The hunter spotted the lovers through the pines
as the sunset splashed orange over their arcing spines.

An abstract sculpture of flesh, a piece of accidental art;
a secret masterpiece that warmed the hunter's heart.

He walked away and thought of his own long lost youth
and how lucky he was to have witnessed a fleeting fragment
    of nature's elegant truth.

Bob thought a therapy of regression
would cure his nasty habit of aggression.

He unearthed many childhood traumas,
repressed memories of unsavory family dramas.

The therapy worked, to some degree.
His demeanor was more pleasant, most would agree.

But he was never sure if it was all true
and changed the reality he once knew.

So one day he could take no more.
He regressed into a puddle on the bathroom floor.

The floating discs from on high
brought a tear to the old man's eye.

He remembered a rhyme
from a long-forgotten time.

"The angels will come,
marching to heaven's drum.

Be ready and look to the skies.
Arise, my son, arise."

A detective married a witch.
In a few years, he wanted a switch.

He slinked and slunk out every night,
and thought he kept his sins out of sight.

But one thing he could not hide from her nose,
the scent of strange perfumes on his clothes.

One night when the hour was late,
she conjured a fitting fate.

She cast a spell.
He fell down in a well.

So it came as no surprise,
no one ever got wise.

For the only man who could solve the case
was lying forever and ever, in a very dark place.

Little Billy's best friend was a tree.
One day his parents had it chopped,
and the pieces were shopped.
So little Billy put rat poison in their tea.

one sunday in the park
i sat across from a woman in white
her head was hidden
beneath a big pale hat

and a dachshund
with a sunshine yellow collar
sat at her feet
brown eyes
droopy and searching
   staring

as i ate
a hot dog with mustard

sunshine yellow

orange umbrella
lying open on the grass

or

sunset
over a green sea