some people have to sleep on the softest fluffiest bed
Others cannot slumber without a fan at their head
my mother could get shut eye with her eyes open, laying on bricks
In the woods she could go into a trance state on a pile of sticks
I can snooze on a couch with a TV glaring on level thirty-nine
In a backseat of a car, with the radio blaring, I can fall asleep fine.
Sam was the fluffiest Tom on the Parisian block
The tittering of females was found around the clock
They came into Starbucks at a quarter until eight
Giggling and gaggling, which he did not appreciate
Give it a rest, Sam thought, as he tried to read his book.
They were older ladies, giving him a “come hither look”.
He was tired of being married, he had done it six times before.
He would always amble home to Mama at a quarter to four.
Tickle me, Spring, with the tip of a bud
And the fluffiest cloud in the sky
Tickle me, roll me about in the mud
And tease me and teach me to fly
Tickle me, Spring, with a tickling stick
That is plucked from the springiest tree
Tickle me slowly and tickle me quick
With the brush of the wing of a bee
Tickle me, Spring, in the spaces between
The dark and the day and the dark
With a blade of grass of the brightest green
And a feather that fell from a lark
Tickle me, Spring, with a mischievous wink
And a ticklish tale or a tune
Tickle me, give me a thought I can think
In the morning or under the moon
Tickle me, Spring, with the falling rain
And the freshest of scents in the air
Tickle me softly again and again
With a breath of the wind in my hair
Tickle me, Spring, in a way so wild
That I've never been tickled before
Tickle me, make me a wriggling child
Who is laughing and asking for more
Tickle me, Spring, with a ray of the sun
Come and sprinkle your light in the dew
Oh bring it on Spring, tickle everyone
Who is ticklish, tickle them too!
© Gail Foster 17th March 2023
A phrase we’re all familiar with
I write about today
In slightly different context
my words come out to play
For in my house there dwells a pup
who bears a fleece of gold
A tongue of pink for kisses
a paw he’ll let you hold
Retriever is his trait by name
He never gets the blues
He’s much too busy chasing balls
and hiding grandma’s shoes
His eyes so brown and gaze so deep
could melt the coldest heart
The fluffiest companion
and oh, did I say smart
Yet I digress, back to that phrase
I’ll take you all to school
For in my house, treats on demand
That is “The Golden Rule”
For
Monte, My beautiful Golden Retriever
watering can full of fresh spring water
multicolored chickadee with a pretty song
spider keeping out of reach
bright yellow daffodils with ruffled necks
a fluffy eager bunny with the fluffiest tail
gorgeous purple and white African violets
polka dotted ribbons around gardening pots
a simple monarch butterfly with her eye on the prize
snores of a happy bumble bee
spring is around the corner
I am a wild Pallas, so get out of my way.
I am determined to get back to my kits today
They are high away from people in the Tibetan Plateau
Please leave me alone, for I can be aggressive, you know.
I am trotting to my kits, so stay out of my way.
I am the fluffiest cat, but not here to be social or play.
I am heading toward rocky terrain, my bushy tail held high.
If you think we are going to interact, you have got the wrong guy.
My stocky build makes me kind of slow, all right.
So if you insist on engaging, I will stay and fight.
I have adopted to the cold, which is what I prefer.
Don’t expect a housecat, I have no gentle purr.
I am in love with a real babe, Foxy Moxy said to his cousin Line.
Gabe was picturing a sensuous fox with a silver tail fluffy and fine.
You will meet her shortly, Foxy told him. She’s over by that pine.
Line squinted his eyes, but he could see no female fox sublime.
He was confused by Foxy’s declaration, where could she be?
Yonder by the tallest pine, Foxy told him. The fluffiest tree.
Goosy walked up to his cousin and gave him a peck on the cheek.
Line was astounded and gave out a growl and a squeak.
I know we are diverse, Foxy Moxy said to his favorite cousin.
But she has the heart of gold of at least ten women, maybe a dozen.
They married in May, under the pine so sweet, both of them happy.
Line kept his mouths shut, eager to see the face of grandpappy.
My fluffiest socks
and my prettiest painted toenails
cannot help me
My toastiest plaid pajama pants
and my favorite fluffy top
cannot help me
My garden with her generous tulips
helps me a teeny bit
My cuddly pets curling around my beet
help me feel about half way better
Truthfully when I am down it is up to me
to reach into my injured soul and pull out memories
of laughter and love and hope
that exude warmth and self-love.
Especially love.
Love for me.
God is love.
Love is God
so
Love is me.
When I remember that, the sadness floats away.
