I reach, into the hereafter, holding hands with "Blue Jeans." The spirit of my Sandy, no stranger to the One Above when nothing else matters, except for life and family. Forever, where you go, I will follow your breath. Touching your soul with my pulse as God pulls up a Gospel, and I offer him a beer. Loving you so much, for being you, holding hands with "Blue Jeans."
In a swanky shade of moonlight in twilight's blooming hours of breathless marigolds bringing you flowers soothing pulse of Dark's mandolin sounding of a mahogany xylophone swooning me Cupid's arrow with a scented hankie in a swanky shade of moonlight and no one, but my own
Walking my Slinky in cuddly dreams as the rings of Saturn spin carousel listening to a row of dominoes fall like an accordion bellows in twilight's Serendipity as the garden gnomes dance dunking my Gingersnaps in a teacup of moonbeams walking my Slinky in cuddly dreams
An unfathomable foggy in the dark's minute upon the petal of a shadow on the rose dripping the ardor, pouls des morts-vivants, pulse of undead, with the silence of the sole touched by the oyster's smile of poetic seduction of corpses in the potter's bed waiting to be fed the marrow's incandescence perfumery
Wikipedia says that A1 is a sauce. So we are under attack by a sauce? Which is short for Sausalito, a city in California. What does a steak sauce have to do with Artificial Intelligence? Can it spell Mississippi? I tried talking to a bottle of A1 and got nothing out of the one-way conversation. In fact, I had to look around and make sure that I wasn't being watched while dining at The Outback. I am more concerned as to why a damn waiter set my pancake blazing with a blowtorch. He said it was a crappy Suzette. What does my mother-in-law have to do with it? I doused the inferno with my Maker's...
A shadow of a headstone idle in the grave no weeds for the dark stranger of twilight with a scent of death that doesn't wash off that was a memory from a generation ago now a wildflower of a bone in nature's mascara
I can see & feel native memories within my inner eye. Amidst the magnificent beauty of nature Crystal waters, I call home Sits a time ate well, where I spent my coins, A little boy with wishes and dense dreams.
Ah, things ain't what they used to be. The progress they say. But why in any place you seek to go, it's the coziness of home you wish to know.
Now that my life has come full circle. Parallel with the universe. A haunting whisper breathes upon my impending. The chime of childhood...
It's your party bopping the gristle of sanctimonious heathens with no cover charge Hats off to the body-snatchers in delirium's sweet memories of intoxication Welcome to my hidey-hole of puddings and veins and hypocrites as Jesus resurrects Farewell you sinners forget the afterlife What awaits you is a kiln with eternal strife.
Beneath a quilted sunset of the vagabond trees and the migrating geese a cloth of grass of nature's lullaby rising to a green flame swaying rapscallion winds to whistle tweet piccolo for the mother's child to be a sum of a smile sweet Georgia, home to me beneath a quilted sunset
On the credenza of falling leaves where the crickets are rehearsing nature's Autumn Poetry As they come calling on the divine and the piccolos are whistling as the twilight winks Heavens to Betsy! On the moon's carousel where the crickets are rehearsing
In the Renaissance of the widow birch my tiny garden of memories tucked away in nature's sewing basket as winter ice melts a requiem and the sun is on the frost the chords of dawn chime the thistle over rattling brooks and creek stones and if we should pass, knowing the miracle of the winds, blow in God's everlasting where the soul never dies tucked away in nature's sewing basket in the Renaissance of the widow birch