Yes, Peter.

the landscape has disintegrated

and your tether—

the end curls

of happy

So hold on, Peter.

as the ink puddle

of dawn

begets

the tear

of wings

and you, Peter

you

can fly

escape

to the irrational

side

of infinity

and be

everything

trace

the iris

of the Eye

of God

nebula

spark

as an ember

from a dying

bonfire

be

the pillow-sigh

after

uproarious

laughter

and never take

that exit

to the second

star

on the right

Because you are the happy thought, Peter.

Just hold that happy thought, Peter,

As you walk through life's rougher terrain.

For happiness, they say, is there

Within the pain.

And though you struggle every day,

With worries, fears, and endless stress,

Just close your eyes and think of play

And let your heart do the rest.

For laughter echoes like a chime,

And joy surrounds you like a hug.

It's all just a matter of time,

Before your troubles are unplugged.

But hold that thought, young Peter dear,

For fate has other plans, it seems.

And though you grasp for happiness near,

It slips away like silvery streams.

For tragedy strikes with a heavy blow,

And heartache grips you like a vice.

And all your laughter starts to slow,

Until there's nothing left but sighs.

The world, once bright and shining bright,

Is now a bleak and dreary place.

And every day feels like a fight,

As you struggle to keep pace.

Just hold that happy thought, Peter,

And let the memories sustain.

For though the present may be bitter,

The past still holds sweet refrain.

And though your heart may ache with pain,

And tears may flow like falling rain,

Just hold that happy thought in vain,

And know that joy will come again.

She said it

as if it were

easy,

"Just hold

that happy thought,

Peter."

As if

my thoughts

were tangible.

I could not grasp

my happiness

in the palm of my hand,

could not twist it

between my fingers.

My thoughts

were droplets of rain,

sometimes a fine mist

that clung

to the edges

of my brain,

sometimes a

downpour

that an umbrella

could not stop.

She told me

to hold on

to happiness,

but I cannot grip the rain,

cannot control

its coming and going.

All it does

is soak through

the soles of my shoes

and collect

in my feet

until walking

becomes a chore

and my teeth

chatter

with nonsensical words.

The rain stays

in all the wrong ways.

She told me

to hold on

to this little shred

of happiness,

but I've already forgotten

what it was

I was trying

to hold onto.

Thus is the way of the storm,

weighing us down with water

until we can no longer feel

the individual drops.

‘‘Just hold that happy thought, Peter…’’ he bellowed. In what seemed to be a miracle to her, she witnessed the elderly ‘Captain’ try to take a giant leap over the dining table, luckily he did not break any more of his bones. This was but only a much lesser incident.

She sighed with angst. Her eyes glued to the sight of the old ‘Capt.’. She slowly dragged her feet, and approached the old guy: ‘‘Hey— it’s time for you to take your meds-’’

He started to make a run for it. Before she knew it, he was crouched upon the edge of the window. She let out a scream~

‘‘Captain Hook!’’

A small grin formed across his angular, and wrinkled visage. He leaned back a bit, and then jumped right onto the carpet. She sighed, but this time in relief. ‘‘Alright. If you take your medication…I promise to follow you to Neverland in search of Peter Pan..’’

Later while all were in dreamland, except for the Captain, something wandered about his room. The Capt. ducked underneath his leprechaun blanket. ‘‘Who’s there?’’

A voice replied, ‘‘Hey, it’s been ages, Captain Hook. Thought I’d check in on you.’’

For the rest in the facility, those patrolling the hallways, and corridors, all they heard was a sound of a gentle bell ringing in the dead of night. Captain Hook smiled at the sight of a familiar face.

She chuckled. Then after a short while, they both made their way to Neverland.

The Captain sure was glad to be out of the place for what others said was for those who needed a place, and space to be where they could not do any harm to others, especially young children. The Capt. smiled, all he wanted now was to be back on his ship, ready to sail the seven seas!

#LeCapitaine©️

They never warned me

that Neverland was an illusion

Built out of the clouds of a child's wonder.

He had an easy way

A simple laughter, an outstretched hand.

When we were young

I seemed so welcome

The world so warm.

But true fire cannot be built

on illusion.

You cannot create

A world out of clouds.

I longed to grow and build

a world together

A true world.

He could not.

He would not.

I had to abandon him in the end.

I could not stay

And become who I became.

And he could not go.

"I don't ever want to grow up!"

he declared.

His laughter light

His world unworried.

Just hold that happy thought, Peter

I lamented

as I left him forever.

