Summer Party

In the hot New England woods

We come to confess

Our need.

Ourselves alone,

Workday false face

No longer

In our steed.

Among

The humble friends

Who know

Our youthful

Means

Before these our

Glorious ends.

Fortressed, trapped, well-wrapped

Among the

Bug bites

And the trees,

We make

Drink

Laugher

Music

While we conjure, sing and feed.

Rip away

The worry layers

And lay bare

The stuff of youth.

Soul fire lights

These summer nights

For warriors

To recoup.

Blighted Lights

Pattern array

For public display

Imagine my dismay

When what once was Avant guard

Is predictable for pay

Making bank on decades past

Somehow they’ve made it last

But the real poets are restless

And now the die is cast.