Summer Is the Devil's Friend

I open the door
The devil belches in my face
His hellish breath,
hot, sticky, fetid,
envelopes my body in a
sickening slurry
I detect the stench of his perfume
Notes of decay
and dog shit
drift together in the thick air
I want to leave
but there is nowhere to go
I search my conscience for sin
What mistake put me in
Satan’s lab?
There is no rest
Every second,
every breath
translated from stagnant soup
to air, barely usable
Every step
stuck to the scorching concrete
like gum stuck on soles
of blistering feet.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Artistic Interpretations w/ Margaret, Dog Days of Summer
and The Sunday Whirl, Wordle 117

Growl

Like a dog who's been kicked too many times
He leads with his growl
Teeth bared
All aggression and anger
He's come to expect pain
so he strikes first
Dares anyone to come too close
It usually works
No one approaches
Fear begets fear
If only someone would try
to see past the savage snarling
and reach out a hand
Slowly, gently
Pat his tormented head
He might just roll over
for a tummy rub.

submitted for Imaginary Garden With Real Toads, Susan Says, Stretching Comparisons

Hurricanes and Other Disasters

First an earthquake

Now a hurricane

Prepare for more disasters!

(I was supposed to have a girls' night out)

Battle the grocery store masses of panic

Hoard the bread, milk, and tp

Water, water, water!

(cookies, chocolate, and wine)

Tie down the grill

Store the outdoor furniture

Should've fixed that leaky window

(crap!)

Smell of wet dog

Suspicious puddles on the kitchen floor

Clean up the mess

(what else is new?)

submitted for We Write Poems, Prompt #69 Formulaic 3+(x)=Poem

August Is Not

 Summer Evening, Edward Hopper, 1947

August is not a month for the meek

The incessant song of the cicadas has been known

to drive the weak of will to drink

and the weak of mind to madness

The pavonine petals of the proud tulips

have already succumbed

as have the other giddy blooms of spring

Only the most hardy, least demanding remain

to suck on the dust

and pretend it's rain

August is not a month for equivocation

There is no time for ambiguity; patience

ebbs as days grow shorter,

hotter

and the nights press down, heavy

with meaning and sweat.

submitted for Magpie Tales 77

Waiting for Petrichor

The July heat has burned

the grass to pale, dry straw

It crackles

as we step

scratching our ankles

pricking our toes

Sweat stung eyes squint

at the air

the heat

a palpable presence

stubborn and lazy

Even the dog stays

inside

Too hot

to fight properly

we gnaw on eachother's words

choking on the chalky dust of

resentment

waiting for petrichor.

submitted for Thursday Think Tank, 59 Grass, at Poets United