i’ll live in a yellow house
painted by the sun itself
a house that stands on the corner of
Joy Street and Sunshine Avenue
and in my house a garden will grow
with flowers watered with hope, rooted in love.
my yellow house will be the talk of the town
and children will come on their bikes
to meet the woman that keeps flowers in her hair
and a few stars in her eyes,
the woman that wears dresses with pockets
filled with honey and cinnamon.

I don't believe in heaven
But sleeping in your arms is the closest I'll ever come

My dreams are like bitter lemons
splashed with a drop of best gin
My hopes are a bit like fresh cream
with big succulent strawberries dipped in.
My outlook is divine like a strong, ripe cheese
with a ruby port by the side, plenty of it
so that your body relaxes down to the knees.
My plans are like pancakes, filled with cherries
A rich chocolate sauce running through the fruit
Plans dripping with velvet skins collecting
cherry juice and mingling with my suit.
The schedule for today has gone out of the window
because I am too busy eating violet creams
pansies dipped in caramel are just the ticket
especially when you have my sort of dreams.

I know not of your hands
I know not of your name,
I know not of your face
but I have
always
known you
you are my soul's warm embrace

I have felt you
in their mindless empty touch
closer closer every time
an I need you
very very much,

I have yearned for the freeing
of your loving fingertips
the sanctuary of the warmest arms
and those perfect perfect lips
we can dance in my moon
as we move
slowly
waxing,
waning,
bringing both us back,
as time just slips an slips,
back,
before here
when
I knew you
back there
where
light
lives.

Ma Cherie © 2017

The blank page lies before me, the hour being late.
As Inspiration is  lacking,perspiration takes its place.
My deadline approaches and I have barely writ a line.
My Muse finds this amusing and I find her most unkind

Crumpled ***** of paper mark how I spend my time.
Clearly I am no Durant behind the three point line
All I have accomplished is to waste a pad and ink
Indeed why do I bother; who cares what poets think?


Her hand upon my shoulder,  Her lips upon my cheek.
Her eyes are importuning, there is no need to speak.
She lures me from my garret; she takes me to her lair.
Her perfume- intoxicating. she has me in her snare.

I know what you are thinking; that I should be more devout.
Dedicate myself to writing, cut the "monkey business" out.
I am no fan of Lovelace now, nor was I one before
When my Lucasta calls you will not see me off to war.

I would like to partake
in a little drink made with love
strawberries, squashed to a shake
milk, ice cream and all of the above

It is thick and dreamy
frothy and pink
so delicious and creamy
when the straw starts to sink

It is tasty and good for you
it has my name on the side
oh I love a strawberry milk shake
nothing but goodness inside.