Papa, how come my trunk is so long?
Papa, why do giraffes have longer necks than us?
Papa, do I really weigh one tonne?
Papa, will you teach me how to spray my back with water?
Papa, where are my stripes?
Papa, can we really swim without flippers?
Papa, do you like grass or shrubs better?
Papa, will my ears grow bigger?
Papa, don’t let them take my tusks away.
Shandi can be purchased here.
Shallow pools of unspoilt water
Sit below a Betty Crocker window
With hanging deep crimson baskets
That fill the air
With freshly baked flowered Mondays
Spreading out is the pony picket fence
That shines White House Tuesday
Separating the gumshoe green grass
From the oilskin decay
Of the Red Riding Hood forest
Sporting Wednesday’s haircut
Half-way there
Here’s where the country house patio
Holds the dad’s weekend project picnic table
Thursday’s moldy sandwiches
Crawls into cracks upon the Indian paintbrush deck
Where Friday morning dew drops
Freshens up the green spots
Under the Saturday afternoon oak
That tickle the fresh from shower toes
Wiggling for joy amongst the John Deer grass
Where taste tests start
Out of the Sunday brunch basket
Two drive-in lovers packed
For their dollar store romance
Fresh in from the Marilyn Monroe raindrops
Settling the shallow pools of water waiting
Under the Betty Crocker window
Imagine the shallows of tepid water
Wading through with no regard
And tiny snowblowers buzzing in the background
Reminding you of childhood horrors
In the year of the Rat
With Chinese food at the local diner
Chopsticks and good year fortunes
Like hockey cards and good luck pitchers
Walking two by three down sloppy roads
Three crammed in the back of an ol’ pickup truck
The bumpy way from ice cream to the lookout
With sand banks and long lobs
Exploding in magical madness
Imagine all the broken bike tires
Lost pucks and dead tennis balls
Bounced bald flat basketballs
And the advent of the GameBoy
All within view of this
Tepid water swaying about your
Soaking feet wading through
Mysteries of histories
It’s those times as the sun is going down
When the blinds have been pulled for the night
And the water stops dripping off the roof
That we remember, and enjoy
Sitting next to Grandma, teaching her computer
And sipping on a new cup of tea
It’s these moments in life that we find peace
We sit down in a chair that is older than I am
And relax to the audible buzz from the furnace
The same furnace that blows cold air
Grandma is getting old these days
Though she still lives alone
Boiling her soups with lots of garlic
And a toaster that pops up four at a time
I remember when she first got that toaster
That sits next to the old high chair
I remembered as I reclined on the ol’ daybed earlier
I also noticed the intricate detail of the eavesdropping
A classical pattern, woven with a jigsaw
Clearly a tasteful choice by grandma
The sun is almost down now
I’ll be leaving soon enough
I can only hope for peace then
As I make the trek northward home
It is like the night, when the first star rises
When I look deep into your eyes
It is like the sound of the first splash of water
As the fun jumps into the lake
The calm all around
With instantaneous sparks of emotion
In a midsummer bliss
~
Naked lovers that lay in each others arms
Watching those first stars speckle the evening sky
The night shift of animals come out
Creeking along the hidden paths
~
Do you want to come over for dinner?
Mom will be making chicken fry
You won’t be able to stay the night
But we can watch a movie in the basement
Nobody will bother us there
I like laying in your arms like that
Do you like it too?
Water drips lazily from this 20th avenue bungalow
Big windows to watch the construction going on across the street
I wonder what ethnicity the family will be
The workers are Indian
I wonder why they choose to put such a bland front
Onto their house
They spent so much money on the house, clearly
Then they barf
In the mirror an orchid droops from it’s fully bloomed weight
Gifted from an angel on the birth of flight
Coil of heavy duty wire rests restlessly upon the couch
bringing husband and wife about a foot from each other
But they’re not sad, they’re free to explore
Attached at the hip
Making endless impressions upon the fabric they rest
A guitar lonely and mute awaits its rehabilitation
Strung and strum and actively attached
Waiting it will
As music mystically pours out one tiny little speaker
Tea gets cold being ignored and fully saturated
In a tall mug that’s too tall to finish
On an old Ikea working desk with wheels
Light wood and dull gray faux metal tubes
Work begins at last
Diamonds cut deep
I rolled in the sand today
Grinding my open wounds and sins
Together with the ancient bones
Dusting this light brown shore
It felt good, alone with the sand
Letting it tangle my hair
Frump up my conscience
Let free my deep breath of elation
I saw a seagull close by
It watched me in amazement
As I’ve watched it before
Seemingly unaware we both have life
Little crabs scurried away
The noise and vibrations to much to take
Water lapped at my sandy toes
Sun kissing my closed eyes
And then I sat up
Reached out for my lovers hand
Clean and refreshed we tangled in bliss
Moonlight came as we saved a kissed
The water pushing past the secret doors of the needle riddled floor
Sing to the lonely leaves forgotten and rotting amongst the mushrooms
The trees that have spewn forth their dying seasons
Happily lap up the dotted dew resting a while in the sunlight
And spiders that haven’t eaten yet this morning
Share the same edges of bark with the sleeping moths
Burrowing into the nice alcoves of hidden mysteries
Stretching between the years written into the aging forest
With squirrels keeping track of all the scores
Hunting out that which shouldn’t be forgotten
But in this season of time that dances amongst the shoots
Where the fresh birds chirp happily to the echoes of the canopy
There is always the runner, he who ensures nobody gets comfortable
In the center of the trail he kills with rubber
The youngest of them all, the new growing sprout
But the earth is all life
The change is all good
The circle grows bigger
And we all die old
Camping along the rivers banks here allows my stars to shine like they have been powered from an altruistic source ready for the dreams that spend their life projecting
The crickets and frogs that enliven my ears with a symphony of random harmony makes the words learned have neither meaning nor maestro, water trickles by ceaselessly
With the cool breeze of the grass that robs my still thoughts of all of their listlessness, fighting the wee little shivers that invite the goosebumps to pour sexual droplets of romance over my body
It is here that there is no need for per-conceived notions of what is and what shall come to pass, Here is the land for dreams and dreams and dreams and more dreams
Do you know this? Do you understand the power in the stars up above on a clear evenings shine as you lie amongst the longer wisps of grass that share soil with wild flowers?
Soaking in the heat with a slow moving fan
Flapping the loosely hung posters on the wall
Shifting the status of the sweating hairs of my head
Into that summer kind of look
Into that salty taste that feels oh so good between the sheets
Iced drinks that perspire instantly
Leaving stained circles everywhere they sit
Water just doesn’t saturate
And complications arise when movement entails
Actually moving