Chloe Cunningham – Illustration – The Songs of a Southern Summer

The Songs of a Southern Summer

Illustrations By: Chloe Cunningham

Kudzu

Time is frozen in place. No wind in my hair. No wind on my face The forest is covered. No light can peek through. I dig through the flora. To try to find you. But there isn’t a trace.

I rummage through kudzu. Like a creature which swallows the land. I start to lay down grasping my face in my hands. I feel the cold ground hardened. The red clay under my weight. This moment feels scattered. I’m forever awake.

The guilt washes over me. Something I cannot erase I feel the pain. Of that empty space.

Without you with me I cannot get up. The vines hold me down lest I get cut. The lower I stay the less I dig through. The more weight I carry to try to find you.

New life sang, In a world full of both color and rain Seasons began to change. Hearing the cardinals pain.

I feel the start of a breeze. Time resuming, the swing of the trees Light floods the forest. Reflecting off all the kudzu leaves

Still you stay frozen and Life moves onwards. Everyday forever missed, but never forgotten.

Solo and the Fawn

Streaks of rose-colored clouds rising above the small hill greet Solo and the Fawn.

I see them as I walk into the glassed enclosed kitchen porch, enviously wanting to be on the hill with them

As the crows bark and the squirrels chatter. Both deer greet me as I take my seat.

Ears perk up while they munch on the corn poured out the evening prior.

I greet them by name. They seem to smile instead of running away

As we start our day together.

-

Dan Batson

Back When

An old town that escapes the reality of today. I’d trade anything to see it in all of its glory. No cell phones, everyone smiling and waving. Everything peaceful and happy. The sun peeking through the pine trees. Do you hear the mockingbird’s song? The summers are hot and humid, the creaks are filled with crawfish... We giggle and run to our hiding place near the oak trees. “Tag your it!”

We all scurry barefooted through the woods. Screams, shouts. We forgot how we are still here, In the same town over taken by the sounds of silence. You may think this story is over; The truth is, it’s only just begun. “Back when I was a child” maybe seem boring to some, but if you listenYou may be surprised how you will want to go back to a time when we could play near the creaks... Life was simpler back then, Back when; This town was small and simple, but it was home. And always will be.

-

Barkley Layne

Barkley Layne, “Back When” from hellopoetry, published by Eliot York.

The Egrets

It’s hot -- the sky is blue like little flames. The sweeping gray beards of the Spanish moss, Like ancient spirits, on the breezes toss Their tangled gossamer in Zephyr’s games.

Majestic, every evergreen reclaims Its emerald hues, while winds all sweep across Strange fragrances, in melancholy’s loss,

While somewhere tall palms whisper the winds’ names.

Like orchids in the moonlight, or like stars,

The egrets ornament each shaggy stand; Soft shadows fall in lavender and mauve; They shine in glory, elfin avatars,

Their regal plumes so beautiful and grand, Serene, in this weird solemn, somber grove.

Anissa Nedzel Gage

Anissa Nedzel Gage, “Back When” from Hiu Lai Chong’s “Nesting Egrets” published by all poetry.

Keeping it Simple

I Take the bird on the woodpile, separate it from it’s function, feather by feather. I blow it up to scale. I make a whole life out of it: everywhere I am, its sense of loitering lights on my shoulder.

-

Mary Ruffle

Coyote

A few days more, and then There’ll be no secret glen, Or hollow, deep and dim, To hide or shelter him. And on the prairie far, Beneath the beacon star On evening’s dark’ning shore, I’ll hear him nevermore.

For where the tepee smoke Curled up of yore, the stroke Of hammers rings all day, And grim Doom shouts, “Make way!”

The immemorial hush Is broken by the rush Of armed enemies Unto the utmost seas.

-

Alexander Posey

Alexander Posey, “Coyote”, published by poets.org. Originally published 1900 by Alexander Posey.

Honeysuckle

It sprang up wild along the chain link fence—thick, with glorious white and yellow summer blooms, and green tips that we pinched and pulled for one

perfect drop of gold honey. But Dad hated it—hated its lack of rows and containment, its disorder. Each year, he dug, bulldozed, and set fire to those determined vines. But each year, they just grew back stronger. Maybe that’s why I felt the urge to plant it that one day in May, when cancer stepped onto my front porch and rang the doorbell, loose matches spilling out of its ugly fists. -

Karla K. Morton

Backyard Vacation

I sit here and gaze at God’s blue sky With white puffy clouds drifting by And the vibrant green of grass and trees And the flowers all bowing in the breeze

Then I look out across the peaceful pond At the woods and the pasture just beyond. And closer in, flying into view The finch, the cardinal, and the bluebird, too.

In the redwood swing, I lean back and then Enjoy the melody of the wren.

The whir of the hummingbird darting by The sight of the buzzard, floating high. The robin defending its hidden nest By chasing away the cowbird pest.

I sit out here and swing along As I listen with joy to God’s nature song.

And as I listen to each trill and peep, I close my eyes and fall asleep.

Wanda G. Black

The Songs of a Southern Summer

A collection of poems celebrating the nostalgia of nature

Illustrations

By:

Chloe Cunningham

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