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Summer Afternoons

By Marilyn (LaraOct7@aol.com)


Summer afternoons are for taking it easy, I say. Whether it's a time for reading or a time for watching tv, I think afternoons are a time for relaxing.

When I was young and living at home I remember that my mother would take a break in the afternoons. When we lived in the country and Mother cooked on a range, she would do most of the cooking in the mornings when it was cool. She also did her housework in the mornings.

In the afternoons, my mother would work on a homemade quilt she was piecing or she would do some mending. Those were the days before we bought our television.

Will the title of this challenge have you recalling your childhood and the way you spent your summer afternoons? Or will you write about the way you spend them now?

Truth or fiction, prose or poetry, we look forward to your entry.


LaraOct7. (LaraOct7@aol.com)










Hiawatha

By Cottage Lady (patience@bresnan.net)


The scent of pink miniature roses climbing
along the front screened-in porch
with it’s swing and caned rocking chairs still there.
Inside the summer-cottage smell of sweet musty pine,
old mismatched walnut furniture with throw covers,
and a kitchen with faded blue linoleum flooring.


The aroma of new mown grass with
sunlight glistening on delicate spider’s webs
along the front log fence.
Walks along Grove Road, buzz of honeybees,
heavenly scented honeysuckle vines
lining rock walls on quiet sun-drenched afternoons.


The sandy beach and rocky shore
with its weathered wooden piers
jutting far into the Long Island Sound.
As evening falls, waters with scarcely a ripple
merge with sky so blue beginnings and endings are lost
in a haze of stillness and oneness.


The sound of slushy surf through open windows,
and weathered timbers settling at night,
curled up tight in fresh air sheets and aged quilts,
the taste of salt on the tongue, the feel of warm sand
slipping through fingers trying to hold onto dreams
and moments of youth and innocence.









Summer Afternoons

By Joy (JOY3032@aol.com)


Summer afternoons when I was young
Were the times I loved the best
We'd walk to the creek and take a dip
And lie on the bank and rest


We'd stop at the A & W
That was just about half way home
Order a hotdog and root beer
That had a head of the yummiest foam


No matter what the weather
Sun, wind or rain or cold
We would stroll along down the alley
Looking for cast outs that were not too old


Once we found a lamp shade
That looked just peachy keen
On the table right next to our bed
Mom didn't think it the best she had seen


Once we found a doll's head
And thought it was quite a prize
We took it home and made a cloth body
Stuffed it to get to the proper size


Afternoons in summer were magic
We followed where all the paths led
But now that I am much older
Magic is afternoons lying in bed









Summer Afternoons

By Doris (Toto38@aol.com)


The summer I was nine
Was a wonderful time
'T'was nineteen-forty-seven
And the days were like heaven!


The ball games were fun
Played under the sun
No-one minded the heat
As we played in the street.


Millie's lemonade stand
Cold and sweet, was so grand!
Hydrant water would splash
And we'd run in a flash!


The days would rush by
To the darkening sky
Suppertime stopped the fun
Till next afternoon's sun!









Summer Afternoons

By Phyllis (Starbird55@comcast.net)


Gentle breezes of a Summer afternoon waft through my mind.
Where else but home could you find such a delightful way to unwind.


Never mind the beach or the crowded restaurant down the way.
A lovely lemonade on the screened in deck where in a deck chair I lay.


Book laying across my lap opened to the page were I was reading,
Eyes closed listening to the dogs gentle breathing.


Birds chirping in the trees underneath a blue sky,
Makes a person contented enough to emit a blissful sigh.


Hum of a distant mower and laughter of a child in a yard down the street,
Lends itself to distant scenes of other Summers where on the porch friends did meet.


Peace and tranquility fill the Summer afternoon,
Until its time for Supper and things to do inside.
Make mine Apple pie and chicken Southern fried.









Summer Flowers

By Rodney A. Franklin (AMPAW@aol.com)


When the summer sun burns bright
across fields of gold and white,
I am drawn back to the days
when I sang in joyful praise


to Him who in his own time
made flowers wondrously sublime
to burst into a splendor
that promises so much more.









On the Porch

By Norma (Twi1ite@sbcglobal.net)


It was a big old frame on a corner with gently declining thick St. Bermuda. Along its side-street side there was a flower bed stuffed with big Shasta daisy faces. It was a Southern mansion wannabe, for across the entire front there had been added a cool front porch, facing North, and topped with a gingerbread border. Small columns paraded across it, and on this veranda a black-haired lady in all senses of the word sat on an old green and white swinging glider with her mending. Her 30 plus husband, early bald, pushed a new hand mower with skinny rubber tires across the grass, back and forth, back and forth. The lady is now mending a brown sock stretched over a light globe, being very careful with her stitching so as not to make a lump which would blister her man’s foot. In another life she might have been a princess with seamstresses stitching her gowns, so much dignity she carried.

She arises and goes into the house to stir the green beans she snapped on this porch just yesterday afternoon. Now returning, she chooses a purple and yellow flowered dress, cuts a little circle from its leftover material and fashions it around a metal button - lost perhaps on the school playground or when it went through the wringer the last time it was washed. The new button will be brighter, not faded by the Oxydol washings.

It is near sundown for the mower had waited late for a cooler time. The light being poor now, she puts the mending basket down and turns to the paper boy who has also put his empty canvass bag on the cool cement step, he smiling and leaning on a porch column with a big “hello.” Shot up all at once and skinny like one of those green beans, Billy is more full of news than those he carried, about his day.

