beauty, the Eagle is placed

in the summer sky, still at Zeus’ command; or perhaps summer

calls for a more romantic tale of love spurned and deceit, Zeus’

advances rejected by Nemesis, Goddess of indignation

and retribution. His love thus refused, he turned himself

into Cygnus’ Swan, pursued by Aquila’s Eagle, to be rescued

by Nemesis, as she would do – Zeus, with evil intent, will not

be denied – and tricked into Zeus’s arms, the eagle and swan now

placed together, eternal, Aquila and Cygnus, a reminder of Zeus’

trickery, a summer romance celebrated in the Greek and Roman skies.

 

And what of the lyre, the third constellation, Orpheus’ music

flowing so beautifully as to enchant every person, every

things, all things, calming the wildest breast, making the trees

blow in the winds, and pacifying the tormented souls of men,

his lyre a symbol of balance, of elevation of the soul,

a luminous guiding force against the dark forces and the chaos

of nature, strong enough even to bring back from hades

his beloved wife, Eurydice, snake killed on her wedding day,

and Orpheus’ music reduced to despair and anguish, misery and sorrow;

but in hell there are conditions to be met to conquer death itself,

but unmet - Orpheus so lovesick, perhaps, looking back at his beloved

still in the underworld’s clutches - she must now remain, in Hades’ realm,

leaving him to wander, dejected and despondent, forlorn in love,

this the second sad summer romance of loss, and the lyre, placed safely

in the summer skies serves a reminder of balance, of music’s power,

of Orpheus’ virtues given to us all, a poetic, harmonious nature,

inclined toward grace and refinement, intelligence and kindness,

but we have become so blind and deaf, unseeing, not hearing the lyre’s

enchantment, nor calmed by its music flowing, our souls unpacified.

 

So in this summer journey westward toward the Autumn solstice

and the changing of seasons, remember the Eagle and the Swan

and the Lyre, their stories of romance and deceit and music, balance,

life remembered this midsummer of our own lives, seeking, perhaps, love. 

Evolution

Remember the Rocking Horse, that first

pony, a black filly, a white mane, saddled

to ride us everywhere and nowhere, hours

of rocking, hours of stories created and told,

toddler skills of balance, healthy and soothing,

this reassurance of motion, the rhythms of life

engrained early, riding over the hills and down

into the valleys of our imaginations;

evolved into an old wooden rocking chair,

the music of two rockers rocking the floor,

back and forth and back again, the creak

of the floor below us, a music, setting free

the happiness hormones, rocking us slowly

to sleep, a sleep-inducing motion, at peace,

back and forth, me and you nestled into my arms;

evolved today into a well-worn chair, when

you got too big to rock in my lap, but it’s

rocking still, flooding me with memories

of you and the sleepless nights we rocked here,

the tears you shed, and the stories we told,

the silly conversations between us, secrets,

the memories all I have to keep me going

on the sleepless nights of my own, now, back

and forth, and back again, carried back to a black

rocking horse, long outgrown, the music

of two rockers rocking, a song still singing,

loud and sweet, still rocking me, singing me to sleep

in the long cold days of aging, remembering you.

Uncle Buck

Some talk of a second coming

like it’s the return of someone

gone missing, an absence,

and are cleaning the house, cleaning

up the world, in anticipation,

with strict orders, threats even,

“or else,” not to mess it up, children

that we are, living here, when the long

lost Uncle Buck unexpectedly arrives,

hugs us all around, loving us equally,

saints and sinners, just as we are, issues

and problems, differences and dirt and all,

barely noticing the clean house, nor the effort

to make it that way, the energy expended,

just the pain inflicted in the cleansing. 

[In the solitude of night and age]

In the solitude of night and age,

thinking about old loves and lovers,

I miss most your hand clasping mine,

our fingers intertwined, connecting us

one to the other, our spirits joined, too,

in this simple touch, and the solitude

turns to loneliness, lying here in the dark.

Two Poems for the Ages

(1) Day is Done, Gone the Sun

The bugle’s call sounds out

over the water and into the night air,

silent now after the last note’s echo ends;

and the lost souls that hear it still, long after,

weep, not for themselves but for those

who have yet to learn the ways of peace. 

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(2) [At night the wind stops blowing]

At night, the wind stops blowing

and the lake becomes as a mirror

reflecting the Peace of our souls at rest.