Memoirous

 End of Summer, part 2 See, a hand sweeps stars     from the August sky, as if my mother swept off the supper crumbs from the table at home. Her apron, slipping now and then, smells of parsley      and chives– The sweet scent of her long-gone garden      sending me to sleep beside you tonight again.” “August Evening” by Sandor Csoori I’ve been taking walks at night, just to soak in the last drops of unfettered summer. Often I stop under a lone street lights and look down the lonely road. No cars, only the buzzing of insects, the fluttering of moths. All the houses are quiet, the windows dark and, I wonder: Where are all the people? Surely with devices no one is asleep. Sometimes it is only me and the fireflies moving ay night  When I get home, I’ll make a quick visit to the garden to check on the children before retiring to my bed. I hear the crickets in the cracks of wooden slats holding...

  End of Summer . . . I see you leaving our bright land, The last cut flowers in your hand. “The Summer Ends” by Wendell Berry Summer isn’t over, exactly—but there is a feeling in the air. Of limited time. Ticking away in the gut. Get it done. I took the children to the river where a mill race used to run and where the stream is slowed by a terrace of rocks. They waded in and launched “boats,” bits of shaggy bark. We found a rotting crawdad on the muddy banks and sent it on its way upon the sluggish current. Above the bank is a knotted weeping willow, where Jack discovered a secret door. The boys climbed in and out of the twisting roots that still feed the old tree. Hard to believe. The blue and white checkerboard sky overhead was clear of smoke, humidity, ailment, and worry. We had today this summer day. The morning felt timeless, a throwback to the 1970s or some nostalgic era where kids rode their bikes and ran free and played hard and got dirty and came home lat...

Summertime   City                                                          On Vacation   wake up to sirens                                     woken up by noisy birds   stuffy, recycled air                                   breathe deep, fill your lungs, fresh clean crisp   morning shower             ...

I last posted my Again and then found this on Facebook, via a friend I know who has struggled since the death of her husband—many years ago now, but the feels are still real. RUN THE DISHWASHER TWICE. When I was at one of the lowest points in my life, even getting out of bed felt impossible. I had no energy, no motivation, and was barely surviving. Once a week, I’d drag myself to therapy. But during one session, I had nothing to say. My therapist asked how my week had been, and all I could muster was, “I dunno, man. Life.” He wasn’t satisfied. “No, what exactly are you struggling with right now? When you go home after this session, what will be staring you in the face?” I hesitated, embarrassed by the answer. I wanted something more meaningful to say, something bigger. But the truth was so small. Finally, I admitted, “Honestly? The dishes. It’s stupid, I know. The more I look at them, the more I can’t do them. I’ll have to scrub them first because the dishwasher sucks, and I ...

You know summer is over when —snow piles up on window ACs. You know summer is over when —all the swimming pools are empty hulls. You know summer is over when —the streets glisten from icy rain. You know summer is over when —you shiver stepping out of the shower. You know summer is over when —even the dogs put on jackets. You know summer is over when —the marigolds die. You know summer is over when —they bring the patio umbrella inside. You know summer is over when —the mice run into the house. You know summer is over when —Starbucks begins to advertise their Pumpkin Chai Latte. You know summer is over when —the lake turns green beneath a slate gray sky. Right now write—a list memoir. What is it you still need to do this summer, the bike rides, the grill outs, the concerts in the park. Or the friends you need to meet up with. Write your own list. Oder today for other flash memoir writing prompts

Summer is half over. I know hard to believe. But the 4 th of July signals that we are past the solstice of the longest day and once again moving toward shorter days. A list poem is a combination of haiku and the prosaic list. It is an itemization but also creative way of looking at something. Here is an example from my own archives : You know summer is over when —snow piles up on window ACs. You know summer is over when —all the swimming pools are empty hulls. You know summer is over when —the streets glisten from icy rain. You know summer is over when —you shiver stepping out of the shower. You know summer is over when —even the dogs put on jackets. You know summer is over when —the marigolds die. You know summer is over when —they bring the patio umbrella inside. You know summer is over when —the mice run into the house. You know summer is over when —Starbucks begins to advertise their Pumpkin Chai Latte. You know summer is over...

