I am but a single tree
All life and connection ready to branch out
A forest of friends that surround me
But I grow tired of being a stand alone guardian
How my soul aches on those lonely days
To instead be a lovingly tended garden
Yearning for a Gardener with soft and safe hands
Hoping that I am not too wild or tired
To appreciate such devoted and nurturing care
~Po
Maybe love? Or maybe just another lullaby to be written. (We must make the good days last forever my friend.) She had suppliant breasts, a wide beautiful smile and strong pale legs. She had the blue eyes of the sea. She was his love, his Scottish love. She had the voice of an angel, and he loved her Scottish accent. Her dress made of soft cotton allowing the warm Spring breeze to move her…
"Manzanita, 8a" -- plein-air, acrylic on Dura Lar, 14"x17", Aug 15, 2026, Reginald Brooks
Surfboards on racks board shorts, coconut wax a bag of weed safely stashed beneath the seat homeroom check in a mad dash to the parking lot the principal ever on patrol a mellow trip to Atlantic Beach was it truly that long ago hope for sun and pray for surf we had it all we’d never be caught or ever stop forever young, we’d not grow old now with each and every passing year those good old days grow far more dear as who we were slowly morphs into the someone else we are
Claude Monet (1840-1926)
Tulip Fields at Sassenheim 1886
Arms are heavy
as if they are steel pipes
that lay at my sides
Legs aching
as if they are the only
device getting me by
Merry go round
spinning faster and faster
with no signs of slowing
How do I turn it around?
How do I stop it?
How do my
feet touch the ground?
The number climbs higher
while I have no choice
but to sink lower
Below soil
amongst the other worms
where society seems
to prefer me
Written by aprilfool🐸
8/19/2026