A daughter is sitting on a cement step reading her history book and bending to answer questions with her No. 2 Mirado in a loose leaf notebook. She now brushes back the locks she was twisting and chewing, closing both notebook and book, curling her saddle oxfords under her bare legs.

Another very little 3-year old has been running along barefooted with her father in the fresh green grass as if that were necessary to the process. Both of the latter now join the group on the porch.

There is sharing about school‘s end, final exams, advice, laughter, Billy teasing the 3-year old, all joining in in some way. Twilight falls, the lady of the house announces “Supper is ready, Billy will you stay?”

Billy takes his cue, saunters toward his home, and all retire to wash their hands with a big bar of Ivory and join around a small kitchen table covered with bright oil cloth to bring the daytime to a close.








Summer Afternoons

By Sharon (ByGolly25@aol.com)


Yellow, purple, orange, and red
Which little creature will be fed
Butterflies gather nectar as they flit
Hummingbirds too, each little bit


Quail leaping up for blossom to grab
Bunnies chomping stems oh they are bad
Finches landing on branch with a tweet
Other small birds like something sweet


Along comes a breeze, blossoms whirl
Oh yes lets not forget that pesky squirrel
All of a sudden they away speed
Coyote is here the little ones take heed


When Wiley Coyote heads far away
The little critters come again to play
Roadrunner trying to catch a butterfly
No luck for he can't fly all that high


Jubilee blossoms draw the crowd
Many birds chirping ever so loud
Oh oh a hungry hawk do they see
Again the little critters hide or flee


Once the danger is has gone past
The small creatures arrive again fast
A small desert rain storm does descend
Purple sage brush is blooming again









Summer Afternoons

By Pat (Patagain71733@aol.com)


Flowers of every color should be a lovely sight
Their Beauty is lost to my grieving heart
they only remind me of the lonely night
l left her ashes in the garden forced to part


I look and see children at play
they bring no joy to my day
simply reminding me of a little girl
Sweet tiny little precious pearl


what is a sad memory worth
was she real? Did I give birth?
I try to go on hiding the thought
The plunging despair I have fought


how comforting it would be to hear some one say
they remember that baby who only lived for a day
I would know that another life was touched
some one else missed this precious baby as much


no mater how brief a baby's life may be
some where in heaven is a special place
I pray all grieving parents will see
our baby's happily living under Gods grace









Beauty Among the Flowers

By Connie (CSThomas@aol.com)


A tiny weed grows among these flowers
Is it tryin' to become pretty too
Perhaps hoping no one will notice
This little one's colorless hue


As the sun shines its morning glow
All flowers seem to shine
Overshadowing this orphan weed
Will it stunt its growth in time


The rains did come upon them
Making the flowers' beauty soar
Lo and behold the weed did too
He's no longer an ugly eyesore









Summer Afternoon

By Amy (fabulousfilly@aol.com)


on a sunny sunny day
yes in the month of may
I sat at my window lookin out at the bay
what did my roving eye spy
but a bird up in the sky


I spotted an owl
oh boy did it howl
it sang away in the month of may
seeking out bats with wings flayed


on this day
i spotted maryland red clay
and children at play
what can I say!


Getting dirty on that dirt pile
I stop and reminisce once in a while
of the day my first born came running inside
saying Mom can my baby sister come play outside


he wanted her to go outside to play
he wanted a wee baby to climb the maryland red clay
for you see he had spent days building it high
i laughed at him but half of me wanted to cry


he was only five years old
she was only five days old
his mind was clicking so brave and so bold
this will always be a memory i closely hold


in my heart
in my soul









Haiku

By Emiliano (Poeta48@aol.com)


The grass is dying
The heat is unbearable
I am thirsty too.









Summer Days of a Nine Year Old Child

By Cara (Cara617@aol.com)


Summer daze,
watching clouds in the sky
wandering by.
A cheap vacation
using my
imagination.


Look at that
formation!
It's a great organization
of the animals, birds,
and elephants
using cloud transportation.


There's a free zoo
for each one of us
to view.
You might even
see a
kangaroo.


Relax and remember
the days of long ago
and have a celebration.
It will
relieve your
current aggravation.


Go back to childhood days.
You need no
qualification.
You do not even need
any registration.









Indelible Memories

By Marilyn T (mterwilleger@bresnan.net)


Standing in a stretch of woods
I listened to summer,
with her verdant trees
and sweep of owl wings.
She unfolded her
gossamer gown,
gathered broken clouds
then laid them softly down.


A quick stream
made new drops, floated
to a beaver dam,
where it pooled
and murmured in ripples.
Falling sun
pulled the sky below
timber’s crown,
while evening coaxed
stars to hold hands
with night’s indigo
strands.


I took a breath
of twilight and saw
the vermillion moon
hang low. I lay
in a bed of loam
and soft pine
needles to wait
for summer’s dawn
and when it rose the sun
spread her rays
like golden fingers,
then made a cunning
leap to glow
between the gaps
of forest trees, filled with shade.
Some indelible memories
can’t be erased
from the soul.









Summer Afternoons

By Mercedes (mercedes1947@gmail.com)


Here, Summer Afternoons
Are dazzling, once the clouds and the rain
And the drizzle fizzle
We are given Summer Afternoons
Of imagination and dreams
And childhood schemes


In the years we lay beneath
The horse chestnut
And read Henry, Maruguerite
Bold fingered leaves fancily tickled
By a wandering breeze
There was a rhythm to summer days
When undisturbed they, by modern ways.
















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Little Black Dress (several writers)

The Artist's Brush (several writers)

The Tall White Pitcher (several writers)

To a Piano (several writers)

Six Words in a Poem (several writers)




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