This *****
Artificially awake
Lydia
apples 20 years have passed
oranges i want a do over
manhole cover coins
savage glares across the 4 wheeled property lines
young moms not giving a ****, that's alright
kiss of sun hidden from
anxious from blue oak , it's ridges pluming in the dappled twist
and floundering wave, wiggling wave of oak leaves green as frogs.
ponytail suzy, *** from galaxy sci-fi
i brought up a cup while it was empty there,
but so distracted by my own trembling effort,
every hair a furry hood, every fatty fixture of my face a rebounding basset hound
tennis shoes up to my neck, dumb naked in my greenery,
already old somehow, the window closing,
the permanency of parks, like a stilletto in a limosine,
green fixture of my white blinded attempt to see tomorrow,
tourist .
thoughts of Sylvia
, my gaping awe at the feminine,
and its green garden.

-cbrander

In life’s rearview
Rosa refused to stand
Nelson paid the price for his land
King’s dream was shattered by a bullet
which birthed more bullets for the chocolate man
Until we said NO MORE!

There's still
a part of me in London-
I left it in my dingy block
on Deptford High Street.
Another part of me still
remains in St James Park,
somewhere in the flowers
and another somewhere in
the markets of Camden Town.
I don't think it'll ever leave.

The parks are now empty of all but the trees.
The rot in the woodwork has made itself clear:
the virus reveals a more wicked disease.

If we watch each other with growing unease,
more sinister shadows may draw themselves near.
The parks are now empty of all but the trees.

The nurses and doctors make no guarantees;
their furrowed brows are not at all insincere.
But the virus reveals a more wicked disease.

While some may not fret at a cough or a sneeze,          
our day-to-day life shows a mask more austere:
the parks are now empty of all but the trees.

The wealthy can shelter on yachts overseas,
far-flung from the whims of our mad racketeer,
for he, too, was borne of this wicked disease.

But Justice may not brook the fraud she now sees,
her blindfold being repurposed as protective gear.
The parks are now empty of all but the trees,
and the virus reveals a more wicked disease.

Caution tape where
Children once played, once laughter,
Now only kenopsia.

This day I remember
As me and
A friend
Hung out at park to
Look
And take pictures of
The statue festive
Taking pictures of
All the statues
What good times.

We met at a park by your place,
A hill overlooking a lakeshore vista.
The sunset hung over the horizon
As did our words, awaiting conversation.
The nerves got to me and so I flung my phone,
Your laughter a cacophony which my heart still adores.
We had pizza on a bench that night,
Or at least we tried;
Nights at the park have more bugs than we'd like.
But after all the talking and laughing and grinning,
It's our departing hug that sent me spinning.
I'd give everything to have that time again with you.
But alas, I needn't give anything,
For our nights are still this rich and full of youth.

Even as the golden embers of the Sun
sweep the rough surfaces of wood,
the rays command the light to twist,
to show the perfectly imperfect portrait of life.

Even as nature's breath let
the crisp autumn leaves sway with the air,
you don't cease your own little dance
within the children's sandbox.

Even as your eyes crinkle along the edges
with your nose crunching like a flower bud,
you seem as if you were Touch-Me-Nots
that found its way to become a Sunflower.

Even as we align like a seesaw
with weights that drift us apart to a distance, but
bring us closer to the equilibrium,
we would always be close but never quite there.

Even as I see you the way that I do,
even if my words won't reach you,
I write all these to let other seedlings know
of a special flower called *you.

Ripples riddle the mirror,
Below, faint shapes shift
Elegant forms float here and there,
Little legs thunder, leaving a gentle wake
in lieu of turmoil.

The air is thick, the sun falling,
Already lost behind billowing storm clouds
Etched chaotically on the horizon.
Invisible but for the ubiquitous light.

It is the dragonflies time,
A darting zip and an effortless flutter.
From surfacing **** to towering Reed,
Searching for something we can only pretend to know.

Determined housewives, faces set,
Arms pumping and hips swaying
Their Anatidean waddle so fitting
Their quacks, a wall of stereo.

A lone rusted sign warns of gators,
but of signs, there is that one alone.
No rogue bubbles or beady eyes,
no ticking of swallowed clocks,
no suspicious splashes.
nothing.

My battery is now as low as the sun,
and my pen is as empty.
A not so subtle poke in the ribs
from a universe in protest of the
bad poetry being inked.

c'est la vie
or as we say in English
**** it