Summer Sun

from A Child’s Garden of Verses by Robert Louis Stevenson
(1885)


Great is the sun, and wide he goes
Through empty heaven with repose;
And in the blue and glowing days
More thick than rain he showers his rays.

Though closer still the blinds we pull
To keep the shady parlour cool,
Yet he will find a chink or two
To slip his golden fingers through.

The dusty attic spider-clad
He, through the keyhole, maketh glad;
And through the broken edge of tiles
Into the laddered hay-loft smiles.

Meantime his golden face around
He bares to all the garden ground,
And sheds a warm and glittering look
Among the ivy’s inmost nook.

Above the hills, along the blue,
Round the bright air with footing true,
To please the child, to paint the rose,
The gardener of the World, he goes.
Small Town Bolivar
by Leann Marshall

For my sister Kathy`
Fond memories of time we spent with Granny and Pop
in Bolivar, Missouri in the 1950's


Noon whistle
Workers hurry home
For an afternoon meal

Granny’s flowered dishes spread
Filled with garden’s bounty
Everything real

Pop eats a freshly baked roll
I watch his cleft chin as he eats
They look the same;

And after,
Granny lets us have three cookies,
Chocolate chips still warm
No limit, no shame

Screen door slams
Outdoors bound my big sister and I make the rounds
While a thousand cicadas sing

Go for a visit to Papa Smith’s
To Aunt Ruth’s, Aunt Pearl’s
They clap their hands in obvious pleasure

Feed us candy
Harmless gossip
Questionable stories

Next door I hide Miz Eddie’s dessert
(Another experiment)
Under my napkin

While Kathy chats with them,
I listen
Watch the corn grow

Grows in fields of blackest dirt
And if it rains
Don’t get mired in the gumbo

Later Pop grills
We find our evening thrills
Racing after lightning bugs

Pendulum clock chimes deep
Time for bed and good night hugs
We try to sleep

Lying in the dark, through open door
Wafts sounds of Gunsmoke, The Honeymooners,
Granny’s high laughter

Outline of her wide dresser—a porcelain Hand meant to hold rings
Scary thing to keep my eyes on
As I fall asleep and wake to early Mourning doves

Simple time, small town Bolivar
All we are
Still lives within
Forever holds, forever loves.
The Summer Slows--that's both a verb and a
noun!
I remember a time before air conditioning, as a
child, lying on top of the sheets, waiting for the
return stream of air as the fan oscillated back
and forth. Endlessly flipping the pillow to the
cooler side. Listening to the crickets through
open windows and praying for a breeze.

I also have very fond memories of summer as
a child, and have included something I wrote a
few years ago in this June issue of Sketch
Notes. But first, a timeless classic.

Pour a tall glass of cold lemonade and
enjoy!
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Thanks for visiting Sketch Notes, the
seasonal and creative page of my
personal Website:

http://www.leannmarshall.com

I enjoy reading and writing (check out
my two fiction novels, The Starfish
People and The Rendering.)

I created Sketch Notes as a fun way to
express myself poetically, but I love to
feature other writers' work with a
link back to their own Websites.
Links to Sketch Notes archives are at
right.


My philosophy as quoted by Johann
Wolfgang von Goethe:
"One ought, every day at least, to hear a
little song, read a good poem, see a fine
picture, and, if it were possible, to speak
a few reasonable words.”

Don't forget to bookmark Sketch
Notes, tell your friends,  and visit
often!

If you have written something you
would like to see in a future edition of
Sketch Notes, email me.
"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date".

- Shakespeare