The End of Endless Summer

[Black Bart]

Sad to see it go. Although there's surely an "official" date, it's always ends for me today -- the last day of August (like it was back in schooldays). Remember how long summer seemed in those days? It seemed to stretch out so far that you could almost forget that school even existed.

I never did get that L. L. Bean rope hammock I'd promised myself ever since June. And a snappy contraption it was -- one of those wide and comfy, square-ended models; fabricated of white and woven criss-cross nylon, held open on both ends with walnut stabilizer bars so I could jump in if I dared. They're expensive and they're on sale (half-off), but it wouldn't be the same now...in the fall. The train's left the station, so to speak.

And I had such ambitious plans to recapture my youth during the sacred three-month respite -- I was gonna hook that rig to my big sycamore and a little white oak out back, brew pitchers of iced tea, garnish with lemon, and "read the Russians." I'd sampled some of their lesser works in my youth and now a Junish sense of "time is on my side" bolstered my confidence such that I was prepared for an assault on "War and Peace" (don't know a thing about it--just always heard it's required reading for a would-be man of letters). Anyway I was hyped-up and prepped for some tough sledding and slogging (some of the Rooskies are incredibly dull and I wasn't expectin' much more of WP). And then...

Nothin'. I never did click on B&N to place the order. Tax season had wrung me out like a dishrag -- couldn't delve any deeper than "Dear Abby."

Well anyway, while I was writin' this, I dug out an old journal wherein I'd copied stuff from my college literature class. I just love those nineteenth-century Americans, many of whom were alive with joyous and buoyant simple-life optimism. Lord knows I need some of that. So. Like the salesfolks say; I'm going to "share" with you:

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the moldering past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining,
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all:
Into each life some rain must fall;
Some days must be dark and dreary.

"The Rainy Day" --- H. W. Longfellow

Cheer up. Another day and it's the weekend.

[Armando Beaujolais]

Looking back poems

Here's one with a not so happy ending.

***

While clutching youth, my failing grasp
from force of time let go to fall,
is now the guest departed cold;
the corpse behind the smothered wall.

On precipice of birthdays waning
with shards of crystal underfoot
abandon moderation's aim
mid bloated gaze, and devil's loot.

Inclement breath, uncertain term
the candle fades, the earth grows dark.
The lonely face turns toward the grave
and ponders dull extinction's mark.

Untitled - A. Beaujolais

[dyne]

Poem that remains in my mind

I learned the following poem when I was in Junior High school and cannot get it out of
my mind. I have forgotten many of the words.

Does anyone know the title or the
remaining words?

This I beheld of dreamed within a dream,
a furioius battle raged and swords shocked upon swords and steel.
A craven hung along the battles edge and thought "Had I a sword of keener steel"
but this blunt thing, and he tossed the sword down.
Then came the kings son, wounded and sore bestead, and spied the buried
sword in the dry and sodden sand and snatched it up and with battle cry slew the enimies and won a great victory that day.

[Unregistered]

OPPORTUNITY by Edward R. Sill

This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:
There spread a cloud of dust along a plain;
And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged
A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords
Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner
Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.
A craven hung along the battle's edge
And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel --
That blue blade that the king's son bears -- but this
Blunt thing -- !" He snapt and flung it from his hand,
And, lowering, crept away and left the field.
Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead,
And weaponless, and saw the broken sword,
Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand,
And ran and snatched it, and with battle shout
Lifted afresh, he hewed his enemy down,
And saved a great cause that heroic day.

[dyne]

name of my poem

Thank you so much unegistered guest for the title and forgotten words
to the poem: Opportunity. I remembered not half of the words from about
64 years ago. Thanks so much.

[Black Bart]

Here's one with a not so happy ending.

***

While clutching youth, my failing grasp
from force of time let go to fall,
is now the guest departed cold;
the corpse behind the smothered wall.

On precipice of birthdays waning
with shards of crystal underfoot
abandon moderation's aim
mid bloated gaze, and devil's loot.

Inclement breath, uncertain term
the candle fades, the earth grows dark.
The lonely face turns toward the grave
and ponders dull extinction's mark.

Untitled - A. Beaujolais

You wrote that? And I thought I was depressed!

Industrial-strength wordsmithing anyway, I think. Now, though, it (with apologies to jc/DaveO) begs the English teacher's question: "What do you suppose Poe/this miserable wretch/whoever meant by this (aside from the unpleasantness of mortality)?"

P.S. to Dyne: It's kinda nice to find out the pure and unblemished straight version after one of those has been nesting in the back of your mind for a few decades, isn't it?

[Armando Beaujolais]

"...You wrote that? And I thought I was depressed!..."

Did that come out sounding a bit morbid? I used to attend a writers group that was formed in appreciation of H.P. Lovecraft. That was my dark period, when I also wrote and performed "Jackal's Bark," a howling mess in tribute of peculiar people who like the dark. Finally Bees forbade me from engaging in such gloomy repartee. Since then the scariest image I've purposely entertained "had two big horns...and a wooly jaw!" He's comin' to getcha!

Actually, "Untitled" came from a 10-word challenge. Ten people would each throw out a word, then everybody would write a poem using all ten words.

Some day when it's slow I'll lay "Horsethief Cave" on you. It's about Jesse James and spooky caves and legends and myths and townsfolk trying so hard to see or hear the James - Younger gang that they scare each other to death. That one was published in John Koblas' book "Jesse James Ate Here" (written under the moniker of Armando's alter ego). The book is a collection of legends and tales of Jesse James that are mostly hysterical recollections of people who crossed paths with the outlaw, except James was never anywhere near the place.