Nostalgia in the Summertime | Fringe Arts – The Link

Nostalgia in the Summertime

Graphic Morgan Rahn-Campbell

    In the Summertime

    By Juliet Booker

    The only summer we spent together

    I drank lemonade until my gums bled

    And ached from the sugary sores

    Jag är ledsen att jag inte kunde vara din frälsare

    I sat next to him in the afternoon sun

    Until my skin burned a red so deep

    It matched my tainted, bloody teeth

    Jag är ledsen att jag inte kunde vara din frälsare

    I held my eyes open under the sea

    Watching his strokes for so long

    Their lids stung and their veins swelled from the salt

    Jag är ledsen att jag inte kunde vara din frälsare

    In the mornings now I wake up

    And smoke until my pink lungs lie by my feet

    On the pavement outside his childhood home

    Jag är ledsen att jag inte kunde vara din frälsare

    Maybe one day early next summer

    He will walk outside and pick them up

    Wouldn’t that be nice, to breathe again

    Jag är ledsen att jag inte kunde vara din frälsare

    Nostalgia

    By Sara Capanna

    It is amazing how time flies

    On wings of sand that seem to

    Fall faster and faster each day.

    One turn of the clock’s hands ago

    You were bundled into a Halloween costume,

    Running excitedly to a stranger’s house

    To receive candy you would eat for months to follow.

    The clock’s hands tick a quarter of an hour

    And you are running around a cousin’s house

    at Christmas, causing mayhem and mischief

    In your velvet dress.

    Blink once and you are here.

    Halloween costumes have gotten short enough

    To reveal the pale skin beneath them.

    No longer makes your skin tingle with joy

    Your Christmas list has been razed down to two lines

    And you just want a distraction from the mayhem

    That Christmas music you listen to

    Of quasi-adult life.

    That mischief that used to create

    Alcohol is spilt across all the days of

    Has been replaced by a phone screen.

    The magical seasons you used to love,

    Pandering to those who simply want to forget

    The Polar Express taught us that those who don’t believe

    Will never again hear the sweet ring of the bells.

    In the magic that overcame me as a child?

    And enjoy the moment.

    Has my innocence evaporated just as quickly

    Why is it that I can no longer believe

    Have I seen too much misery?

    Have I felt too much sadness?

    As the sands of time?

    Why must the holidays be subjected

    To the banality that plagues your average Wednesday?

    Why must I be subjected to the cruel dripping

    That takes away the feelings I hold dear?

    Of the sand in the egg timer

    Why?

    Why?

    Why?