The cat has your bone structure,
it also sashays and allures.
In an alcohol-fueled reverie
it turned up
as thin as a velvet spider.
However, it died
before our love did.
Pets are obtrusive, not conducive
to good or bad memories,
they play the field
demanding to be relevant
long after their passing.
Your cat considers me a villain,
it lingers on as some kind of
a stalking succubus,
the very model of your character
reminding me (as if necessary),
of your everlasting disapproval.
I overhear that damn cat,
positively purring when I am feeling sad,
and on a good day
its sexually vexatious yowling
warns me
never to take
a good cat for granted.
Ah! Here sashays the pouty Miss Scarlett O’Hara,
the Southern belle bombshell of Tara.
The center of hoop-skirted ballroom attention,
she bosses and causes her beaux hypertension.
Margaret Mitchell’s charming yet flawed character in her novel, “Gone With the Wind”.
Spring waltzes in with rosebud cheeks and swaying with a breeze.
She summons Sun and Rain to do her bidding; grace blossoms,
but she can’t compete with Summer’s sultriness; thus she takes her leave.
Summer spiritedly takes the stage as she tangos in with Sun.
As their passion scorches the ground on which they dance, storms may come,
cooling Summer off, but she leaves once Autumn sashays in.
Autumn is a playful sprite, brightening leaves for a while
and twirl-flirting with Wind as the days grow ever cooler.
Romantic at sundown, she slow-dances with shadows that lengthen.
Fall's sister, not as romantic, moves in a courtly way.
Winter enters Earth’s ballroom sometimes frigidly, yet can show grace
when she lets loose a white gown that glistens beneath Moon’s glow.
(Checked by Syllablecounter.net)
A windswept mist whispers possibility
trickling down cheeks of strangers as she sashays on
Main Street’s square bares a brimming moon
hammocked on a muted sundown’s casting glow
Eclipsing from view is the last café,
a perky bouquet, a lonely sojourner
fleur-de-lis— yellow iris profuse
With an unwavering discipline held
as if carrying the coat of arms
Gisèle proceeds down the rue de chagrin
Raspberry rubies drip from her lips
My mush-mouth tongue drops to the ground
Girlish giggles as she sashays hips
Gearhead's freight train drowns out all sound
Damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead
This wreck scheduled to arrive and shine
She flips the switch on the tracks instead
Breakheart Pass skips a worn-out line
Fall sashays in with chilly air,
bright swirling leaves, and season’s fare—
all subjects of the poet’s pen.
With chilly air, fall sashays in.
I walk along the shore, bare feet in sand.
The seabirds wheel and cry above the sea.
The wind hums secrets shaped by ocean’s hand,
As surf calls out, wild-voiced and full of glee.
The sun casts arcs of color through the spray.
Shells open wide, and sing the songs I adore.
As swells roll in, where dolphins leap and play.
And salt clings fast to things we can’t ignore.
The breaking waves still rumble towards the sky.
They toss white veils above the rising swell.
And flotsam clings where tides no longer ply.
Where silence fell, and joy once used to dwell.
And when the summer sets and dusk has come,
We’ll sing sea shanties, lauding light and sun.
channeling
my thoughts
towards
earth star chakra
I stand
rooted
feeling safe
it is fall
my thoughts
linger around
sadness
like Monarch
butterflies
clustering on
mulberry trees
preparing
for migration
a thought
here and there
pass
I mind my
breath
trance-like
peace envelopes
metamorphosis
thoughts
return, I
see again, my
mind sashays
down glittered
cluttered runway
as always
cycle begins
She's a two edge sword--
who wheels profound believes.
Thus, sashays
with Viking's valor
and intuitive ease.
She's been known
to bend, near break--
shading discarded leaves;
From harsh, scolding droughts
or debar's frost-bite freeze.
She's no puppet-master and
certainly ain't--angst's puppet, hung.
Who submissive questions,
cowardly answers, bows, then scurrys,
when her strings are tugged.
She's that avid eagle,
with freedom's rein to soar.
Her nest--it never tethers,
with knowledge's thirst,
explores.
The world, it's but
her pearly oyster,
with every venture,
craves to seek
and conquer more.
My musings launched into the stratosphere
Marching to Mars’ trending atmosphere
It's 2025
At midnight it’ll arrive
I’ll be taking time out in the new year
There is a young woman named Heather
who occasionally likes to wear leather
at country line dances
where she sashays and prances;
her feet are as light as a feather.
This lovely woman named Heather
looks great in her skirt made of leather,
but nevertheless
I have to confess
she looks better in the altogether!
With a quick competitive descent,
Darling Daffy and his feisty duels;
No sportsmanship? He turns violent;
He’s a stickler for all of the rules;
Makes no difference if it’s a giraffe
or Bugs Bunny banging on that piano,
play the game fair or get cut in half;
This the challengers ALWAYS know;
‘A lower standard will always debase!’
screams a bar sign in ACME letters;
Looking for a fair fight? This is the place.
Who’s fire with melodic measures?
Sly cockatoo sashays in with a grin,
itching to throw in a song that’s fire;
He holds the decadence of a violin,
and claims to be an A list player;
Daffy smugly looks him up and down
‘You win? With that? What fallacies!!’
‘I’m Fuego I play two. Give me my crown.
Known as the best to play Merry Melodies.’
To be continued …
Her hips leaves her loves,
Kisses in the wind,
As she sashays luminous,
As a champagne moon,
The vintage shore,
Unwinds in the ultra neon lights,
As bonfires hymn in the starry nights,
Her vintage sashay,
Inwardly lit, from the sweetness,
that tenderly strides,
Its as if she glides,
Her beauty in the candles of our love
Reynaldo Casison
She must of been,
A dancer,
The way her hem,
Sways with the sweet,
warm Rhythms,
Of her hips,
And waves of the moon,
And she sashays,
With the grace,
Of wild and serene,
Sunflowers
Reynaldo Casison
Her exotic brunnette hair,
Flows,
With her long gypsy,
Skirt,
Emblazoned,
With surreal flowers,
As she sashays,
Through the beaded,
Light,
To the sweet chimes,
To relax,
Carefree,
Upon the rose velvet couch
Reynaldo Casison
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