There was a sort of whizzer boy,
The tinker blinker clinker boy,
With gears and knobs and springs abound,
A head full of thoughts and gears that go round.

He liked to paint and make and build,
For every craft, yes, he was skilled.
“Working hard but with time to play?
Why, that’s my favorite kind of today!”

But what made him different, you see...
He was always quite metallic-y,
And when it was his time for bed,
He charged his battery, and turned off his head.

It started out as most things do.
At a distance.
In the back of my mind.
Something to wonder about,
But never define.
Most of the time it's just "hello",
Or "Shalom"
Or "what book"
And their reply.
And, it continued, as most things do,
Way too fast,
And,
Way too soon.
Thinking back now they are a wonder in my thoughts.
About-
What could've been.
If I took the chance of knowing them.
And,
Why do I miss them.
When I've got all but squat.

Woodland gardens, in their clunky brown depth
Of wet, powdered strings soiled in sap
The raw scent of shapeless red clay lost and wondered -
Where I, remember briefly, catching a glimpse of a bear
Or rather it's fur.

Mingled in the concert, a blur of peculiar bursts of noises
Struck with no identity, whimsical and plain
The songs of festivities -
Cool, romantic winds fueled the ferris wheel
As the man pressed flatly in pools of his own vitality
Broke my heart into orbes of fear and empathy.

If you watch closely
You'll come to know that men won't lie when you're listening
They won't hide.
You'll lie for them to yourself when you catch your eyes closing.

The geese
Form a procession
in their northern formal dress.
Single file they march down
The hill
Coming from deep out of
the tree line and through
A courtyard of grass and sedge,
Their solemn walk
An act of unison metered by
webbed feet.
And an overdone elegance.

At shore of the pond
They prostrate themselves,
Head bowed to the water.
As if encountering an old
priestess among the
church pews.
Solemnly they shake their
Necks like human hands-
A time honored ritual.
Then, an unknown cue,
Their heads
turn up to the blue sky
launching themselves Into
the water
splash-less, like
Floating clouds blown on
The breeze.
Now moving independently,
leaving ripple paths
across the pond.
The ritual has ended.

Whimsical as it may seem
I still find myself
Getting lost in a daydream.
I look up, and look around.
Beauty surrounds.
Life gets hard sometimes,
That will always be true.
But I have found
Joy in the mundane.
I've learned how to breathe
Through the pain and anxieties.
To live mindfully.
What does it mean to
Daydream now?
To find peace in
Doing nothing—
Except watching the
Clouds.
©KSS 8/2020

i remember when the sky felt blue,
when the grass felt new,
when purple flowers newly blooming begged me for sufferance,
carrying a scent no one remembers and that cannot be replicated

the poles felt electric, the week felt ecclectic
the lights had color that the past took with it, whimsical,
fading
they took the time of day with them as the moon ascended
and the air began to smell of night

imagination took flight in our fort beneath the stars
we felt something from passing cars, and the existence of mars
the night burned slowly as we barely slept, as colors whirled and drifted by, as tangible as the air, and it all felt righteous, it all felt fair

love, i dream of you
often. my
mind is lost in a
haze aphrodite
cast upon me;
my skull is a
honey-***,
waiting to be
scooped
up by some loving
hand.

THEN the skies bellowed a frothy glitter    and  d o w n  became up & sideways turned horizontally truthful said the vegan Aardvark.  

THE Policeman chewed his m0uth-side and a Red Ant crawled out from his nostril ****-us (Quatrain 173) & my pillow has luscious lips from some disembodied woman who once cared for me.    The rest of this   delirious-prose is buried in an unmarked book within a discount store on the far side of the Moon.

::02.??.2020::