What makes us dream?
Is it thoughts and memories
Plans that we once had
That are now fading entity's

Could it be our past?
The faces that then we knew
A love we felt so long ago
A hope we believe in our heart is true

Could it be the present?
Our troubles our joys our tears
Maybe our strengths and courage
Or possibly our worries and fears

Could it be the future?
The unknowns that remain unseen
The distant mystery that lies before us
Do these make up our dreams?

RLB

As I sit upon my wooden pine bench
Cool air escapes
Across the lawn into the mists of dawn.
Perfumes
Are blown from the apple trees
As the fragrance reminded me of when I was a boy...

I would sit and play
With an old wooden toy
Soldier I named Troy....
But now the petals have faded away
And Troy, well he is gone too.
You can still smell the sweet perfumes
Like roses
From the sweet apples;
- That if you lay one of them in your hands;
Were as big as your fists.

The thick running juices as you bite
Into one
Brought happiness
To me and my father
Over the years
- Who has sadly passed away now.
I buried him beneath the willow tree
Upon a small hill
Looking down towards
The waterfall
- And above him the stars.

When it rained
In the morning
The water would rush into the waterfall
Where the vast amounts of water
Would deafen our ears
Like a non-stop avalanche
And the pink and white petals
From the apple blossom tree
Would glide and float through the small wind
Falling like a shower of confetti,
Covering the gigantic salmon that leapt.

Swallows scuttled
Through the leaning sky
Being free in their dreams
As the climbed through the painted sky.

The meadows mellow as could be
Stretched like never-ending green
Sacks of dreams in which such memories
Continued to echo throughout my youth.

And at night the nestled stars
Melted like running water
And would pour into the waterfall
From the hand that stretched out
To touch and hold them
And let them escape
To be free at last.

The fragrant pine trees
Left a scent of sweet oranges
And the roses:
A fragrance of strawberries
Rushed and fled into the air.....

How often is a breeze full of
Memories, perfumes, sometimes silence and
Sweet tunes?

- A swallow swiftly sings in freedom,
A lark let's out a wonderous sound of bells,
A swift bends in the wind,
A thrush proudly sings the mourning alarm.

©Jack Aylward

The lightning bug, it does
Radiate the light it loves.

Much like other nocturnal bugs,
Around a source of light, they buzz.

But, the paradox of the lightning bug--

The tantalizing light that calls to its lust,
Inside of the bug itself, it encrusts.

Subsequently, from within, the light is ******.