Late Summer Days Poem by Nero CaroZiv

Late Summer Days

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Late summer days, I linger for the soft veil dimming the tender skies,
And half way thru concealing from pensive eyes
The bronzing tokens of the approaching yellow brown fall;
School days were soon and ominous; calmness brooded upon the hills,
And summer's parting dreams and happy time no longer did distill
The divine charm of silence over open fields and sandy paths in whole


The stacks citrus groves in balmy green array,
Stood waiting through the placid dormancy day,
Like wild trees with shelling bark in the plain;
I still fathom the kids who played and found shelter there
Picture of long ago past; phantoms to thin air,
And ghosts and shadows of vanished joy and pain.


Late summer days, I used to observe the Eastern empire rise,
The hawk making lazy circles above spying on flocks wanton in the skies:
Those birds emerging from the forest gloom clap their extended wings,
While with the clattering sound the wide expansion rings:
I saw the shepherd in an usurper cow chase,
With his dusty red clay cloths he tried to retrieve the beast into its proper place;


Late summer days when taken as a child one day to the field a dandelion I had found
That tempted my hand with light and white feathery ball round
I was longing to finger it; I tiptoed near
And blew on it my full mouth air until all plumelets did disappear
Floating in the wind; and all that in my hand was left of them
Was but the naked hairy shaft of a green stem


Summer evening calm; the crimson crest
Of sunset sinking down the sapphire gored West,
I heard the voices of people from hard day work returning;
Farmers and herds from close by fields, of elm and oak,
I saw the invigorant lights of central square, I smelled the smoke,
My zeal and rapture were bursting and burning.


Among the shrubs and boughs sweet zephyrs indulge in play,
Around them all were pleased, and all were gay.
And the shadow of the vile voice; dare I still my grief express,
As if I wish it is gone, my inwards are still gnawed no less,
Hark! Hark! let me muse the scene of the birds who come again,
In this summer chilly morning; each renewing their sweet melodious strain


With imperfect blurry memories and trembling heart
I conjure these past summer days like a kind of art
Thru the years pensive life has already taught
How in vain and flickering is hope and how vexatious thought
From my growing childhood to declining age
How tedious every step, how gloomy every stage


And this path of vanity in life almost complete
Tattered and tired of in the field of life; I now facing retreat
In the still shades of Death; for dread and pain
And grief will find their shafts lanced in vain
And their memories broke, restored from my head
Safe they will be in my grave, and free among all dead



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Tuesday, May 31, 2016
Topic(s) of this poem: memories
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