PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Not subject to the Party's will or powers,

summer returns, with warmth and lengthened hours

of daylight tendering summons to flowers.

Comrade Lenin might be hardpressed to put

a Bolshevik spin on this brightest season;

nor harness it to serve some Marxist reason.

Now, to partake of summer's many joys,

comes forth, outdoors, these two loveliest boys---

each recently blossomed to adolescence---

clad in unbuttoned shirts and baggy trousers

(and underneath the tattered cuffs, barefoot),

to frolic in the meadow's long, soft grass

that stains, profusely, their toes, soles, and heels.

Quite obviously, they like how that feels,

or how a certain kind of gaze will pass

between them; or sly way one hand slips

into the waiting other; or the glide

(freed from the hesitance of inhibition)

of eager, slyly playful, fingertips

beneath shirts' loosened flaps, drawn slightly back:

of these private pleasures they have no lack;

mostly uninterrupted privacy

attends them as a common courtesy.

Not too long can any summer abide.

Meanwhile, fierce storms often despoil July---

a roiling in the atmosphere's condition,

illumined by lightening's swift incandescence.

Starward

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