Weekend Writing: Best Summer Poems

This weekend is Memorial Day weekend--a time to remember our fallen heroes who fought to protect us. It's also a time to pay respect to our loved ones who may no longer be here with us. It's a weekend to come together, whether it's at a picnic, barbecue, a community parade, or more. Reunite with family and friends as you make new memories.

To many of us, Memorial Day is the official "kick-off" to summer. I love the summer season. I love wearing shorts and t-shirts. I love sitting outside and drinking lemonade. I love the warm weather, traveling, eating cool, refreshing food and desserts, and so much more. Summer is the season for adventures. So, for the next few months, I'll be devoting a variety of blog posts to summer. I'll feature summer-themed posts, so get excited. Celebrate summer with me in any way possible.

That includes in this post, where I'm featuring five of the best poems about the summer season. These poems are going to make you "one with the sun." Enjoy!

1. "Summer Stars" - Carl Sandburg 

Bend low again, night of summer stars.
So near you are, sky of summer stars, 
So near, a long-arm man can pick off stars,
Pick off what he wants in the sky bowl, 
So near you are, summer stars,
So near, strumming, strumming, 
              So lazy and hum-strumming. 

2. "The Summer I Was Sixteen" - Geraldine Connolly 

The turquoise pool rose up to meet us,
its slide a silver afterthought down which
we plunged, screaming, into a mirage of bubbles.
We did not exist beyond the gaze of a boy.

Shaking water off our limbs, we lifted
up from ladder rungs across the fern-cool
lip of rim. Afternoon. Oiled and sated, 
we sunbathed, rose and paraded the concrete,

danced to the low beat of "Duke of Earl." 
Past cherry colas, hot-dogs, Dreamsicles,
we came to the counter where bees staggered 
into root beer cups and drowned. We gobbled 

cotton candy torches, sweet as furtive kisses,
shared on benches beneath summer shadows.
Cherry. Elm. Sycamore. We spread our chenille 
blankets across grass, pressed radios to our ears,

mouthing the old words, then loosened 
thin bikini straps and rubbed baby oil with iodine
across sunburned shoulders, tossing a glance
through the chain link at an improbable world.

3. "Firefly" - Jacqueline Woodson 

It's almost May 
and yesterday 
I saw a firefly. 

You don't see 
them a lot 
in the city. 

Sometimes
in the park
in the near dark

one comes out
you'll hear
a little kid shout

Lightning bug! Firefly!

First firefly I 
seen in a 
long, long time. 

Make a wish,
Miss Edna said.
Make a good one.

Firefly wishes always come true. 

4. "Casey at the Bat" - Ernest Lawrence Thayer

A Ballad of the Republic, Sung in the Year 1888

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought if only Casey could but get a whack at that--
We'd put up even money now with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from 5,000 throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped--
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bad the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed. 
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate. 
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville--mighty Casey has struck out.

5. "Bath" - Amy Lowell 

The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus in the air. 
        The sunshine pours in at the bath-room window and bores through the water in the bath-tub in lathes and planes of greenish-white. It cleaves the water into flaws like a jewel, and cracks it to bright light. 
        Little spots of sunshine lie on the surface of the water and dance, dance, and their reflections wobble deliciously over the ceiling; a stir of my finger sets them whirring, reeling. I move a foot and the planes of light into the water jar. I lie back and laugh, and let the green-white water, the sun-flawed beryl water, flow over me. The day is almost too bright to bear, the green water covers me from the too bright day. I will lie here awhile and play with the water and the sun spots. The sky is blue and high. A crow flaps by the window, and there is a whiff of tulips and narcissus in the air. 

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I'll keep it simple: Have a lovely summer season! Welcome summer into your heart. It's a beautiful season. Embrace it.

Until next time...

-KJL-