Poetry

Slurpee

July heat broils blacktop, tar
Bubbles and putties our shoes.

Dog days at the pool, hair
bleached duckling blonde.

Long, hot days require refreshment. Quarters ching
for too-sweet slush.

Forgotten in a 32-ounce brain-freeze,
Bikes lay untethered, abandoned.

These are waning moments. Soon
School bells sound

A cranky ring.
No place

For a summer-feral fifth-grader
Who's almost forgotten how to write,

Sharp new pencil in his
Calloused hand.

T-Storms

There's a pretty good convective Thunderstorm smashing right now. I think I'll take a swipe at waxing philosophical or something about thunder and lightning.
Caution: Watch for low flying feelings.

Ever since I was a little kid, I've always watched the barrage of summer thunderstorms.
Dad and I always go to the porch to scan the brooding sky.
This one's rolling in from the South.
Porches always seem like the perfect venue for such a showcase.
As the storm rolls in, we trace the flashes.
As the light show looms closer, I close my eyes and take it in,
Now I see the storm in red and pinkish hues.
We count between the flashes and the heavy percussions.
Flash,
One...
Two...
Three...
Four-
BOOM.
The cacophany riles up the Beagle almost three blocks away,
yet we still manage to hear that unmistakable howl.
Dad always heads shows his bravado by heading out right when the storm's perched right above our house.
Mom yells at him to get back on the porch.
He doesn't.
The light show ends in furious grand finale,
Shaking the window panes.
Rain will follow.