Post by determinedtofail on Aug 19, 2009 11:23:49 GMT -5
Certain Raindrops (4th version)
Summer will not leave my skin
clothes, hair, or nose.
Heat has pride
like a child pushing away the night
or storms that refuse to fall.
Sunlight exposes all this dust
rising through the park,
over memories and lost balloons.
The sky searches,
with teeth made of vapor
ready for dust ridden words saying,
I just want to stay here a little longer.
Soon the rain will fall
taping my knee,
firm and soft
as grandmother's invisible hands.
The rain will swallow my dreams,
if I'm not careful.
I wake and my dreams
still have their arms around me,
before drawing back into the pillows.
The morning's new lungs
are filled with damp cedar and still earth,
laundry already breathing soapy perfume.
How much time will pass before
water droplets return
to hold their breath
and slide down my bedroom window?
Summer's Roman Soldiers (3rd revision)
Summer files through clothes
into proud days
where heat wraps itself.
Heat wages long battles,
like a child pushing away the night
or storms that refuse to fall.
People stare at the sky
with static memories.
Old couples drift through the park,
like story filled balloons.
The sky gathers itfs vapor teeth
hungry for more dusty words;
words that have stayed motionless for far too long.
Soon the rain will fall
taping my knee,
firm and soft
as grandmother's invisible hands
making me sleepy every time.
My dreams
still have their arms around me
before drawing back into pillows.
And the morningfs new lungs
are filled with damp cedar and still earth,
clothes already breathing soapy perfume.
How many Summers will pass
before the rain pounds at my door?
REVISED VERSION + TITLE CHANGE
The Pounding of Summer (revision)
Summer's aroma fills clothes
past the sound
deep into a still argument
where heat wraps itself.
It is a long argument,
heat prides itself on waging,
like a child pushing away the night
or storms that have yet fallen.
I take solace in recalling
Summers' History.
The story of Hannibal
and the insect that took his eye.
How horse blood
silenced his last elephant's proud thump.
Ah, but the mountains he broke
and the mound of rings he left,
why storms follow great battles.
Soon the rain will tap my knee,
firm and soft
as grandmother's invisible hands.
The Summer will return.
Her Roman soldier's-
shall pound at my door.
(ORIGINAL VERSION)
Summer's Kneecaps
My skin under my clothes
as a tree, a horse, a pebble
painted in summer
and consumed by distance.
No no. Not like them.
They have never shouted,
Stop tormenting me,
you make my armpits sweat!
My hands burn burn like charcoal,
but I still take solace in smelling the air
past the sound
deep into the still argument
where heat wraps itself.
It is a long argument,
heat prides itself on waging
like a child pushing away the night
or storms that have yet fallen.
Soon the rain will tap my knee,
firm and soft
as grandmother's invisible hands.
I long for the silence of naked winters,
where my nose weeps at the eyes of summer.
----Austin
Summer will not leave my skin
clothes, hair, or nose.
Heat has pride
like a child pushing away the night
or storms that refuse to fall.
Sunlight exposes all this dust
rising through the park,
over memories and lost balloons.
The sky searches,
with teeth made of vapor
ready for dust ridden words saying,
I just want to stay here a little longer.
Soon the rain will fall
taping my knee,
firm and soft
as grandmother's invisible hands.
The rain will swallow my dreams,
if I'm not careful.
I wake and my dreams
still have their arms around me,
before drawing back into the pillows.
The morning's new lungs
are filled with damp cedar and still earth,
laundry already breathing soapy perfume.
How much time will pass before
water droplets return
to hold their breath
and slide down my bedroom window?
Summer's Roman Soldiers (3rd revision)
Summer files through clothes
into proud days
where heat wraps itself.
Heat wages long battles,
like a child pushing away the night
or storms that refuse to fall.
People stare at the sky
with static memories.
Old couples drift through the park,
like story filled balloons.
The sky gathers itfs vapor teeth
hungry for more dusty words;
words that have stayed motionless for far too long.
Soon the rain will fall
taping my knee,
firm and soft
as grandmother's invisible hands
making me sleepy every time.
My dreams
still have their arms around me
before drawing back into pillows.
And the morningfs new lungs
are filled with damp cedar and still earth,
clothes already breathing soapy perfume.
How many Summers will pass
before the rain pounds at my door?
REVISED VERSION + TITLE CHANGE
The Pounding of Summer (revision)
Summer's aroma fills clothes
past the sound
deep into a still argument
where heat wraps itself.
It is a long argument,
heat prides itself on waging,
like a child pushing away the night
or storms that have yet fallen.
I take solace in recalling
Summers' History.
The story of Hannibal
and the insect that took his eye.
How horse blood
silenced his last elephant's proud thump.
Ah, but the mountains he broke
and the mound of rings he left,
why storms follow great battles.
Soon the rain will tap my knee,
firm and soft
as grandmother's invisible hands.
The Summer will return.
Her Roman soldier's-
shall pound at my door.
(ORIGINAL VERSION)
Summer's Kneecaps
My skin under my clothes
as a tree, a horse, a pebble
painted in summer
and consumed by distance.
No no. Not like them.
They have never shouted,
Stop tormenting me,
you make my armpits sweat!
My hands burn burn like charcoal,
but I still take solace in smelling the air
past the sound
deep into the still argument
where heat wraps itself.
It is a long argument,
heat prides itself on waging
like a child pushing away the night
or storms that have yet fallen.
Soon the rain will tap my knee,
firm and soft
as grandmother's invisible hands.
I long for the silence of naked winters,
where my nose weeps at the eyes of summer.
----Austin
