I fold my fingers round the silent spine,
feeling the tender threat of invisible teeth.
A subtle needle nips beneath the skin,
drawing a solitary, shining seam of crimson.
That dark droplet slowly drags its weight,
a ruby tear trembling on immaculate ivory.
It bleeds into the delicate, velvet veins,
staining the pale bloom with a quiet, scarlet ache.
Held high against the gathering shade,
surrendering its soft, porcelain secrecy -
a single white rose,
forever marked by the hands that cherished it.
As sunlight slides behind the hill
Mum sets the last stone in cherry
Yet a fortnight for Christmas still
As sunlight slides behind the hill
Painted marl makes children merry
When December dew nips our sill
As sunlight slides behind the hill
Mum sets the last stone in cherry
Their “e” assignments instead of too...
Thor hurry nips?
You?
Fight me! Styx wants to say
It comes out as a ‘mew’
They stroke his fur and pet his head
Tickle, fuss and coo
Too soft! He thinks, Where are the claws?
The hard knocks and the teeth?
His friends, the other wampus cats
At least brawl like they have beef
But his clowder mates are holed up too
Hunkering from the hail
What he wouldn’t give right now
To bite another’s tail!
Adrenaline makes his muscles twitch
Pent up frustration writhes
Oh to be outdoors again
Running with his tribe!
Fight me! Styx wants to roar
All six legs set to scrap
He doesn’t want an invitation
To sit purring on a lap
Fight me! Styx insists
And receives a little shove
Yes! Physical contact!
He interprets it as love
Fight me! Fight me! He’s shoved again
He nips, inviting more
He’s rewarded with rough and tumble
And is sent sprawling on the floor
When it comes to good play fighting
The humans don’t quite know how
It’s not the same as wampus wrestling
But it’ll do, for now
Deep beneath the twisted root,
Where silence wears a felt boot,
The mother curls in circles tight,
A ring of warmth against the night.
Her brush is draped like silken thread,
A pillow for each tiny head.
With silver tongue and patient grace,
She washes every fuzzy face;
A rhythmic stroke, a tender sweep,
To lull her restless kits to sleep.
She nicks the clay and clears the air,
The mistress of her earthen lair.
When hunger nips at bellies small,
She answers to their whimpering call.
She leaves the warmth of huddle and home,
Through silvered wilds and woods to roam.
She answers every hungry need,
And gives her waiting kits a feed.
But if the heavy foot should fall,
Or shadow loom against the wall,
The mother transforms—sharp and keen,
The fiercest flame that’s ever been.
With bared tooth and a warning low,
She stands between them and foe.
In golden coat and eyes of fire,
She is the shield, a mother’s desire.
Until the stars begin to pale,
And dawn unfolds its violet veil,
She keeps the watch, the sacred trust,
Amidst the roots and cooling dust.
Tiny, my precious one-eyed ball of fluff --
with oh so sharp teeth and claws --
is disarmingly warm and cuddly but
often still quite skittish,
and stand-offish.
She purrs non-stop, contented,
when safely protected, on my lap
while being stroked. Her food and her water
bowls are clean and full
and her litter box is mostly promptly
emptied, refilled, odorless
and sanitized.
So what if she nips playfully
at my aged paper-thin skin?
Also she may snag my dressy
seldom-donned attire with those
sharp claws. But
she over-pays her board, her daily care,
with fond head nudges, and with her
unabashed preference for me
above all others, even now,
when I may no longer be,
to others, what I was.
To her, still, this outer shell
is precious, is safe,
Is reciprocated love,
is home,
is everything.
The slowest taste of perfect lips,
a french twist on sweet devotion.
Savor every ounce of passion,
careful with those sumptuous drips.
You’ll fall harder as your heart skips,
with that staunch lament explosion.
The slowest taste
becomes more intense with fine nips.
Locked within my future’s vision
repeating now with this motion.
