Deep from her eyes, he doesn't fail to notice, cruelty peeps out,
the hidden message he reads: beware eager to pounce.
Her ample cleavage signals there is warmth in store,
making the picture, quickly cozy and clear.

I suppose
as we grow older
the bitter wind
bites,
just a little bit colder.

The summer heat,
feels just slightly
more unbearable,
a tad  
too sweltering.

The wind whips
more aggressively
than before,
blowing through
the window screens
& underneath front doors.

Summer scent,
doesn't seem
to hold the same
saccharine bliss,
as it did
when we were
but kids.

Dread & gloom
appear with the
slow spit of rain
but,
do you remember a time
it filled
the puddles in which
you used to
laugh & play?

"Youth is
wasted on
the young"
We are so
often told.

Yet I see
no prevalence
in being
embittered & old.

thief, burglar, you're stealing again?
I told you not to touch my biscuit

never been a stealer dear never been
me a stealer? you surely don't mean

a lie at the start of the day?
and you aren't a liar you say?

I ain't no liar you know that sweet mate
I'm a liar when one is waiting at the gate
should I keep the biscuit back at its place?

I'm no liar dear I'm no stealer
come to be just a kind dealer
when one is waiting at the gate
but would go back without regret

enough stealer go start your day

*yay...............................................

One of the strangest feelings
That I can ever recall
Is knowing your tears,
Into your coffee, fall
Not at all changing taste
As all your silent fears
Gently roll off your face

have you ever loved
someone so much it
hurts? i can't explain
to you what it's like
but i hope one day
you can love me the
same

Searching my heart for its true sorrow,
  This is the thing I find to be:
That I am weary of words and people,
  Sick of the city, wanting the sea;

Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness
  Of the strong wind and shattered spray;
Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound
  Of the big surf that breaks all day.

Always before about my dooryard,
  Marking the reach of the winter sea,
Rooted in sand and dragging drift-wood,
  Straggled the purple wild sweet-pea;

Always I climbed the wave at morning,
  Shook the sand from my shoes at night,
That now am caught beneath great buildings,
  Stricken with noise, confused with light.

If I could hear the green piles groaning
  Under the windy wooden piers,
See once again the bobbing barrels,
  And the black sticks that fence the weirs,

If I could see the weedy mussels
  Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls,
Hear once again the hungry crying
  Overhead, of the wheeling gulls,

Feel once again the shanty straining
  Under the turning of the tide,
Fear once again the rising freshet,
  Dread the bell in the fog outside,—

I should be happy,—that was happy
  All day long on the coast of Maine!
I have a need to hold and handle
  Shells and anchors and ships again!

I should be happy, that am happy
  Never at all since I came here.
I am too long away from water.
  I have a need of water near.