The fact that summer is half over is ruining my summer. The mere thought sends a wave of autumnal heaviness over me, a blanket of wet leaves and leaden skies, a premonition of snow. The waves at the beach thicken and slow into slurry ice. The fireflies twinkling will grow fainter and fainter until they go south with the birds. It’s getting closer and closer with every distant clap of thunder and every clear, white sky day, with every Mexican popsicle and thrashing game of beach volleyball. I need to wring the last drop of warm sunshine, wade out to the second sandbar, dazzle into the lacy surf, taste the ripe berries, and let them burn on my tongue. On the Beach , 1929, Chicago. Gregory Orloff, Art Institute of Chicago

You know summer is over when —snow piles up on window ACs. You know summer is over when —all the swimming pools are empty hulls. You know summer is over when —the streets glisten from icy rain. You know summer is over when —you shiver stepping out of the shower. You know summer is over when —even the dogs put on jackets. You know summer is over when —the marigolds die. You know summer is over when —they bring the patio umbrella inside. You know summer is over when —the mice run into the house. You know summer is over when —Starbucks begins to advertise their Pumpkin Chai Latte. You know summer is over when —the lake turns green beneath a slate gray sky. Can you think of a few of your own? --send them to me in the Comments!

Every time I change clothes I notice my tan line—which reminds me of this past summer. Already it is over—after waiting for it to arrive, it is now time to say good bye. Yet— it was the best summer in a long time, for a good long time. It began with a bike ride. Trying to cycle around the south end of the lake, from Grand Rapids back to Chicago. But ended in snow and wind and a phone call from a hot chocolate shop. Come get me. And on the way driving back into Chicago, after being rescued, I got a phone call letting me know that I’d been chosen for an artist residency at a dune shack at the tip of Cape Cod. Mid-May I was on my way to Provincetown. I had no idea of what to expect from a cold, unheated shack without electricity. What I got was sun. Lots of sunny days sitting out on a deck watching the ocean and birds flitting about, reading and writing and tanning. I came home refreshed with millions of words on paper. Some of them stories. This summer I camped out, rode ...

Foster Ave Beach, 1968, Chicago. Lee Balterman. CALUMET 412 Age of Adolescence , 1959-64, Chicago. Joseph Sterling Age of Adolescence , 1959-64, Chicago. Joseph Sterling Age of Adolescence , 1959-64, Chicago. Joseph Sterling Morse Ave Beach, 1929, Chicago. CALUMET 412 Oak Street Beach, 1950, Chicago. CALUMET 412 Through looking at these photos--way too much time spent at the photoblog Calumet 412 --I've now been turned onto Joseph Sterling. Who is this guy? his pictures capture an era of James Dean wannabes, greasers, Bobby sockers, 1950s youth, the TEENAGER. Many of his photos have been collected into a book, The Age of Adolescence. Many of the photos are on display at the Stephen Daiter Gallery | 230 W. Superior, Fourth FLoor | Chicago IL 60654. Apparently Mr. Sterling went into commercial photography after getting his masters at the Art Institute of Chicago. He died in 2010 in Libertyville, IL. This from the Sun-Times obituary: Many of th...

Waking late, staying up way past midnight, sometimes seeing the sun come up, meeting people for lunch, hanging out with friends, getting a phone call and stepping out, sitting on a lawn chair, swinging in a hammock, reading a book, listening to the radio. FM. ~ Nothing heavy on my mind, only thought is what kind of salad to order, or when to begin drinking, or texting because I forgot where we were meeting. No problem. ~ Catching the L train, strolling down sidewalks, smelling whatever it is that is coming out of the open door of shops: coffee, patchouli, pizza, cigarettes. Under the glow of moonlight, flashing neon, street lamps, the orange haze of breaking dawn, ~ I am in love with summer. ALSO new flash up at Em Dash Literary Magazine.Check it out!