Cool breezes blew tonight,
Normally a sign for friendly gathering,
But on this summer respite
Hot airs blew over plastic grass.
Sometimes tradewinds blow unexpectedly,
For some, things are just stalled.

photo of lightning
Photo by Philippe Donn on Pexels.com

I used to have summer themes,
Usually, I would look back at the end of summer
And piece together the memories and find a musical theme,
There was a Red Hot Chili Pepper summer,
A Jack Johnson summer, and whatever Bonnaroo birthed.

Back in the day, there were summers defined by jobs,
Loch Ness, the wheelwright, RJP.

One important summer was defined by marriage,
The best one, for sure.

The past few years have been memorable,
But the thematic energy has been gone,
More coasting, practical, bound to calendar watching
As the days until school starts again
Dominated my way.

Not this one, I’m a mess of energy that is threatening
To change my very sloth-like existence.
It’s not nervousness, it’s more of a positive anxiousness,
A wanting to make changes,
To apply some behavior obstacles that I’ve got to jump over,
Around, or through
To get past whatever it is that has my passions stoked.

Two characters, Shivas and Master Fwap,
They are talking to me,
Rekindling my energy for the unexplained and the enlightened,
Spiritual places that keep pushing my imagination forward.

An article posited diminishing personal returns
For those in their fifth decades and I say, “eff that,”
While another talked about the way bartenders judge
People who order mixed drinks in peculiar ways.
I’m sort of calling shenanigans on both,
I can do everything I could do before and
I’ll drink what I want, how I want it.
So bartenders, if you are going to judge,
There go your tips.

Friends talk about swill, the bad beer of baseball banquets and
All I can think about is how much I prefer
Darker, meaner beers,
How I’m not likely to sacrifice taste when I go out,
Unless I’m downing them at the beach where some mass product
Will be just fine.
Yet as I read, a man my age should be drinking water,
Ah, the fifties are a challenge.

Bring it.

YouTube talks of minimalism,
I’m getting rid of stuff,
Simplifying my life,
Focusing on breathing,
Doing away with hot water,
Going neat in a nod to the bartenders,
And swinging a kettlebell in as many planes
As I can figure out,
Big sky point to Mrs. Alexander.
Simple ways, a move towards nothingness…

So what of this energy? What is the theme?
Is it Phish? I can’t stop listening to them.
Is it exercise? I can’t stop working out.
Is it writing? I can’t stop the poems.
Is it the adult beverages? I’m enjoying Widow Jane,
She brings an interesting level of consciousness.
Besides, if my ninety-seven-year-old grandmother
Can send her nurse out for a bottle of rum,
Why can’t I have a taste? Family traditions and all…

I think
It’s all of it, wrapped up in a neat little theme of

Me. Egocentric I know, but

I’m doing what I do,
Enjoying what I’m doing,
Aware, sensitive to what I can learn, callous to the anchors,
Ready to get deep,
Ready to be free,
Ready for some sweat, and
Open to it all.

Except for the status quo and warm swill.

Tired,
State of mind
Or
Physical property?

Either way,
Mentally gashed
By never ending routines,
Physically worn by the same.

One more week to go,
The threads will unwind,
Afternoons will be free,
Summer won’t be far behind.