September 27, 2013

 

 

She’ll give me grief,

and deny me food,

for no reason at all,

if she’s in that mood.

 

She’ll read my mind,

and will not flinch,

unless I take a yard,

when she gives an inch.

 

She’ll go berserk,

and lock me out.

She’ll twist her face,

like a dying trout.

 

She’ll rant and rave,

like a woman possessed,

even though my innocence,

I will protest.

 

She’ll string me up,

and whip me hard,

and from her house,

I will be barred.

 

She’ll raise the roof.

She’ll give me hell.

I’ll need the protection

of a padded cell.

 

She’ll send me packing.

She’ll show me the door,

even though I plead,

and say her, I adore.

 

She’ll sit and stew.

and sulk a while.

She’ll avoid eye contact,

in case we smile.

 

She’ll come around in time,

with the releasing of a weight.

That vixen of a woman

keeps me, on the straight.

 

She’ll soften up and melt,

like butter in the sun,

and it’s well worth the wait,

for a hug, from honey bun.

 

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He looked her up.

He got in touch.

He crossed his fingers.

He hoped for luck.

 

He opened wounds.

He touched raw nerves.

He shed real tears.

He showed he cared.

 

He exposed his heart.

He bared his soul.

He knew once more,

He had lost control.

 

He fantasised

He knocked on wood.

He became wide eyed.

He misunderstood.

 

He walked away.

He now realised why,

He would never return.

He waved a last goodbye.

 

 

September 24, 2013

 

 

To make of this

a stolen kiss.

A world within

a world of bliss.

 

To magnify,

to multiply.

To think more of

what it could imply?

 

To make of this

a serpent’s hiss.

Sugar coated venom,

a sure near miss?

 

To qualify,

to justify.

To stand alone

and testify.

 

To make of this

a random whim.

A step too far,

too near to him?

 

To contemplate,

to tempt old fate.

To cross the line

and complicate.

 

To make of this

and nothing more

a barrel of trouble

waiting in store?

 

To southward turn,

to no more yearn.

To break free now,

and bridges burn.

 

To make of this

a planted seed.

A dormant pod

never to succeed?

 

Too sad to see

two tears that flow.

To know in truth

love can never grow?

 

To make of this

a stolen kiss.

A world within

a world of bliss.

 

To pull apart,

to quietly depart.

To self protect

a breaking heart?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There are places to put it

that are dry.

Places that won’t catch

a tomcats eye.

Places were it only will

be seen,

for whom it is meant

and will stay clean.

 

There are places to put it

if you try.

Places not too low

and not too high.

Places where there are

unwritten laws,

for feathered friends

away from feline jaws.

 

 

September 21, 2013

 

 

It was the final button

in a row of many,

that disguised the modesty

of sweet, young Penny.

 

It was the undone zip

of her tunic slip,

that caused her chastity

to take a dip.

 

It was the final closure

of a parental cloak,

that released dear Penny

from her loving folk.

 

 

 

 

In every word of sentiment,

a testament of heaven spent.

 

In every thought of anger sent,

a detachment from good intent.

 

In every dream he did invent,

a flawed fragment of sediment

 

In every wish that he never went,

a sleepless night of discontent.

 

 

 

 

 

Travel back in time

to ‘Flashback’ land,

where a kaleidoscope

is at our command.

 

How rich the store

of memories there,

with well stocked

shelves of loving care.

 

In ‘Flashback’ land

there’s hall after hall,

of indexed information

at a moments recall.

 

How satisfying

to find solace there,

and of life, long forgotten,

to be made aware.

 

In ‘Flashback’ land

there’s a school of thought,

and a chance to correct

bad habits that were taught.

 

How valuable

just to sit and reflect,

on past misdemeanours

that only time can detect.

 

In ‘flashback’ land

there’s a floor of future dreams,

and a penthouse of hindsight

to now explore new schemes.

 

How fortunate to be blessed

with such a place,

though, sadly, new tomorrows

can never, the past replace.

 

 

 

 

 

September 17, 2013

 

 

To different ports they’ll travel –

Going, going, gone.

No sadder time than the departure,

when passing ships, sail on.

 

 

 

 

 

When influence

meets common sense,

a bargain can be struck.

 

But when insolence

meets hard defence,

be sure, you are out luck.

 

 

 

 

It’s the sketchiness in the middle

that sits blurred and almost forgotten,

for the brain can only register times

stupendous or thoroughly rotten.

 

 

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