My Bicycle of Imagination
The day and I are hand in hand,
brimming with a zippety-whippity-do.
I sit atop my saddle, my bicycle, my hill;
the morning mist is ragged like candy floss
on barbed wire, waggled fences.
Below a liquorice-tarmacked road
elbows through a mosaicked landscape;
churned fields sitting either side,
serrated into channels of earth;
suited and rooted in browned corduroy.
Then further on and along,
the sky sits sedately on the sea,
resting on a blue, rippled settee,
just out of close reach
of a mustard scarf of a beach.
Clouds rear - wild, white stallions;
they settle, then away at a gallop,
racing, chasing the prize in
the finishing line, the horizon.
Watch out, speedy swallow,
now, it’s my time to follow!!
I sense my bicycle’s stalled frustration,
so my body engine sets it free;
muscles tighten, pedals spin,
it’s time to fly, time to check in.
Off we go…wind pushing at my heels,
sunlight splashing off the wheels
down I swoop, a dance of balance;
the bike glides, the road slides.
Watch me come, watch me go
connecting, perfecting with nature’s flow;
sky, land and sea…………WEEEEEEEEEEE!
It’s been too long since you went away.
Now nights are long, and days are gray.
Tears too frequent and embraces missed,
The sound of your voice and your tender kiss.
Your empty seat at the dinner table
Leaves us unbalanced, and life unstable.
When you are gone, all is diminished
The workload is hard and much unfinished.
But oh, how the joy and gratitude flows
When you come into sight and my heart explodes!
I discover how great and surpassing our love
When I see you again, we are hand in glove.
Every time you return, the house is reborn
The family is whole and there’s no place to mourn.
There is no replacement, no other can take
The place that you hold and the difference you make.
All I ask is: "Come home your place is here."
Stay with us forever and keep us near.
We value your sacrifice, service and more
Just be sure to come home and darken our door.
Every time I see a flower I see your face inside
I love to look at flowers, their beauty cannot hide
See, flowers are so beautiful in ways that we can know
Through sweetly scented petals, in colors of rainbows
Bouquets of lovely orchids, bring thoughts and memories
Of dreamy dreams of meadow walks, and picnics under trees
I've had all sorts of dreams with you, walking lover's lanes
And always we are hand in hand, that common thread remains
Connecting all my thoughts of you with one unbroken twine
That weaves its way and sews the stitch that seals those thoughts as mine
I see your face right now my dear, do you know? I don't suppose
But if you could see me here right now, I'm looking at a rose
Shining lights
Music blaring
In my ears
The colors shine
I could never hear
The sounds in my head
No more being painted
In misery
I’m here with you instead
The fear creeps in
The fear of losing control of
Myself when I’m not in my hands
Our hands
Are hand in hand
We speed together,
You say,
“It’s okay”
The lights are blaring
My hair is waving
Back and forth
The world speeds up
Ahead front of me
Our rhythm as we move
The music, we got the groove
We skate to the ends of the earth
It’s scary
I fall for the
Whole world to see
Annoyed eyes
The feeling
Of being embarrassed,
It hypnotizes me
But I remember you,
You here with me
Your hand reaches out
When my world
Was crashed to the floor
You cared,
When no one else did,
My happiness grew
Into something new
In that moment
I realized
Falling wasn’t scaring
When I was falling
With you
For hand cream, one extract is best,
but slow as a snail’s pace to test.
Just go to your garden
and beg for their pardon.
The gastropods? Somewhat depressed…
Rid wrinkles and loose skin with ease;
our essence has sailed the high seas.
If your skin entails
much flapping and flails,
we won’t hang you out in the breeze!
—————
If nothing else, I do amuse myself! Anaya’s comment on Fresh Sea Greases brought out ideas for two more skin care products, based on what was typed (‘sail extract’) and what was likely meant (’snail extract’), lol. There really are hand cremes with snail extract! Snails are gastropods. I haven’t seen any sail extract hand cream, but I haven’t looked that hard either!
Confidence is something i wear, much like a dress
or when i strikeout in the game I have to pick it back up like a bat.
Confidence and being a women are hand and hand you see.
Confidence is something I douse my self in, much like my perfume.
I love being a women, and wearing my confidence.
I love this resort I write to my family who sent me here.
