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Golly! It’s hot as the dickens out there today. See, this is why poeming takes me so long. It’s because I have the internet. I just used it to learn the etymology of “as the dickens”.  It is used euphemistically for “as the devil”. Or is a mild imprecation, as in “welll, what the dickens did he he say?”. It is also a surname of one of my favorite authors, and I haven’t taught Tale of Two Cities lately, so there’s some inspiration work. See, it’s practically like I’m working right now, here with the sun arching in here at my feet, with the country tunes on, during this bliss-nap.

My girls and I picked twelve pounds of blueberries today at the local blueberry farm, in the HOT HOT HEAT. It is finally real summer. I like it to be so hot that it is almost, but not quite, dangerous.  The girl working at the farm kept us in ice-cold water, though, and it only took us about an hour to pick all that suncandy.

This might be a cheeseball poem. Feelin’ a little cheeseball after all that sun. A blueberry farm poem? Yes, please.

The Boast:

I will now boast about my day on various social media platforms, creating the narrative of this life of brightness, and imagining your envy, all the while tamping down my own, for the photo you posted of your lake. Today even the empty-as-the-dickens coalcars dieseling by can’t bring this day back down to earth, we are living in the ether, I will boast on this heaven until twilight and then again when the stars come out. It’s hard to take photos of stars with my smartphone, and for that I’m glad, because if you knew what I saw at night you would all move here, every one of you, and it’s mine, it’s ours, and also, keep your paws of the berries.

Call this the boast, and carve it on slices of stone, and throw in a man-eating monster and a dragon and some swordplay, will you? Their hands are stained purple like blood, as they fight the scorching wyvern back through the bushes in defense of our Queendom’s indigo treasure.  And change it so the princes and kings to do the serving at the feast, if you please, and have them bring the water chilled in brassy goblets, I’d like those to make a comeback,

and future historians will sing the tale of the blueberry farm valor.


Well, a Beowulf Blueberry poem? Okay, then. Weird. And oddly happy. Summer must agree with me. Happy Tuesday, poemfriends.