All hail the Easter Bunny. There are promises of eggs. Little small gifts enclosed in plastic oval shapes, smelling of new chemicals freshly pressed from large manufacturing companies. My gift to the weather. A small token of spring. Perhaps the swiftness and cool eyed crispness deserves better awakenings than Folgers in your cup and effervescence scalding hot in aging fingers. It's all daisies, ribbons, and freshly starched outfits pressed for the deadline on velvety pews, gotta make it on time in the rush of traffic where runways are composed of yellow dashed lines and patent leather shoes pressed to the metal of gas ignitions. Who needs a Bible? We all have our outfits and hopefully unstained chocolate pressed against our lips honoring the risen from a sealed tomb after three days after the cry of vinegar quenched lips and warm blood dusty from a crown of thorns. Let me celebrate once. Once in my life, go to an edifice filled with familiar tunes and paper ...

I go where my muse takes me. Come along, Pond! Says my Doctor Who like muse Riddled in red fez and swirling with a tangled mop about his head He wants me to fly in the blue police box filled with infinite wonder Sky high to literary heights and pull the lever at the sound of thunder Ripple in time and be the wastebaskets friend filled with wibbly wobbly stuff and stanzas to no end. I go where my muse takes me. Pop the red balloon! Whispers the old lady rocking hush Crocheting with my special hooks designed as pens next to the bowl full of mush. Hear little mice carry on about proper grammar next to the fire Sprinkle a line here and there bunnies playing near the sock as I retire Softly I go into oblivion, resting by the Sandman's ease Goodnight moon, as I write calligraphy in my dreams. I go where my muse takes me. Sip the Earl Grey! Frantically screams the Hatter like idea Tipping to and fro in my Underland ideas Brainstorm to a talking cat, invisible to the ...

Meet me, in an elusive reverie, Dust over swollen eyes enchants the moon over me, Taking your hand in a wisp of spiritual connections My body is yours and I am perfect yet present in imperfections      As I wished to not be awakened from what I see. Enter the dimension, a willingly detainee, Touch this and that; a smile of approval, your guarantee Skin glazed in sweat your affection     Meet me... I dare not disrupt my unconsciousness, I am an escapee Of oversimplified non-indulgence, I challenge reality I am yours in this mutual sublime projection You are mine in your chocolaty sweet confection Engulfed in my arms kisses abundant and I am free---     Meet me...  -b.r.rivera-taylor a Rondeau. 8 of 30 #30in30

I am a simple face in a sea of the crowd Its ocean deep not necessarily still, its ripples a disruption to the ordinary me. I am just me. A little bit of this, A little bit of that. Sprinkle of some sugar Spoonful of lemon juice Glaze of two cakes. and I don't define what is commonality. In other words Who can compare to me? My uniqueness is just like any other's which creates the strong sense that we are all alike in the long run. Average, run of the mill, desperate for attention to separate us from the ravenous pack of wolves, its teeth abundant in oppression. I am a simple face a little mouth a little eyes a little nose a little bit of surprise in an ocean that engulfs all of us. -b.r.rivera-taylor 6 of 30 #30in30

to be a kid again. to have dusty knees celebrated by mud pies and overgrown grass graciously gliding upon the white t-shirts that made mothers angry when scrubbing our stains. to have that look within the eyes when lights are strategically placed to endure the Christmas snow, blizzards within the northeast which one has grown up to adore. to fall with the leaves and dance with golden corn built with bonfires and pumpkins upon a rickety hayride to wonder in a tulip and gaze upon morning dew when flowers begin budding against the frozen ground which was replaced by a new season. to be a kid again. to have no worries, no care no idealizations of the first and fifteenth the gas and electrical energies the over plentiful but once barren pantries and warm socks adorned with special trimming. to be a kid again. to wonder in amazement and find pleasure in double dutch flying bubbles, bicycles, dolls and action figures, playing grown up with play make up; now a blur of ...