Roses spices and onions skins off
Richie ride me back home
there's nowhere to hide from your love.
~~~~~
I thought I could find a place not to think of you for one day, so I went to the kitchen for a soup there was nothing to eat but pasta sauce and there you were
in front of me up in the spices
I had to use in place of meat on bone for boiling a soup.

Heating up battled water added cento tomato and the sauce
all kinds of spices; parsely real sea salts garlic pepper a pinch of taco spice wild cilantro, a garlic squized and cloves
(no basil)
cayene pepper did the magic
lemon juice added the final punch for my Mexican soup;
added a few granes bazmati rice found, added a white onion slice and blessed as I felt
"I cried me a river for you" and
The White Cliffs of Dover
songs came to mind to console
me as I broke shrinking down
the stinking onion was me
and noone to share my soup
I turned stove top off to go
wipe face off and
entering the bedroom I tripped
knees on the red floor unconsolable crying.

Yes the room was filled with
roses wild and roses red!
and again you made my day.
I felt so blessed to have
held so many of your treasures
in arms to see my hands half full with roses
and half full with bittersweet spices beheld.
Upon my bed a heart was carved
inscribed in tiny little
red rose buds and purple hearts
in your words "I love you"

I craweled to reach the bed careful not to disturb the million roses nor bleed feet with their thurns as they layed artisticly everywhere room full of roses,
I wept there caressed by your roses spices and songs
hugged all night long.
by insomnia bug

Oh please my darling Old Richie "ride me back home."
there's nowhere to hide
from your love.
~~~~~~~~~
Karijinbba-03/2020.
Copy Rights

the whole intention of life is to get through it
there is no instruction manual
there is no easy way to explain it to someone
you are conceived and you die
your journey is not predetermined
your voyage can be altered
your trip around the sun is your own unique ordeal
put your seat belt on and enjoy the ride...!

Brian Hill - 2020 # 52

It was a hot Sunday afternoon on my way to the bus terminal
Wearing khaki shorts, white converse, and my favorite blue shirt
Walking under the scorching sun like some Quiapo criminal
Craving for ***** ice cream and buy one like the woman on red skirt

Tired, I arrived at the terminal and heard the conductor shout,
“Lucena, Lucena, Lucena,” so I ran and immediately went on
There were a couple chattering and beside them their kid, a scout
Vendors selling Chicharon and Espasol and then they were gone

I can see from my seat most of the bus’ eccentric passengers
One is a weary mother and her cherubic baby crying out loud
A busy businessman on a call, and another is a group of fashioners
But I thought these were all temporary, a transient crowd

So, I stared beyond the vast plains and the nature in disguise
None was ever permanent in this episode, my deep introspection
But one thing I know is certain as sure as the sun will rise
That is slowly I am nearing home, I’m sure of my destination

Roger of Wendover
wrote of your audacity,
a chronicle, a fable in lore,
whereupon your face was softened
for the Coventry poor.

Tyranny of taxation,
a sovereign's oppression,
one husband's aggravation,
and so he gave to you
but one condition.

After the butterflies,
before the sunlit emprise,
no mask to disguise,
not a thing to prevent
prying eyes.

Only your decree
could now protect your
ladyship's modesty,
keep your name from
this sordid tale of infamy,
yet, what did Tom see?

It shan't be denied, it rests
indelibly in Flowers of History,
alas! along cobbled streets,
all of them you defied,
thus with head held high,
you rode in all your glory.