Nothing quite like when a storm rips,
the slowest taste.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Christmas—a time for seeing the ‘unseen’ magic in everything.”Quote by the author
moonlit snowy eve
church bells chime a joyful sound
peaceful holy night
snowflakes gently fall
blanketing the world in white
serene peaceful hush
sparkling icicles
frozen tears sent from heaven
crisp air nips the nose
frosted windowpane
candlelight dances within
Christmas magic born
.
and i'm'z all 'bout
help'n ya girlie
we'll start with
your
lips
nips
hips
skips thuh rhymez
and
repeat
az lyrics
yourn chin'z inch
unto
yourn enter
at
mine
own
tap (i were think'n "risk")
In the sweet spring air,
We love a long walk.
I fancy he listens
As I blabber and talk.
I playfully sigh
Once we come in the door —
Someone’s muddy paws
Have painted the floor.
In the hot summer air,
We drive to the beach.
He pulls off my flip flop,
And runs out of reach.
As dusk settles in,
He nips at a firefly;
While never successful,
He loves to just try.
In the brisk fall air,
I need time to breathe,
But he begs, “one more time,
Throw my ball to retrieve!”
When I bring out the pumpkin,
He wants his fair share.
I say, “down boy, down!”
But he acts unaware.
In the cold winter air,
Snow lands on his face . . .
Just a second of calm —
Then a squirrel to go chase!
Only back inside does he now shake off,
Melting snow and frost cascading.
I groan but deep down I know:
What makes his personality his own
Are his quirks and irks,
Misdeeds and misleads,
Imperfection but true affection,
That I would, of course, never consider trading.
Tingly skies full of surprise oh how I love when with surmise,
the little rascal aims his dart as if it were, poetic art!
He conceals behind the blush of day,
nips in, then dashes back away
with grinning lips and silver bow,
he strikes before I even know.
A stranger smirk, I feel the spark—
my calm heart a blind bargain,
no shield, no plan, no grand excuse,
just twisted thoughts and love let loose.
Now here I am, without a clue…
when cupid's arrow aims for you, there isn't much that you can do!
A billion can buy a bushel of impenetrable silence.
Hectares of prime farmland or flashy private jets.
It can buy a turd in stilettos and a pyrite-hearted mistress.
A billion can buy you a secondhand spaceship.
Or an endless good run of Wall Street luck. It can buy a pair of bloated lip-plastic nips and butts.
With a billion you can casually jump burning ships.
Change the scented steps of a double helix.
Buy a fresh orphaned kidney if you so wish.
A billion can buy you onto underage islands.
Where the silver heads pleasure and innocents' dies.
A billion can buy a cure, but it never has the will.
There's more profit in a shady shot or a toxic pill.
They say money can't buy happiness, but I'd rather die on a champagne yacht.
With half a dozen painted chicks on my arm.
Then all alone under a soggy city bridge
A billion can quarry a slab of pink granite stone.
But not a stitch of silk will anyone own
when death unchains the flesh from the soul.
The muse just kicked a garbage can
The you know what just hit the fan
I mutter “I can write…I can”
The keyboard trembles ‘neath my touch
Words not enough…or way too much
The Limerick now a useless crutch
I even opened the Thesaurus
Got lost within the meaning’s forest
Wandered through the meanings porous
Alas my fingers once were nimble
made the complex rather simple
changing warts into a dimple
I try to give it latitude
Allow a bit of attitude
Avoid the dreaded platitude
I edit it with nips and tucks
Eliminate the WTF’S
And yet, at times, Poetry Sucks
lips tips
miss kiss
hips nips
Busty shaped and large of hip
the busy winds of October
buffet my brain
within its whistling cave.
Around the shoulders
of every lumpy molehill
taverns and tankards
bloom in a russet corner of light.
September leaves
leave, shaking their brittle cuffs
and frills,
they fly sideways
riding upon broken rafts
of tangled sticks.
October blusters as it bustles,
its wide-spread mouth warmed-over
by wafts and beery blasts.
Now is the time to flap long coats,
to run ahead of a creaking moon
as it rolls drunkenly
into winters nippy
and thin-lipped ice.
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