PROMISE LAND

OR PROMISED LAND . . .THERE'S A DIFFERENCE

So far away inside of our imaginative powers

There is the ability to resurrect some sort of passion

Our desire is always there although we lie and say it's not

It's just such effort to invest into what we know is already crumbling

.

We recall those days we waited, unsure if our anxiousness will be requited

Or will we still be waiting when the sun goes down, easing ever so slowly

behind those beautiful green guardians we always took for granted

would always be there for every CLANDESTINE meeting, every football game

.

The guys let the girls play occasionally 

so they could catch a round breast...

Within the tackle, there is cause for kneading, 

feeling, massaging, groping,

.

There are no referees in our games, no whistles, maybe an infrequent gasp

So these special games were kept few and far between because we were young

Not clever enough to take advantage of the falling and the fake injuries where we 

had to lie on the ground in a heap for long periods of time 

to make sure we all were okay..

.

Those powerful watchers, homes to the weakest of wildlife scurrying about

Climbing those wide and sturdy trunks to their homes in the highest branches

Watching the children who thought they were hidden as they stole moments

that only the most mature adults would understand the true meanings of

.

Yet, the memories of those days still stir our anxious thoughts

Give us that false hope of everlasting juvenile delinquency 

The hideaways all the adults knew of but steadfastly ignored

Because kids are best when out of sight, out of mind

Author's Note