giggle-fit

That mischievousness that elicits mirth,
like a stomach full of sunshine,
you have that way that makes time pass,
so quietly she goes by,
as if she wishes not to disturb,
the snorting and releasing of ducks.

A Trouts last stand

Twist of memory,
range of thought,
like a trout, in his net,
well, and truly caught.

Let’s not tarry over,
fretfully attempting to leap.
to find that slap of water,
never more to be felt,
or known.

Instead, in these last precious seconds,
let us instead look, with a fish-eye,
this fate, full on
and flip him the finnish finger,
as he prepares to dine.
May he choke upon our bones.

Pressing thought.

These pressing thoughts,
that linger overlong, in my head,
telling me to think, to listen,
to comprehend,
struggling to create a minutiae of something,
a cacophony of past joined to past,
impression joined to impression,
the insulated thoughts of we.

What is this life but something pondered?
Something given meaning, because you chose,
you work that thought, fold it, darn it,
like a needle strung on string,
you repair and re-create,
until meaning is so complete,
you know not what was original to the fabric,
and what was blessed at birth.

These pressing thoughts,
that linger, like a smile.
I finger my memories,
like a worry stone, or a mantra.
part and parcel of the same,
life being lived, infinity,
divinity, a pressing thought,
that has all the time in the world.

Crisp new morning.

This crisp new morning, that promises much.
In hushed moments, recalling,
castles and knights,
fair ladies, and heroic deeds,
rewarded with a kiss, from a young lady fair,
just beyond the mist, that story sits waiting.

Keeping step with your stride, lingering over fancy,
turning my head back, recalling,
Lion’s rearing, on shield and swords,
as battles were fought, for wit and honor,
just beyond the mist, that story sits waiting.

Looking deeper into you, as the view grows smaller,
capturing your face in my eye, recalling,
promises made, commitments kept,
as love came into bloom, and took root,
just beyond the mist, that story to, lies waiting.

it’s not just dryers..

The great purple way,
once again walking,
doing a fancy foot rub,
in polite company,
just a pedicure away from acceptance,
but somehow, must stay a diamond in the rough.

Plunking down to rest,
within the confines of a blanket,
nesting is an art-form,
best left to birds,
and quirky gardeners,
those with intimate knowledge of,
how best these things are done.

Left sock-less,
deprived of that quirk,
as one hops on one leg,
in search,
of the mate that matches,
somewhat, with the other.

Letter to a soul in shadow…

deep breaths, friend,
let this moment be your ally,
a solitary thought,
in the middle of a crowded murmur.
A single pause, worth taking,
to know that you are,
you just are.

let this candle be what flickers,
in your eyes hiding,
an illusive warmth,
that peeks behind curtains,
and shelters under pillows.

deep breaths, friend,
know you are not walking,
without a hand to hold your sorrow,
a heart to bear with you,
this weight that runs you low.

let this brow be your furrow,
your ledge to seek shade,
in the blister that is life’s ache,
and the knife-edge,
that leaves you bleeding,
you need not bleed alone.

deep breaths, friend,
let this dream be your pathway,
your doorway to something warm,
green smell of grass,
and sweet smooth of wood,
embracing.

let this one thought be spoken,
in words that wind,
and shelter,
a heart that beats with fright,
and trembles,
with longing.

You are,
you just are.

Storybook.

reach into dark places,
and find what lies beneath,
wishing for release,
freedom in the form,
of something subtle.

Wander these hallways,
these cold tiles beneath sad feet,
and know,
that what you seek is not found,
it is remembered.

Feel the surface.

lean forward,
and feel the surface
remind yourself of strength,
draw conclusions from untapped
ridges, and hidden cracks.

rest gently,
and feel the surface,
remind yourself of softness,
draw inspiration from fancy
patterns, and clever weaving.

clutch roughly,
and feel the surface,
remind yourself of time,
draw interest from dawning
conclusion, and commiseration

peeping

Never mind my bloomers,
you cheeky mad confessor,
do I take looks into your dresser?

Never mind my appeal,
you apple bottom peeler,
unhand, or you will be unmanned!

Fruit of the loom,
is quite good enough for me,
How dare you mention acreage!

Never tease,
with clever eyebrow waggle,
anyone who has perfected,
the wedgie maneuver

Merriment

I might, if he asked me
some warm and windy day,
that brings dappled apple blossoms,
and tangled locks of hair,
to blow gently over his brow,
I might, if he asked me.

I might, if he queried,
with hushed voice and silent lip bite,
inquiring like a shadow, in the corner of the eye,
with swaying trees as cover,
to hide behind should I say nay.
I might, if he asked me.

I might, if he requested,
subtle with his concentration,
just a mere moment in contemplation,
as he winds a stem around a finger,
to make some wistful moment,
just a little shiver,
I might, if he asked me.