A gurgling brook
Surrounded by large oak trees
Flowers everywhere
And a blanket for the ground
Best picnic place ever found!
They sat at a table, weathered and wide,
Under cottonwood branches, side by side.
The July sun filtered through leaves like lace,
Softening time, and softening space.
Years had passed—some sharp, some kind—
Each carried stories, heavy with time.
But here they were, two hearts grown old,
Still warm, still curious, still untold.
She smiled at him through lines of grace,
Brushing hair from her wind-swept face.
“Tell me,” she said, with a quiet sigh,
“Why did we break up? Please tell me why.”
He blinked, then chuckled, slow and low,
“I honestly… don’t even know.
Maybe fear, or maybe pride,
Or just the ache of growing wide.”
He spoke of work, of quiet nights,
She spoke of love, of wrongs and rights.
But in the hush between each thought,
A closeness bloomed they never sought.
“Coffee dates sometime?” she asked at last,
Letting the moment not rush past.
“Maybe supper too,” he said, eyes bright,
“Some evening when the stars feel right.”
And nothing more was planned that day,
Except to let the past give way.
To something small, and sweet, and true—
A second chance beneath the blue.
Scott W.
There is something so
sad about fireworks.
They're so flashy,
pretty, and exciting,
but as they fade it
makes you feel sort
of lonely.
Afterall, they're
nothing more than
a semi-permanent
spark intended to
entertain for a
semi-permanent
moment.
The people that
come into our lives
are a lot like the
fireworks:
flashy, pretty,
exciting.
Then
we blink,
and they
fade.
There is
something so
sad about fireworks.
And there is
something so
lonely about being
forced to participate
in an event that you
know isn't going to
last forever.
Bittersweet flash,
bittersweet fade,
bittersweet everything.
going out to eat
gravel road to Blackford Creek
afternoon picnic
The Abandoned Vacant Lot Filled with Concrete
Weeds sprout from the cracks,
A sign reads it was once a place to heal creatures.
All that remains is melancholy and "Hope Pears,"
Lying on the feverish black ground after scaling the tall fence.
A clock that has stopped thinking, or perhaps for reflection,
Stands motionless, hands pointing in the same direction without bending.
It would be nice to have gum, to keep a semblance of sanity,
It would be nice to have gum, to stay a bit less unhinged.
Dusk pretends to offer the answer of life as usual,
And leaves with an oblivious face.
But I cannot blame,
At least it gives some "meaning."
Taking a bite of the pear,
Juiceless, tasteless, except for bitterness.
Trying to discern what it is through chewing,
It disappears bit by bit with every bite,
Leaving only a vague and undesirable presence on the tongue.
"I'll come back,"
To have an evening picnic,
To find hope in the dusk.
Picnic delight,
Flies bite.
Sunny spot,
Too hot.
Forgot chairs,
Who cares.
Sit on ground,
Prickles found.
Clouds form,
Not warm.
Rain you get,
Very wet.
Call Rover,
Picnic over.
Lady,
Sitting,
Upon,
Lake,
Picnic,
Bench,
Long hair,
Liberated,
Of its berets and barettes,
Cascades,
Down,
To,
Her,
Breasts,
That,
Cradles evenings,
And,
Songs,
Sighs of geese,
Shes dressed,
In a dapper sundress,
How did she get there,
By the map and compass,
Of her reveries,
By the serenade,
Of the lake wind,
Flowing through her hair,
Empty picnic table,
She gazes blankly,
Beautific and lovely,
As a hymn,
Into the lakes,
Surreal reflection,
The trees are swaying,
In its lucid crystal,
Crowning crescents,
And her Beauty,
Is sitting upon the lake,
Kissed by stars
Reynaldo Casison
Birch wood trees,
Black and White
Green grass grows,
fresh
Flowers bloom,
but hide
Sun gleams yellow,
Thoughts take flight
He plucks a pear from the tree and tosses it my way. Hands fumble, but nails sink into flesh to maintain a solid grip. He doesn't see me slip. Examine the freshness of the fruit before sinking teeth through skin. Open the lid. A woven picnic basket with delights inside. Turkey and tomato sandwiches, crusts removed. Freshly baked blueberry scones and sour apple jam. Camembert and olives stuffed with pimento. Put the pear aside. Less interesting now than it used to be. He plucks another. Not for me. And joins me on the maroon checkered blanket. Popping olive after olive down his gullet. The unthinkable. Guzzling brine like some sort of animal. A subtle frown, equal parts disdain, and disgust. Nothing more can be discussed, as he continues to chug. Slip into a smile. Unthinkable, but thought of. Stuffed with poison and pimento. Chugs, then chokes. Trying to spit out the pit, begging. I bid him goodbye.
I wasn't there with you that day
But did you feel my spirit say
I'm right behind you, you can't see
My presence here, I'm floating free
I saw your beauty there alright
You're so becoming to my sight
And in your jeans you look so fine
I'll leave it there, those thoughts are mine
A dream awoke me in the night
On my chair I saw a light
Then you approached me through the mist
And greeted me with smile and kiss
I pled don't go I know this is
A dream, a love song, hers and his
Oh please my dear stay with me long
Envelop me within your song
I've loved you for a thousand years
Or so it seems, the great Shakespeare
Could write of this and it would be
An instant classic, ode esprit
Away at a picnic
No spoons, forks nor plates
Some rich people panic
They think of their fate.
But the poor ones keep calm
No whines nor complain
Wash their hands, on their palms-
Big leaves, green and plain
Away at a picnic
A huge boodle fight
All seafoods for your pick
For great meal delight
A long table of foods
On banana leaves
Rich and poor feel so good
To care, love and give.
Traveling away from the city
to the countryside
Heading for Strickland Lake
Picnicing by the lake
enjoying a swim
Spending time with family
Grilling out hamburgers
hotdogs and sometimes chicken
Watching people go down
the water slides and
jumping off the high dive
or diving board
Walking along the board walk
As you sit at the picnic table
enjoying your grilled out food
Squirrels start gathering around
looking for food scraps to eat
Sometimes getting up close
and very personal
By mid to late afternoon
you hear rumbles of thunder
That’s your que that the
picnic is over
So you head home
with the best of memories
It was as if it were just a dream,
I went for a picnic beside the stream.
There I met the girl I thought was for me,
I first saw her beneath the Sycamore tree.
She was silent as she stood there,
Her legs so long, her hair so fair.
We made love there at that spot,
Time stood still, I’ve never forgot.
It was a passion that lasted for hours,
Down amongst the spring scented flowers.
She left as she arrived, without a word,
I felt truly alive, as free as a bird.
Whenever I go back, she is nowhere to be found,
The stream flows past, it makes the only sound.
In my heart she’ll be with me, I’ve kept her a space,
As I recall that moment by the stream, a magical place.
Sticky melon juice
Drips down potbellied toddlers
Dirt and dust encrusts
The annual church picnic is fun for the congregation for sure.
Grams says the conversation is abnormally delicate and demure.
There are thugs, known criminals, and thieves, I can assure.
But we try to pretend it is not so, said my cousin sweet Burr.
Many uppity muppities try to get you to join, to reassure.
That they have a ticket to heaven on the hems of Ms. Curr.
She is the one who insists she has paved the way for sure.
I run from her because when we scrap, she pulls out my fur.
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