i have a litte tortoise and is name his fred
he lives in my garden underneath the shed
when the sun comes out he comes out to play
happy and content as he plays away.

he roams around the garden looking for a treat
for a tasty lettuce leaf thats what he loves to eat
he just takes is time walking round so slow
then when he gets tired back to the shed he goes

climbing underneath to his little bed
where its nice and cool underneath the shed

The wind diverges the horizon boughs
into view finders of royal blue.
The flicker of the blue beyond washes to
brown sticks fettered with dry leaves.
Oh what cadence ensues,
From a bent bough and a
Sifting wind?  
If that limb but a will,
And that breeze but a pulse,
Harmony would hide in the
Heartbeat of an eternal summer.
Yet eternity suffers sterile sadness,
And cadence breeds a timid tempo
Of hollow trees against a grey sky.
So speak the world in discord,
Unveil blue skies from cacophonous trees of green,
And push the wind in hurricanes.
As wind and bough dance in perfect imbalance,
I admire the flicker of their countenance.

I remember big wheels
and church bells.
We climbed on top of tube slides
and measured who was bravest,
while the sun dipped lower
and lower,
and the three little yards,
our everything,
were bathed in that curious
orange hue of the waning
daylight hours.
We took up arms
of long wooden swords,
and broke the mirror's hold.
We were peasants,
we were kings,
we were warriors,
we were farmers,
we were off the cuff
with a story book ending
that never quite came
before dinner time.

That's why I stopped
and watched her leave her tiny pink shoes
on a root,
while she climbed up and up,
finding a comfy crook
in the boughs to sit
and read a picture book.
I walked down to our old jungle gym,
and I saw that I stood
a head taller
than where we were scared
to jump.
The little rock wall
was missing a few pegs,
and the green tube slide
was a sun-bleached white.
The wind tousled the grass
and I caught that fresh
summer scent.
I closed my eyes.
I heard church bells.

Ink fades and paper yellows
under a dusty sun beam
peeking through the crack
upstairs.
Oh you beautiful hidden,
you forgotten sweet,
whose paint chips as
it were the holy meal again.
Where would we look
so long after passed
the hand of your creation?
Will we remember?
Where among the tangled vines
and lengthened shadows,
forgotten and lost in the sands
of an hourglass long due
to be turned,
might there be a whisper,
of what was?
Will He find you
with a grin
as He locks up,
one final time,
when the stars lie down
to sleep?
All paint chips,
and all ink fades with tears,
with laughter.

To think the bouquet slipped
beneath the current,
committed to a stream
fast forgetting
as their faint aroma dies softly
in hopeful blossoms,
rather than within the lungs of
their beautiful intended.

I watched them slip between
yellow boughs stooped low,
hopeful to glean but one
splendid petal
among glistening river stones
upon which danced a splash of crimson
farewell beneath ember shaded clouds.

I remember the black spot
over the stove,
before dad painted over top,
and made the world normal again.
I remember the smoke detector,
how it sounded like a broken toy
left on, until the batteries
would eventually run out.
"I wanna see!"
How tiny those boots,
fit for an Alaska winter,
must now seem,
but hardly at all when I was carried next door,
still in my pajamas,
to watch the big truck
with its bells and lights.

It was dusty when they left.
A thin, white blanket of snow,
to ***** out a grease fire,
lightly frosted the tiny
toy ice cream cart.
"Don't touch that!"
"Can I help you paint?"
Perhaps I could cover up
my very first nightmare,
where the big red fire engine
shot me with a jet of water
past my mom and dad,
through a snow white trellis,
and into a tiny bed
with Winnie the Pooh sheets,
screaming at two in the morning.
It's funny to be gun-shy
of every school fire alarm,
because the Army safety officer
was caught without his fire extinguisher.