Remember the day?

you were upset

your parents were gone for the night

and I had just come by to drop off your bike

you invited me inside and told me about a game

I wasn’t amused but I played anyway

I always wish things had just stayed that way

With his usual nonchalant stride, Peter shuffles down the front steps in his wife’s fancy gold slippers. His robe flowing swiftly behind. Their private drive is lined with perfectly manicured red and yellow rose bushes, in-bloom, and as flamboyant as he is. That usual pompous smile dons his face as he prepares to grab his beloved Forest Hills Bulletin, which I watched Jimmy from Cedar Street, deliver at 5:30 this morning. It is the same fake smile that I can't stand, while he bends over like an old man with a herniated disk. He winces in pain as he visibly struggles, which is puzzling, as he is only forty-five, an active runner, and health nut. I tap my foot rapidly with impatience for what seems to be eternity until he finally aligns himself upright. He stretches his hips forward, and arches his back to re-calibrate, then takes in one long inhale of the dry spring air and again smiles from ear to ear; But as I sit here eating my dry toast, with no butter, all I can think is, just hold the happy thought Peter, because I know what you did.

"Just hold that happy thought, Peter..." Peter's attorney, one Mister Shmul Farbfinkelstein, held up a single finger before picking up his gold plated, pigtail style, early 90s m&m's phone that he'd had retrofitted so as to not be a piece of novelty junk, but instead a secured landline.

"Uh... okay, not a problem." It was a problem. Shmul had been blowing off his concerns about his case all morning.

"Uh huh... yeah... okay..." Shmul picked up an unfished pastrami on rye that had been sitting on his desk and began to bite into it.

"SHE'S ALIVE?!" Suddenly Mister Farbfinkelstein exploded into a fit of rage, shouting in Yiddish in the hopes that Peter might not understand him. The sandwich went flying into the air and landed somewhere on the floor, disintegrating into its many pieces.

Little did he know, however, that Peter spoke impeccable German, a language not at all removed from Yiddish, save for some Hebrew terms here and there, terms such as schmuck, schmegeckel, and schmegoikin, all terms for a pimmel, a schlange or a schwanz.

"I told you to have her disassembled and tossed into the fucking Hudson, you FICHEN SCWANZKOPF!" There was a pause as Peter raised an eyebrow like that one gnome meme.

"No you schmuck, I didn't tell you to let her out of the trunk of your car to run around New York as if she was your best, good friend, you worthless..." he readjusted his yarmulke just as it showed his bald spot.

"...okay, listen, you know where she is. Hit up Shlomo Dinkelferber's old Misyer Potato-latke-head lookin' self, and have him toss her in a tub of acid..." he paused. "Uh huh... okay... alright." He paced a bit.

"Alright, I've got some stupid schmuck client here, and I'm trying to waste his time to run up the clock so he pays me more... okay... alright... and bring me a new pastrami later, I broke mine because you're a stupid idiot!"

"Sorry, where were we?" He asked Peter after slamming the phone down and sitting across from him.

"Uhm... I was just talking about how I didn't murder that girl and feed her to sharks... but like..." Peter's demeanor changed. "If you're into that sort of thing???" Peter gave him a confidently inquisitive look.

"Ah, sprechst du Judischer Deutsch?"

"Nein, normal Deutsch, aber es ist nicht so anders."

"Welcome to the team brother!" Mr. Farbfinkelstein extended his hand, Peter extended his, then Mr. Farbfinkelstein pulled out a pistol and blew Peter's head off.

"Here we go again!" He said rolling his eyes, as he picked up his secured landline, gold plated, 90s m&m phone and made a call.

"Just hold that happy thought, Peter." She said with a sly smile as she made her way out of the little cubicle, dressed in a skimpy, fake nurse's uniform.

Peter felt sleepy and comfortable after the great massage. Surely, though, there was more to come, right? The sign said, 'HAPPY ENDINGS'. The pretty young masseuse had ground out the knot between his shoulder blades with her talented elbows and soothed his aching neck with her magical hands.

He kept urging her, "Lower, lower.", hoping she would get the hint. "Much lower, baby." She ran her oil-slicked fingers down his spine and buffed out the muscles on either side with the heels of her hands. It felt heavenly. But, but, what about the 'HAPPY ENDING'? Even the butt rub wasn't exactly what he was searching for. It was nice. It just wasn't- oh, come on. What was she waiting for?

Peter's ship had been docked at Norfolk for two days and he wanted some action before they headed back out to sea. He had stopped at the first massage parlor he could find on a dirty side street of that dismal town. He wasn't about to waste his money on buying drinks for local chicks with questionable outcomes. Pros usually were clean and he wasn't planning on another shot of penicillin anytime soon. He had bid his buddies farewell at the gritty bar they all piled into and was sure they were making a big mistake.

Almost asleep, Peter heard the door of the cubicle open up again and he rolled over, in anticipation of that finishing touch from the little blonde. The towel just barely covered him as he leaned up on his elbows. When he opened his eyes he couldn't believe what he saw. There was an entire Mariachi band in Mexican garb playing

La Cucaracha for him. How they all fit into that tiny space was beyond him. Someone was tossing confetti into the air with abandon and naked dancing girls circled the massage bed he was laying on, singing along with the music.

His pretty little masseuse arrived last, naked, holding a birthday cake with a candle, which she blew out seductively for him.

At that point, the manager of the parlor, an aged woman who filled out her size 22 dress fully walked in and said, "There, sailor. That's your happy ending. Now get outta here."