Cuetzalan is a marvelous town, I have no worries, sipping a beer.
Actually, I am lonely because loving couples are in the air.
My family sent me on vacation because they care.
Cuetzalan is as magical a town as Mexico ever had.
I truly am grateful for the vacation, paid for by my dad.
But everywhere I look couples are hand in hand and glad.
I want to be a two-some, so this makes me rather sad.
A butterfly with an eye lands on an exotic passiflora next to me.
I am here, she seems to be saying; next arrives a weird bee.
The butterfly continues to follow me daily from here to the sea.
I am not lonely any more, I feel cherished, and am filled with glee.
Drones fill the air, they black out the sun
Each ordered to do what has to be done
The payload they carry delivered poste haste
Commands are hand typed and some cut and paste
The beasts and the birds take what comes their way
Our brand new tomorrow, demanded today
So drones hit our neighbourhoods time after time
We should have been warned about Amazon Prime
Did you know ducks are known as “quack addicts”
Got a million more, three of which I'll now inflict
On my unsuspecting pals
Here on this weird locale
Don't get all squirrely, you guys are hand picked
Did you know ducks are known as “quack addicts”
Got a million more, some of which I'll now inflict
On my unsuspecting pals
Here on this weird locale
Don't get all squirrely, you guys are hand picked>center>
They eff you up, your Mum and Dad,
At least that's what we're told,
All your Dad's genes are hand-me-downs,
Your anger, spawn of old,
It's not your fault you can't fly straight,
it's not your fault you fail.
I'll blame it on my Ma and Pa,
It's the reason I travail,
I've got no money - oh screw you Mum! - Why wasn't I brought up wealthy?
I smoke ten a day - oh screw you Dad! -Feel guilt 'cos I'm not healthy.
I've broke up with my seventh wife, It seems I can't commit,
I no longer see my children, WHY CAN'T YOU DO YOUR BIT?
I sit here in my bedsit, my doorbell never rung,
Nobody wants to speak to me, I was curbed when I was young,
They eff you up, your Mum and Dad, the pain is all their fault,
I blame it on your DNA, the reason I assault.
I loop the rope up to the roof, the noose rests on my knee,
And then a flash of clarity - it wasn't you, it's me!
So sorry Mum, and sorry, Dad, It's my fault that I'm done,
Your better off without me, but I'm glad I was your son.
Parents pass away slowly after their death;
come back as your face in a mirror.
People’s lives’ are a code
written on the blind side of your skin.
You watch yourself
coming out of a childhood bedroom
stained now with a foreboding dream.
Once, getting lost in a dark theater
knowing, even as a child
that would not be the last time.
Yesterday inside a newborn moment,
you grew up too fast
and almost disappeared.
Today your mind
is a crow silhouette in the sky.
A friend dies in your arms.
You take her on your Suzuki
to the Thai river market,
drop her ghost into the Peng river;
hope that it will eventually
find its way back to Arkansas.
You select smells
that you can paste into your mind.
The aroma of strange friends
and friendly strangers.
fold sensorial moments into origami birds
that are not even close
to working models.
People you have known
are hand shadows on
the same wall of time.
And then you are this person
and all you can do
is watch from a distance
as if you were always a father
to these drifters,
these persons, who once shared
the same storms with you.
Did you know ducks are known as “quackaddicts”
Got a million more, some of which I'll now inflict
On my unsuspecting pals
Here on this weird locale
Don't get all squirrely, you guys are hand picked
Did you know ducks are known as “quack addicts”
Got a million more, some of which I'm gonna inflict
On my unsuspecting pals
Here on this Soup locale
Don't get all squirrely, you guys are hand picked
"Man....Style"
by: Eric L. Boddie
A man's style
Can initiate a woman to smile
As well as inspire the Life of a child
At the same time, it tames that which was wild
And you know it will never show denial
It's always lame, flame or mild
And each time it's witnessed, it stays on file
Because it flows a distance with more miles than the Nile
So always remember that the style of a man
Whether he is light, dark or only slightly tanned
Can be the determining factor in if he will stand
In the space where a bride and groom are hand and hand
Or if he stakes claim to a piece of land
Either in the valley, on the hills or next to the sand
Because it has a role in determining his plan
It's how he will be remembered....I hope you understand
It's Man....Style
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