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ADELAIDE Independent Quarterly Literary Magazine / Revista Literária Independente Trimestral, New York / Lisboa, Online Edition  

 




 

 



 

 

 

 

SUMMER NEVER DIES
By Michael Jerry Tupa

 

 

 

 

July Comes Only Once
 
He lies transfixed in his bed,
"Close to you,"
sun's shadow paints a pattern on the opposite wall,
summertime, no school, no homework,
voice like an angel -- amplified by technological wizardry,
and crescendo-ing melody, flows from the radio,
a wave of sentiment and beauty
washing over his mind.
A bird wings past the old-fashioned four-paned window,
a young bird -- everything is young, the world is fresh. A new song,
another memory. Oh, so long ago -- that skinny boy,
that old bed, those old tunes -- so new then. Pied Piper of the mellow
generation. From Paul to Karen, from Elvis to Bobby, the ashes nourish new
gardens of sound, both the end and the beginning. The sunlight of
adulation, the inevitable dusk of changing tastes.
Sometimes, July comes only once, the heart of youth, the simple truths,
that sleepy time, pleasant moments caress the brain like massaging fingers.
This day will pass, autumn will arrive
soon enough.
Winter's chill - and the one after that,
and the one after that, and the one ... too soon, adulthood, deadlines, alarm clocks,
stress, changing world.
But, this day ...
"why do birds?"
"Julie, Julie, Julie,"
"In the summertime" ... live forever , an oasis  for a tired heart, a time that will die
to last
a lifetime.

 

 

 

 

 

The Torch

Oh, that I could be a morning cloud,
a puff of frost in a calm dawn sky
(shivering in the gray-blue air) and proud,
waiting anxiously, with muffled sigh,

for the sun to lift its slumbering head,
brighten up my jagged topside,
and paint a gleaming glow of gold and red,
while on a celestial breeze I glide.

 

 

 

 

 

Unknown to Julie

Anxiously, I brush aside
the window shutters that hide
eternity
its you I see,
your face, your eyes
brighter than sunrise,
skin as pure as milk,
hair as smooth as silk.

Destiny is a kiss away
on that wonderful day.
I step out the door,
my hopes of love soar.
No more need to dream,
as, in heaven's gleam,
two hands join as one --
forever begun.

 

 

 

 

mike tupa

About the Author:

Mike Tupa began at age 16 his literary writing pursuits -- if one doesn't count his classic tale penned in elementary school about a lion that was struck with Cupid's Arrow. Even though that classic is lost to the world, Tupa has attempted doggedly to sharpen his story-telling skills. During the past eight years, several literary publications have featured his works.

 


 

 




 




 

 

 

     
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