We live to love
& we love
We live to love
& we love
Ideas (half-baked) which used to glow
With an inner promise of beauty
When turned around and placed
With their feet on the ground
Dissolved into the dust of the brain
Tossed into the gutter, with rain pattering
against their feeble souls, their ink washed away
And running down the drain
Scrapped and thrown to the side like wrapping paper
on Christmas Afternoon
Have a dreadful fate.
“I was tricked!” screamed the tree
As the wind squealed and screamed,
Dragging its new leaves in an unseen bag
He scattered the lot and soon forgot
About the Beech screaming bloody murder behind.
And onto the next, to plunder and vex the great big Oaks,
And the Aspens and especially the Maples
And old Mr. Wind swept up his collection and got out his paint.
It was a nice clear solution, and he spread it on the cowering leaves backs.
And they turned rusty red and burnt orange and sad
And eventually crumbled to dust.
And that was was when Wind began to laugh and spin
And raged the whole world over
But when Summer’s rays, broke through the haze,
It started all over again.
For beautiful eyes, look for the good in others; for beautiful lips, speak only words of kindness; and for poise, walk with the knowledge that you are never alone.
Strips of summer
Like pictures from a photo booth
Fragments of tarnished memories
Long bike rides
Even longer trips in the car
Pool noodles and inner tubes
And the bonfire at the beach
And growing gardens
Long green grass
And lazy days….
Memories smothered in summer haze.
A new sheet of paper
To reboot, recharge, replay
New is empty,
Quiet and waiting
Eager to begin
With a scent not unlike
The first day of school.
Back of the game board
How pleasant to sit
Under a plum tree
In the slow
Petite, patient, perfect
This golden afternoon.
What a backwards world!
We’d rise to our dreams
And plunge back down,
Away from the strange land,
To find ourselves back in our head
At the alarm clock’s call
Waking down in the middle of the night
Is always quite awful;
Kicked out of Cloud Nine
Because our hosting bed was complaining.
Insomniacs must be very down-to-earth,
And deep-sleepers are likely heavy dreamers,
Eager to escape.
Saturday morning cartoons
Old chocolate shops
Once in a blue moon
And old bikes
Grandma's favorite dress
The best year of school
And good books
Are nostalgia, more or less.
Sand soaks, seeps between
Summer-sunned toes as I walk
Up the sunlit beach
Dashing after food, swifter
Than my surprised hand
The moon and the waves
Crescents above and below
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