Summer Poesy

Will Smith – Summertime

Ella Fitzgerald and Louise Armstrong – Summertime, by Gershwin

And, because one of my most cherished memories involves listening to this song on the radio while my Dad drove me home from the park one summer evening…

Bunny Wailer – Cool Runnings

Poetry and Prose. Written by Miles Tsue over the summer, in Canada and at Cazadero.

I write poetry too. Here is some, to whet your appetite for words…


The Darker Side of You


It is pitch black out there,

When young men drop like rain

And the dew of yesterday’s fears

Gathers on the soil of your grandmother’s garden.


Inside the City, the light

Shines eternally, and so I see—

I can tell in your eyes


That Solace in silence cannot quench

The Thirst

Of an eternity’s worth of longing.

It only indicts your crumbling heart more.


It is pitch black out here

Out in the frigid wind,

In your melting heart, like wax

On a lit, forgotten-about candle stick,

Your solitude


Blows my fears away when

I see it.

It isn’t posturing—it is likely the most beautiful

Thing I’ve ever seen

The grass grows quicker, and I

can’t wait for you

to look at me

and see

my face,






The world is the mother that abandoned you.

I want my heart to stop beating.

It is a malaise of time.


When the clock ticks, I feel

A grimy taste down my throat.

My vision blurs like a drunk man’s.

When the clock chimes the hour,

The beeps

Sound as if they alert us

That the end of time is near.


Outside, there lives a lizard

Made of stone.

He sits quietly atop a chair, looking at me.

I don’t think he likes the light

And keeps blinking his epicanthal folds.

— (May 29th, 2016)



The Darker Side of Her

She lays on his bed, ashen-faced,

Smoking cheap cigarettes. Sober as the night sky,

Quiet as a mountain,

And tears lay suspended,

Mired in her eyes.


It is pitch black out there.


But I stand outside her bedroom window,

And I remember when men would drop like rain

On black pavement,

On their knees, prostrate


In front of her, just so

They could have a chance

To go and have coffee with the woman

Who laughed and loved at everything.

‘Yes’ was a sacred word for them,

The mere sound of the sibilance,

Like a snake hissing,

Gave them chills.

When she walked,

They turned into little toy poodles.


Now I realize

That shadows followed her

wherever she went,

Gravity of the moon

Pulled her in,

Pulled the seeing eye

Closer to the primordial,

And all were drawn to her

Like the gravity of the sun.

—(May 30th, 2016)


Tenderness Dies (June 6th, 2016)

Things broken on a shelf.

Tender nostalgias. A mug cracked in two.


The dog ambles into the kitchen,

Sniffs around, leaves unsatisfied.


Memories broken, exorcised at

The final stage of denial to rescue the last

Whispers of vanity.


The little girl who walks home from school

Feels lighter than he

Who picks up the fragments of his crinkled-up life.

She is too young to feel lonely.

She sits and braids her hair, thinking

How very adult it would be, to be bitter.









The Boy looks in the Mirror (June 10th, 2106)

And sees beams

light seeping through

follicles, fresh

As dew in Spring


Vibrant was the ring

Of daffodils blooming in the field

Echoes of the night that lightened his heart.



An old haven (June 17th, 2106)

Sun, dew, mist parting

She—that day of passion—

Spring had blossomed full,

ripened fast,

the growing grass,

the dew melting on the blades,

and your glance


Parting. Sunlight dappled over grass,

That familiar meadow glade

seemed different then

We were safe and warm

Worldly tortures veiled and unknown

But in time, your troubled mind


Sought food which was

scarce, but glowing brightly

like a gem gleaming in the light,

could feed a whole village


Your milky skin trembled

Gusts of wind made your shirt dance

Sitting as always on the block of granite,

where we sat before, when memory and time melted

into one stew of buttery bliss

Where sun, moon, rain, stars, shooting stars

became friends with us, shared their

loving hospitality with us


I left to visit the glade again,

saw the imprint of your fingers

brushed over the rock a thousand-thousand times


Later, I saw the imprints of feet in the sand

Which disappeared in the wind, later


One among the crowd (June 21st, 2016)

Mention of



lemons, aviator shades

remind me

of sunny days at the park,


at the chess table

with the white king in mate.


My breath, solid, turgid,

coming in spurts

sends a sighing song

on little zephyrs.

I see


A friend among the crowd,

She is engaged

In animate conversation,

laughing, gesturing

gracefully, like a fern tree

dancing with the breeze.


My feet take me closer to her, but they are

so far away,

and my feet so heavy,

I cannot judge

consciousness from desire.


In fact, as I walk,

These two things meld

Together into a

Confused mental alloy.


My opponent

(an older man who had played black before leaving)

Spoke of these things aforementioned.


He told me stories about

Chasing tequila down

With lemon wedges—


about cruising down Main Street

wearing shades,

winking at girls walking by—


about his swallowing his wife’s

future engagement ring

to protect it from a jealous friend—


and about sitting alone by a creek,

thinking of nothing but water.


And, his dog.


The sun sailed resplendent between

two tall maple trunks,

leaves fanning over them

like masts on an ocean-galleon.


The sun twinkled and flitted coyly between the leaves…


Then grass smelled nice…


The crowd passed by…


A kid ran and ran and ran in circles…


My friend (I won’t tell you her name)

had looked back before

disappearing over the hill.


I almost caught her eye. I stood in

the middle of the park, in the middle of the road, idle, thinking

of nothing,

while the cheery sun

sank lower.


Reflections (June 21st, 2106)

Reflections of a pair of sunglasses

remind us that the world

looks back at us.

It sees what affects its

rolling hills and waters

and never looks away.


The waters of the sound

wink back at us.


The fingers of the tide

tickle our feet,

telling us little gossips.


and the birds and squirrels

flutter, twitter, shriek

in agitation and fancy.


Earth spins too quickly, sometimes.


I see as much love in a bunch

of falling fruit

as I do with the touch of

passionate lovers on a bench.

I hear as much melody in the humming whale

as the rumbling of the symphony orchestra.


So many earthen lovers

on the most spiritual of mothers,

the birthplace of the most wonderful coitus of the


Lonnie Liston Smith – Summer Nights


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