After winter, the usual home repairs and gardening prep. On the East Coast in March crocus pushes its way through crusts of snow. On the left coast Trader Joe’s has yellow daffodils for sale. Come mid-April the IRS will demand wrists slit for things defensible and indefensible. We eat the days. Flowering bushes burst into bloom and finally the cheery air of farmer’s markets, street fairs, Shakespearian festivals and concerts in the park on hot August nights. We are rosy-cheeked with warm-weather pleasures, full of life and keeping house at the edge of Infinity . . .


©2013, poem , Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved; Photo credit ~ the view from the Oakland Bay Bridge Sam Wantman via Wikipedia under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 2.5, 2.0, 1.0 license


What are you thinking and doing these summer days and hot August nights? What are your summertime rituals? Perhaps you are doing something that is unique to the month of August. Let us know in poem or prose. If you feel comfortable, share your work in the comments section below or leave a link to it. All shared work will be published in The Poet by Day next Tuesday.



  1. August

    Spring’s promise of summer
    has passed, the lush greens
    gone. The season’s here and now,
    but somehow, disappointing.

    The promise so much sweeter
    than reality; the heady warmth;
    sun filled days and mirage haze
    the balmy heat, hot naked nights.

    We should enjoy this time, by rights
    but if it brings us closer to the fall;
    the Autumn of our life, if that is all
    then can we not enjoy the cooling

    promised winter chill, another world,
    its yielding to the blacks and whites
    and lifeless greys, the icy haze
    the freezing hibernation, foreboding

    even earlier Spring, that comes
    too soon, and sooner still the melting
    Arctic ice. One day, there’ll be no more
    affiance of a hopeful summer honeymoon.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Thankyou Jamie ~my first response….

    . 29 days .

    he came early today. screaming round the garden.

    a gentle feel, all chill and autumn mist already,
    with us only mid august, yet we know the signs the feel,
    the smell of the tide in the air, here.

    we panic as the small boy grows, as times passes.

    they say quicker now, yet i am not so sure.

    i went to town yesterday, saw the signs of another
    world. stood in the bank some time, only one
    assistant these days.

    the sun colours the clouds with empathy.


    Liked by 1 person

  3. Hi Jamie,

    Here are all my responses to this prompt:


    Briefly open the earth gate into your head dark,
    allow your kindly dead through the gate to be with
    you, the living, let them sup ale in their old pubs,
    if the places are not boarded up, demolished,

    allow them to enter their old homes. Their rooms left
    as they
    were when they died, or find their goods given to
    charity, sold, some kept, their homes lived in now

    by strangers, who chase them off, crash pots and pans too
    loud for the dead. So they wander streets as homeless,

    uncared, they find your home and photos of themselves,
    relieved that someone still treasures their memory.

    Soon, respite done, they return by the earth gate to
    your head dark, until their next holiday among
    the living, to see, again how time has moved on.


    who plough
    who prepare the earth
    who plough with a wide furrow to bring water from the river
    who plant seeds
    who trace the first ploughing, reploughing as first did not work
    who harrow
    who dig
    who weed
    who reap
    who carry the grain
    who store the grain
    who share the grain
    who share their good fortune with us, the dead


    world of
    dark in your underworld
    full of your dead ancestors
    warm food for the cold times
    riches kept snug
    allow a kiss
    allow a lick
    I should not let the dark out
    for long
    I shall plug it
    so after winter you can give birth to heat
    bring out small bawling heat to help



    rain to earth
    hard labour harvests
    first fruits for winter


    uncut grain holds earth
    in secret counsel as seas
    do not hold sea floor


    scythe interrupts grain’s
    conversation with its earth,
    ears no longer hear


    ruin oversees cornfields
    must be placated with fires
    in field, hearth and head

    Liked by 1 person

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