winters the rolls.
If my past childhood memories serve me correctly.
Better than playing in the wettest Christmas snow
leaves a sweet kiss behind.
My lips follows, with an expected sigh.
To again taste one of many...
the many tasty treasures left behind
by the Elusive divine.
In that very moment;
where the sweet cinnamon lubricates
my feisty lips.
All is ******* history.
And so I ravaged the now decimated sweet treasure
with many sinful bites.
Smoked a cigarette afterwards.
There was a no smoking sign.
Indeed, **** and cinnamon don't mix.
On the tiny red plate, where the cinnamon rolls once lived.
a few crumbs in its wake still exists.
Confusion is typical of this kind of ish.
When you lick the mooing cows hidden dish.
Written and Copyrighted (C) 2014
by Claude Robert Hill, IV.
Consciousness pouring out of me disguised as words. I am craving cinnamon rolls.
your hands mash the crumble cake
warmth fills the kitchen
Friday, September 28, 2018
The melting cinnamon framed your eyes
Honey slowly streamed down your cheeks
©sol /the poems i never wrote
You're so soft and sweet
like a delicious churro
However, your false ser-
vings of love left me bitter
I will twist your neck till
your cinnamon blood sp-
rinkles out like water
I ate a churro.
He often smelled like freshly brewed coffee
Sometimes like cinnamon, sometimes like lavender
But he always, always
Smelled like lies
Walking out to the mailbox
I breathe in the cool scent of fall
and from nowhere in particular
a memory of me running out for a pass
in the vacant lot - our neighborhood stadium -
where teenage boys
felt the thrill of freedom
in their lungs and limbs.
The cinnamon smoke
of a red candle
reminds me of my aunt Madeline
who prayed before the vigil light on her home altar,
and told me of her visions of the ******,
taught me the joy of faith and sacred music
and being a special nephew
destined for something higher.
Driving west on I-20 at 6:00pm
the layered gold and coral clouds on the horizon
bring back a trip to Colorado
pulling our little camper trailer
driving toward high altitude adventure.
I thank my muse
for drifting in a momentary breeze
through the crack in the window
officiating at this marriage
of memory and writing.
Fall is for color
Bounty and splendor
Spring is renewal
But fall toasts
Nature’s own blossoming
In earth tones that
Shatter the rainbow
With rock solid
Treasure to last
For taste buds
Fall holds a promise
Crisp air to breathe
That cleanses the lungs
And erases the lethargy
Of summer’s heat
Thanksgiving to all
Mother Nature raises
Mulled cider and cinnamon
Roast turkey and corn
Remember the season
Of color and bounty
my favorite flavor is cinnamon
something sweet that burns at the same time
my throat hurts so much
my coughing is so violent it makes me gag
and i choose black cinnamon tea
i choose burning hot caffeine
an auburn elixir with honey
a faint sweet taste on my singed lips
the heated mug in my hands
is an unknown sensation to my ice filled veins
my fragile and frosted body reacts as if molten steel was forced down my throat
but it’s only robust, dry cinnamon mixed with honey
it’s only a warm drink to soothe my throat
it’s my favorite
!!!!i have allergies!!!!
i keep coughing so hard
it makes me heave