My husband reads biographies
But I’ll take fiction, if you please.
He likes to learn about the past;
His tomes would bore me, really fast.
Yet having finished my last book,
I figured I would take a look
At one of his, a bio on
My second favorite Beatle, John.
It’s written by his former wife
From his pre-Yoko English life
With photos of their early years –
Quite happy, or so it appears.
I haven’t gotten far enough
To read about the juicy stuff
Though there are hints that when John left,
His wife and son were both bereft.
Of all my husband’s books there are
This is the fluffiest, by far.
Of course, that is the reason why
I’d thought I’d give it just one try.
So far so good, but when I’m done,
Re-reading time will have begun.
From novels I’ve read long ago,
I’ll dive in for a second show.
God was so pleased with his six days of creation
The seventh day He declared a day of rest
Bound to have some heavenly
Well-deserved relaxation
As soon as He woke up
He brewed a cup of java and
Set up his most comfy Adirondack chair
On his fluffiest favorite cloud
And so on this seventh day
A most magnificent morning unfolded
Watching from every conceivable angle
One glorious sunrise after another
By noon for Sunday brunch
God challenged his angels to make
The tallest fruit salad unimaginable
For a rendez-vous on the Hawaiian islands
The first summer games
Were held that very afternoon
Playful racing with dolphins
And swimming in the seven seas
Then dusk began to fall
All were cordially invited to board
The fabulous celestial party bus
For a ‘round the world premiere trip
Westbound capturing one endless sunset
For hours and hours of a colorful joyride
Ending with a final detour to the north
For a late night aurora borealis show
AP: 3rd place 2020
When stepping from the shower,
Dripping wet and set to dry,
I like to know a bath sheet’s
On alert and standing by.
It needn’t be expensive
Nor the fluffiest of brands,
Just large enough to wrap me up,
The simplest of demands.
For the towels they call “bath size,”
Though I guess they’d do the trick,
Aren’t quite the ones in bath departments
I would ever pick.
There are other stipulations;
As for colors – dark is best
And one tiny other factor
Really needs to be addressed.
Growing up, we shared our towels,
Which my parents thought was fine,
But the towel hanging on the right
Today is only mine!
By eight A.M. I've harnessed the sun, by nine I've walked on the moon
All men aspire to be like me, no woman can help but swoon
By 12 O'clock I've brought world peace, and poverty's gone by one
I'll enlighten racists and bigots, even politicians before I'm done
When the clock strikes two I'll clean the oceans, at three every river and lake
From the people of Earth I'm showered with gifts that I'm far too humble to take
Perhaps at four I'll take a nap atop the fluffiest cloud
Some time for introspection, away from the jubilant crowds
When five rolls round I'll stretch and yawn, bye six go on saving the world
I'll finish in time to shower and shave for a date with a dream of a girl
The hour of seven is love at first sight, by eight we're in passion's embrace
Her feelings, I know, are as true as mine, they're written all over her face.
Till' midnight we express our love, abandoning thoughts of lust
soaked in the blissful climax, of honesty and trust
When morning once again arrives, the first thing that I'll see
An angel wrapped in silken sheets, and her eyes are only for me.
Her skin is softer than the cotton of a Southern field;
she ignites the desire of a knight deserting the battlefield,
slowly caressing every inch of her body...
arousing in her the thrill of ecstasy.
Her young lips are warmer that the evening sun,
and they can't escape the temptation
to explore a short-lived obsession...
deluding themselves with the hope of passing it on.
If sweet kisses could turn into snowflakes and become indelible as memory,
her velvety dress would be decorated with their unutterable beauty,
never allowing the distant sun melt them with its blistering breath...
winter clouds would brush her highlighted hair bringing in a surreal sunset.
Her skin is softer than the cotton of a Southern field...
much silkier than a rose illuminated by a moon so pallid;
her image is similar to that of Mona Lisa with lovely eyes so wide,
and a virtuous, radiant smile that captures a weak heart like mine.
Let me squeeze her like I would squeeze the fluffiest pillow;
she may giggle, or scream for the tickling sensation...
making me fondle her more: until I slip into another tomorrow
with the notion that I have reached my gratification.
You bring the option of a tomorrow that is touched not by everything worth forgetting....
Your rosy cheeks a venture to the forest a prisoner of a zippered tent until morrow....
Skin softer than the fluffiest clouds never a grey or sinister frown then, a gentle warm
rain....
I could watch you float and guess your shapes with never ending admiration of your patient
trust....
To show you I grow with your rain a slave to your morning smile dawn shining in your eyes ....
We warm each other’s passions and meet in the middle of each others dream..
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