Summer, A Motion Blur, Again (#124)

I'm gonna follow my heart instead of good advice. Plus: Link to a recent reading on another 'stack.

Part of Campfire Notebook’s format is a monthly poetry feature. As I continue to work on new poetry submissions offline, I still want to share examples of my work with you. These are poems created purposefully each month to share around the Campfire.

Wild horses could not drag me away from you. (Photo: Bryn Robinson, 2010).

Bracelet Days
Bleary blinking opening to bells — and darkness. 
A sigh, as the still shadows of six a.m. vignette the low light of this latest work: 

        Bryn Robinson (b. 1981)
        Self-Pitying Self-Portrait of a Middle-Aged Woman (2024)
        Quilt into chrysalis. 

Another sigh, so I close my eyes again — and float 
from dawn back to the dusk of the dog days: 
riding plastic ponies into the horizon line, 
perfumed in caustic comfort of motor oil and fry grease 
(still as strong as if bottling a firefly in a spare jam jar). 
Bells tinkling, I take my hand off the reins
and reach to grab a fistful of cloud;
I let the crystals melt on my tongue, 
staining them sunset and sky,
as joy tears with sticky hands through my funnel cake soul. 

That feeling - that there’s nothing to shift into focus,
only to try and catch up to a ferocious spirit 
approaching the vanishing point — ignoring the fact 
that parking lots are only meant for temporary traffic. 

Sure, I’ll have to return earth — in a few more minutes. 
But right now, I need to fly. 

Remain calm - it’s almost September. (Photo: Bryn Robinson, June 2010).

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It happens so suddenly, the turn from summer days to encroaching autumn. The mornings are harder to face at 5AM - my usual time to rise, shower, enjoy coffee. It’s like the bedroom has become a black hole with the longer nights, holding me longer.

I love autumn, especially the crisp evenings and the crisp (dessert). But I woke up Tuesday and felt a pang - a desire to ride one last Ferris wheel before turning to responsibilities of a new year. (Even though I’ve not ridden any carnival ride this year.)

The carnival is in town this week. Maybe I will jump on a ride to satiate this strange feeling.

How are you feeling with the end of another summer?

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ICYMI

I was fortunate to be back in time for

The Wee Sparrow Poetry Press

reading on Zoom, where I got to hear from wonderful poets and share the piece they graciously published in their anthology. (I’m at 15:52, but I encourage you to listen to all of the works on show.)

Poetry Reading on Zoom (Second Reading)

To buy a copy (and support the worthy International Rescue Committee), head over to Amazon.

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Astute readers (or even bleary-eyed ones, since sometimes it’s quite blatant) will see the song lyrics used in titles and captions. I don’t usually point out the source, but I feel the need to share this one, being deeply wired into my brain as a summer song, released May 1987 and getting gold status in Canada.

This version - the original and the best one - is not on Spotify, sadly. So have a listen and think of warm summer nights and epic mullets:

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Thanks for reading this month’s creation, friends. You can check out other poems I’ve created for the Campfire here:

Invasive Species | The Tangent Function | A Spark That Spreads | Mango | Tangled Whispers | Springtime Elegy | Cannonball | Sugar Pants

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