Pollen scented halos
float on tin music
played from under
pop-up gazebos
(providing insurance
against dark clouds
blotting the horizon).
Light dims and glares
as the sun plays peek-a-boo
with infants running
to no end.

Pram junkyards,
picnic islands;
the territories of the
green and daisy-dotted land.
***** thumped with bass notes
in wrong directions;
dads run after toe-poked
spheres into the road.
Trees watch from the edges;
a shallow forest leading
to suburbia, where the *****,
gazebos, children are stored.

Dogs. Oh, the dogs.
This is their land, of course.
They make the rules
and pull their clothed
owners like staggering drunks
into the deep of the park.

A man jogs past.
A bike rings it's bell.
A laugh wins the
battle of decibels.
A plastic bag rustles
in the exhaling wind.
The daisies vibrate
and reach to leave their
grassy bed.
But they are part of the park.
May they never leave.
May England remain this
way in memories forever.

Only the breeze disturbs my day.
It strokes my cheek,
and whisks through the leaves
like a handheld brush.

Everything else is mechanical.
Bubbles for the jacuzzi
arrive by pump. Whines of planes
and growls of trucks
corrupt the eloquent breeze.

Look...a hawk!

Wide feathered wings full-out,
body mottled,
it dips above the yard next door,
then glides behind a roof.

Innuendos conjure concepts of
untruths that only the sensible
let not belittle there perceptions

But there are those like sheep are
herded unto the whispers that
blossom on wanting thoughts.

Within each wave of wording changing
upon each beach of thought they wash upon,
now phrased different from once before.

Always listen to the source never the echo
of where it never came forth. A wave only
gets bigger the more splashing is done.

Her eyes are a metaphor,
   a conceit, fantasy

No shakespearean sonnet
   even a lyric, will suffice
   to describe the elegance she carries

Her smile, the greatest curve,
   all simile will be denied

Haikus and couplets
   even the long ones
   will not be enough

Her laughter is a song,
   a perfect harmony and melody

She is neither a hyperbole
   nor full of irony
   instead she is perfect rhyme

She is a walking poetry
   a personification of aesthetics

Almost an abstract
   unfathomable beauty
   out of the ordinary

Sharp words shouldn't be spoken
Nobody's perfect
When everything comes out broken
Choking on every syllable
Soaking up every last "I'm sorry"
like a sponge that's full already
Steady, aim, fire another round across his bow
Give her another volley of misunderstanding champ,
because your fowling out over fences topped with razor wire

Sometimes a simple smile seems better
Than a string of wrong words that leave your mouth bitter
Sometimes still tongues touch more hearts
and wagging ones turn burnt ears into quitters
Sometimes stepping out's better

Why stick around and frown?
Why let it all bring you down?
Needle and thread your squack box
Turn keys on locks
And give it up, will ya?!
Try it again tomorrow
There'd be a whole lot less sorrow....