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

Go to the park with me
Lie in the grass on the ground.
Stay out until dark with me
And watch the sun go down.

Before the sun goes away
Let’s watch the clouds above
And look at them to see
Images of things we love.

Let’s be on the lookout for
Rainbows out of nowhere.
Let’s remember to cherish
All the glory that we share.

Go to the park with me
And let’s roll downhill.
Then watch all the birds
And listen for a whippoorwill.

Let’s take advantage of
This beautiful day we see.
Let’s count our blessings;
Let one of them be me.

I hope you feel as grateful to
Have a life of love and beauty.
Let’s look upon enjoying it
As a kind of welcome duty.

Go to the park with me
Like a loving Jack and Jill.
Let’s make our memories here
In this park, on this hill.

Theirs a daisy in my tea cup.
Theirs a sun set setting high.
Theirs a river running past me.
And the deer are striding by.
Their are feathers stuck inside the tea ***,
and their are a few in my cup.

We  remember, or at least most of us do.
The lesions we were taught
about a people who are now few
fewer than the patches of grass in our city parks
fewer than the smog less city's that
have wilted our daisy hearts

Now we've gone and built our world
on top of their prairie plains
we gave them land to live on
but reservations aren't the same

All those laughters
Are not always real
All those faces in a park,
Wrinkled and weary,
Laugh in a circle,
Devoid of happiness,
No sign of a crinkle,
Eyes without light,
Devoid of life.

Their happy sadness echoes,
On the streets, in apartements,
The dismal vibes reach us
Yet they emanate the fake sentiments.

Stoop a little and evesdrop that circle,
They deceive emotions, black and purple,
All you hear is a shouting troop,
We know the truth of a laughing group.

On a bench at the park, in
The last light of day,
I wring and fling my tongue
Like a brush full of paint --
I beat it and the dusty words
Fly from the old red rug.
The splatters and droplets
She uses to paint a smile, gorgeous
And colourful, and she wraps the
Rug in her own, wringing
The dust out of both.