Sweet, Sweet July Song (or Summer)

I began this poem on the last day of June

each stanza beginning with 'Sweet Summer'

but, the door closed on June before

I had a chance to completely corral verve into verse

so, instead there was born a sweet July song

with some June-strains woven through it...

a sit-back-and-savour summer-weekend siesta

kind of song!

Happy First Weekend of July 2025!

Sweet July/summer sweeps through living’s rooms

In whispers of wisteria plumes...

In bright bursts of myriad blooms

So lovely to behold...

She tap-dances in drops of rain...

And splashes puddles on the lane...

And waves a wand through fields of grain

Transforming green...

... to gold

Sweet July sighs in grassy bars...

And spills to window-sills in jars

Filled with pleasure unfurled...

She glories in sun-beaming kiss

Grins in lip-smacking berry-bliss...

Sweet July, sets cerulean skies

Above a glimpse of Paradise...

From arbours red with rose...

Sweet July spills a patchwork quilt

Across landscapes,

Sweet July sings in welkin brooks

She steals the dreamer's picture books

Contentment feasts on glorious nooks

Of Glad Reality 

Like cornfields flushed with robust stalks 

Like the delight of twilight walks

With carefree company ...

Sweet July sweeps through living’s rooms

In whispers of wisteria plumes

In bright bursts of myriad blooms

So lovely to behold

She tap-dances in drops of rain

And splashes shadows on the lane

And waves a wand through fields of grain

Transforming green to gold

Sweet July sighs in grassy bars

She dazzles pastures with dew-stars

And spills to window-sills in jars

Filled with pleasure unfurled

She glories in sun-beaming kiss

Grins in lip-smacking berry-bliss

Whilst comforting what is amiss

In this broken-down world

Sweet July smiles to you and me

From isles where wells of ink flow free

With one-of-a-kind poetry

Only God can compose

From wisp ‘o willow serenade

From cool, beckoning pools of shade

From hues prominently displayed

From arbours red with rose

Sweet July sways in leafy limbs

And plays a plethora of hymns

For July is a fount that brims

With perfect, purest praise

From oriole, song-sparrow, lark

 From fireflies, dazzling the dark

From children laughing at the park

Happy for summer days

Sweet July, sets cerulean skies

Above a glimpse of Paradise

She spreads picnics for butterflies

And busy/buzzy honey-bees

She strews ballrooms where bare feet dash

Through childhood's fleeting spark and splash

While we, with echo's dust and ash

Forge precious memories  

Sweet July sings in welkin brooks

She steals the dreamer's picture books

Contentment feasts on glorious nooks

Of Glad Reality 

Like the friendship of hollyhocks

Like cornfields flushed with robust stalks 

 Like the delight of twilight walks

With carefree company 

 

Sweet July spills a patchwork quilt

Across landscapes, wildflower-gilt

Wonder erects a temple, built

For worship's awed esteem 

The seed begins to burst with fruit

Thrilling the gardener with loot;

Onions, peas, carrots and beet-root

Heaven-on-earth cuisine

Sweet July slips through afternoons

An invisible minstrel, she croons

Ageless, page-less green ballad-tunes

Strummed on ten-thousand  strings

She overflows the heart with joys

And meadow-pond with laughing boys

The Belle of Summertime deploys

Happiness fit for kings  

Sweet July bids us walk by sight

And taste her fare of pure delight

And satisfy Want’s appetite

With slow and steamy hours

Where no one can afford to make

Less than the most of give and take

Where every day is like a cake

Decorated with flowers

...and dusk is like a getaway

From Duty's Musts of middle-day

Where gardens are a place to pray

And thank-God for July

For fields where farmers reap its hold

For Masterpieces, manifold 

As His handiwork is extolled 

From land and sea and sky

Janet Martin

The seed begins to burst with fruit

Thrilling the gardener with loot;

Onions, peas, carrots and beet-root...

Heaven-on-earth cuisine...

...and dusk is like a getaway

From Duty's Musts of middle-day

Where gardens are a place to pray

And thank-God for July...

Sweet Summer...part 3

Click links below for

Sweet Summer- Part 1

Sweet Summer- Part 2

I began this poem the other day,

to commemorate the tipping point of August's halfway mark! 💖💖💖

Halo of gold and maroon...

Serenade of cricket-croon...

Where the floral colour-spree

Lures bard, 

butterfly...

and bee; (the bees wouldn't sit still enough to give me a good shot 😅)

Where the wonder of the world

Sparkles in dew-gilt unfurled...

Of gardens, bursting, and how

With earth’s tables heaped with chow...

Halo of gold and maroon

Serenade of cricket-croon

Morn, noon night, vibrato-lilt

Trembles in ensembles, spilt

Where the sizzling heat wave broods

Over dark and still-life woods

Where the floral colour-spree

Lures bard, butterfly and bee

Where the cornfields grow and grow

Like infantry, row on row

Where the florid landscape lies

Like a Painter’s Paradise

Where the wonder of the world

Sparkles in dew-gilt unfurled

Feeds the whine of combine-loot

Weighs the wispy vine with fruit

Stuns the poet, middle-stride

With the ink of August-tide

With the hazy, lazy grief

Of boughs, dense with sighing/dying leaf

Of gardens, bursting, and how

With earth’s tables heaped with chow

Of the gard’ner, overcome

By a seed’s volupt’ous sum

Of the brook, bereft of lay

Lyrics lost to reeds and clay

Of the pigment of the rose

Formula God only knows

Of wild lilies of the field

Spilling in copious yield

Of the rush, before the hush

After sedum’s school-girl blush

Of fleet, bittersweet dog-days

Of summer’s soft-slipping ways

Of the hummingbird that drinks

From bloom founts; reds, purples, pinks

Of hydrangea’s lavish crown

Pretty as a bridal gown

Of orchards in quiescent form

Like the calm before the storm

Of kitchens filled with chop-slice

Vinegar and pickling-spice

Dill, parsley, basil, foray

Canners never put away

Menus brightened with fresh voice

Where the cook is spoiled for choice

While the spider spins and spins

While summer’s silk lining thins

While dust wafts o’er dusky day

While the barefoot children play

While the mother collects art

Lost to touch but kept in heart

While the fondness for each flow’r

Falls prey to the baying hour

Falls prey to Bygone’s clenched fist

Clutching at frayed fronds of mist

© Janet Martin

Of hydrangea’s lavish crown

Pretty as a bridal gown...

Of kitchens filled with chop-slice

Vinegar and pickling-spice...

Dill, parsley, basil, foray...

Canners never put away...

Menus brightened with fresh voice

Where the cook is spoiled for choice...

While the spider spins and spins

While summer’s silk lining thins

While dust wafts o’er dusky day...

While the barefoot children play...