Dueling Poems

My father wrote this poem in 2005 and emailed it to me. Cynic that I am, I doctored it – leaving all of his original lines intact and inserting additional lines of my own. Scroll down for both poems…the original and “The REAL version, DAHLING“.

September Twenty-Second

by Paul F. Miller, Jr.

At seven it was forty-six
And the air is crisply different.

As the red sun was rising
We skinny-dipped in the lake,
Enjoying the satin water
As we’ve done daily for years
From June through September,
Rain or shine, windy or calm.

September nights have cooled the lake,
The first dive makes us gasp.

Floating on our backs
We saw a crowd of clouds,
A pod of humpback whales
On a sea of azure blue,
Their fat gray bodies
Tinted by sunrise pink.

The mountains’ hints of orange yellow,
Are signals of summer’s end.

Our younger ones have left,
Off to schools and schedules.
Flowers have gone to seed
And a soft hush has fallen
Like a blanket on the woods
Empty of spring’s noisy birds.

Across the cove the loons are calling,
Telling us they’ll soon be gone.

September Twenty-Second (The Real Version, Dahling…)

by Winky Merrill

At seven it was forty-six
according to our Hammacher Schlemer thermometer
And the air is crisply different.

As the red sun was rising
reflecting in our designer sunglasses
We skinny-dipped in the lake,
Enjoying the water — satiny as our BMW’s plush leather seats —
As we’ve done daily for years
From June through September,
since we sold the company and became independently wealthy
Rain or shine, windy or calm.

September nights have cooled the lake,
refreshing the multi-million dollar properties that line its shore.
The first dive makes us gasp.

Floating on our backs
our one of a kind electric launch moored nearby –
We saw a crowd of clouds,
A pod of humpback whales
On a sea of azure blue,
like the sea near our Florida retreat –
Their fat gray bodies
Tinted by sunrise pink.

The mountains’ hints of orange yellow,
Are signals of summer’s end.
We sigh as we settle into the jacuzzi.

Our younger ones have left,
Off to Ivy Leagues and prep schools
Flowers have gone to seed
the gardener must prune them back
And a soft hush has fallen
Like a cashmere blanket on the woods
Empty of spring’s noisy birds.

Across the cove the loons are calling,
as we hear our personal chef ring the breakfast bell –
Telling us they’ll soon be gone
We will wave to them from the windows
of our private jet….and will beat them
south.

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