there is water
somewhere on my right
i can hear it
the gentle patter
of what must be
a delicate fountain
hidden amongst
the foliage and flowers
of freshly bloomed lilies
or falling from a feature
at the water's edge
there is a far-distant
rumble of jet engines
undoubtedly drawing
trails of vapour
across an otherwise
unblemished blue
sounds of traffic
dulled to almost nothing
a background hum
barely noticeable
even the unfamiliar
shrieking of a siren
as it passes by
cannot overpower
the drawn-out strains of violin
the rasgueado strum of guitar
the echoed stomp and clap of dancers
performing or practicing
in front of the monument
to a public figure
of some kind
that i would likely
not recognise or be aware of
on the other side of the park
a clock tower bell
chimes the hour
two o'clock
setting a fluttering
of birds to wing
chattering on the breeze
the seemingly constant
pattern of clicking heels
and scuffed steps
along the nearby path
tell of an exhaustive
cosmopolitan life
a dog begins barking
as i open my eyes
reminding me of home

If every penny that I find, ain't
bright and shiny,

I don't mind, I smile at the motto,
and know, that's not much questioned.
And nowadays, nothing costs a penny.

I could begin right now to elucidate,
but wait,
you know, knowing,

nobody cares if the motto on the penny
is true, any more than
if anyone adjusts worth
by bright and shiny degrees,

dull pennies, purchase nothing nowadays,
and, I find the motto holds any worth one
may imagine,
after finding a we, who agree, bright
and shiny,

does not change the worth, until you know,
the worth is in the holding having something,

so shiny, as to be guaranteed uncirculated,
meaning it never bought a thing,
and now you -- see the worth
or so the ads imply,
any one may buy
an old shining penny, for five bucks.

When I am gone, oh, let me take my rest
On a plot of land where trees are blessed
To spread their branches, push out their leaves
Above the silent dead to comfort those who grieve

Beneath outstretching limbs let me lie in shade,
Perhaps along some hidden mountain glade
Where deer can browse on meadow grass
That shimmers or shivers as seasons pass.

Let old roots penetrate my loam and grow
Tall and straight as pines or crooked as old oaks,
Store house for squirrels, nest home for wrens,
Protection from the cold and owl along the glen.

Beneath a forest of varied green and steady brown
Let me lie in peace outside some town
Visited only by gentle rain and silent snow
At home with God, and unaware of winds that blow.

When the sun sets, flecking clouds with diaphanous light and birds whistle daytime’s last summer psalms, we call it night.

We’re moonbathing and Sunny’s features are inlaid with glamorous silver-blue patines. We’ll reawaken soon, our time is measured in assignments, not in hours, days or even seasons.

Responsibility is a villain of our own devices. You can run from it, bolt your door against it, only to find it’s right there - in back of you - smiling like a tiger or a parent.

Unfortunately, the university isn’t a hotel. It’s more of a competition, like those survivor shows.

We’ll enjoy the moonlight, for a few, laconic moments, for it seems to possess a sweet power to cool and calm, but soon our purposes will call, irresistibly, and we’ll return to the performance.

Many a time in subtle and other ways nature tried to warn us.
Spewing fire from mountain tops flooding the land, water rising in high waves from the ***** of the ocean.
Black plague it sent now a tiny virus.
Not a lesson have we learnt not a line understood.
While building tower of babel, it is said misunderstanding was sown in our midst, to stop us from our task.
We still build tower's that touch the clouds and dig deeper than the deepest valley.
Forgetting that simple living is the best.
Want not more than your hand can hold,
a bed to sleep a roof to protect from the cold, it was ment to be thus.
Greed and false pride got us here forgetting that all we need is 6 feet of space our final resting place.

One by one the lights go off,
Slowly burning to black,
The kitchen stove, red with heat,
Stills to a cool whisper,
Before the daylight finishes,
It charms us one last time,
Oranges and plums twist into midnight,
The birds stop chirping,
Their chatter sways to silence as the moon takes its place,
Kids close their eyes,
Leaving another day’s mysteries unlocked,
Phones on top of couches quit buzzing,
Cars’ beaming headlights become fewer,
And fewer
Life becomes a flickering candle
Just blown out

It is so quiet.
I hear peanuts shells
snapping
teeth grinding
peanuts into butter
between his teeth.
The quiet page turning
Buried do deeply in
"The Scottish Prisoner"
It will be a while
Before he is hungry for dinner.
A bonus!
Turing thoughts inward
to the ever present ringing in my ears.
Long breaths in
and slower breaths out
Allowing the noise to disappear.

Do, rest, be, be, be.