It swivels around me like a tornado

The bitter taste of it

Anxiety.

The kick from it

Betrayal.



How sweet it is

Leaving the pack behind

Getting to call this my own

Fresh, spicy, speciously sweet

A rib cage out of cinnamon and cigarettes.

Cinnamon
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.
Isn't it?
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.

cinnamon sugar
your hands mash the crumble cake
warmth fills the kitchen

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
The future

Nature’s own blossoming
In earth tones that
Shatter the rainbow
With rock solid
Treasure to last
The year

Harvest *****
October fests
Foodie’s delight
Magnificent moments
For taste buds
In sight

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
Her glass
Mulled cider and cinnamon
Roast turkey and corn
Remember the season
Of color and bounty
Remember fall
Throughout
The year

a warm cup of coffee
with cinnamon and honey

a little bitter, a little lovely

but hot as hell just the same

Closing my eyes, I sit on my chair with tea,
sipping and cupping my chai with please.
Its cinnamon scent wafts through the air,
sending pleasant shivers everywhere.

Hints of cardamon slide down my throat with ease,
the musky mix of spices and black tea.
Slowly, I release my back to rest comfortably,
on the back of the old chair, that my mother gave me.