Tag Archives: summer

a poem-ish

We’re at the height of its fiery heat,
though by the wheel’s turning we are already into the descent.
A banana tree in the back yard has grown by feet this past week alone,
one of the billowy leaves looking like a tired sojourner,
leaning heavily on the balcony railing for support.
Even the mosquitos are too wilted to mill as we wait for the sun to sink below the horizon; none come out now.
I’ve been reading the same page of my book over again without retaining a word.
I’ll try again later. Right now something cold and wet sounds good;
raspberry lemonade blended with trays of ice, swirled with some freshly cut strawberries, perhaps.
I will not complain about the heat, even as I stand in front of the fan with lifted shirt;
the air inside is so warm that standing anywhere feels as though one were in a bath without any steam.
But the glasses aren’t sweating – everything is dry, a little parched.
In a few months I’ll be lamenting the lack of warmth and aridity and sunshine;
for now I’ll bask in it, then, even if it hurts.




I feel much better in the summer,
much better while it brightly shines (though my crispy sunburnt shoulders from a week ago may argue).

I learn to sleep through the light and to suck it deep into my pores when it’s there for the taking.
Weight is lifted and my spirit exalts.

No wonder the dark feels like a void I fall into in the sun’s absence.
Right now I want to love.
I want to be kissed on every bare inch of skin (oh it’s bare!).

I want to feel the world on my skin, the fluttering of leaves and wings like thoughts, hands held by blossoming prehensile branches.

Don’t you?

Dreams don’t come so easily now, in this light slap happy fugue state.
Those seem reserved for the dark; sleep now is either sound and impregnable or so light it flits like dancing sunlight chasing shadows.

My son asks “why are you feeding the demons?” when I set out salmon bits.
He refers to the crows living in the big cedar. “We are friends,” I shrug.

Just in case, I also set out some tobacco for the ancestors, not local wild but stuff from Havana – maybe they’ll like this too. I hope.

I could use all the help I can get to find my way in this in between.
If they help even a little I will be that much further ahead.

(c) 2014 Adriane Csicsmann Giberson





teeming summer bees and things
dragon fly-by buzzing the town
looking to give a ride to a damsel
it’s that time folks, step right up
trills and thrills mingle into one so
that neither are discernible from
the other; lake water lapping on
a shore beckons a toe then a foot
oh what the hell, let it claim all of
you – in neck deep now, might as
well dive in, even without the tire
swing to careen off of for leverage.

(c) 2014 Adriane Csicsmann Giberson

Sunday softness


Oh the softness of Sundays.

Summer is here. It’s got the scent and feel of alpine air, fresh and cool with a slight breeze and an echo.

The birds are squawking, the crows with their nasal caw, and others, tittering a staccato rejoinder.

The sound of a lawnmower is accompanied by the occasional shushing of cars and the tinny growl of small engine planes.

If my blind was pulled open, I could tell you whether the sun, which has been bashfully covering itself with clouds, was making an appearance today.

But I’m still laying here, wrapped in warm blankets and feeling the cool air stream over my arms as I write, not quite ready to rouse myself from this warm little haven, but considering it seriously, since breakfast must be made and served, and another day greeted with gratitude.

And the dishes await washing.