"I feel old", I said

"Time travel" they imposed

"How?", I exclaimed

"Fall in love", they replied

Will be leaving soon for Orlando,
Away from the cold in Ontario.
Will I return?
I really don't know.

A wacko may secretly board my plane;
A radicalized lunatic far from sane.

Or Canada geese, heading south,
Might take our fuelled jet engines out.

Some random lightning shot from the sky
Lights up our cockpit,
And the pilots die.

The landing gear is up and stuck...
“I don't think I drank enough!”

There's mad rage on the road
Between
Orlando and St. Augustine.

There’s snub-nosed guns in too many bags,
And the pubs are teeming with cougars and *****.

The Matanzas flows with gators and sharks,
I'll make note of this as my kyak embarks.

A drunken driver could do the job;
Or I get hospitalized
From being robbed.

An Early Bird bone might make me choke,
Or an errant golf ball holes out in my throat.

Perhaps nothing happens, I’m too suspect
Of the possible perils from my Florida trek.

Is it worth the risks. I’ll let you know,
When I get back to the warmth  of Ontario.

How can I feel anything but wonder
at the beauty of hearts & minds that inhabit this world
so vividly intertwined, we are all seeking each other
and finding ourselves

remember always,
to never let your love grow cold
but keep a lit fire
for a stray dog, or a man that needs a hand
when we help each other, we help ourselves
but when we help ourselves, we hurt each other

Exotic flair dances in screaming hues,
Sensual stench beguiles with spiced odour.

Welcomed strangers crave tamed adventures,
Staring spiteful, shocked at ordinary extremes.

Mother, limit your daughter – in the name of love.
Father, torpedo your son – in service to the family.
Family, direct the daughters – for the call of their fathers.
Love, sabotage the sons – for the sake of their mothers.

Religion, preaching freedom, chains
its limbs to bones and brainstems.
Shadi, rupee, social media
replace Vishnu, Brahma, Shiva.

Exquisite journeys in a shadowed dream.
What a thrill – At such a bill.

Let's wax poetic - wax on..

We’re in for it
When we enter
the insubstantial country of love

That secret theater, in an invisible mansion of moods

it’s a resort that houses its share of speechless monologues and sore disappointments, all lovers know that, but there are infinite discoveries too—secret, intimate delights and sensual confidences.

Ok, wax off.

My horoscope this morning said, “any tension you’re experiencing now is just part of the process.”

Peter (my bf), flew in last night. When we’re separated too long, remembering him, remembering us, can at times, seem like a memory exercise and I find myself wondering if I’m wasting my bikini years on a handshake deal. Then we’re reunited and bam, I’m reminded why it’s a ‘dub-u, dub’ again.

He’s a delectation—in a Christmas bauble kind of way—shiny and dangerous because I want to touch him—but not be loud or showy about it. Leeza (Lisa’s 14-year-old sister) whispered to me, when I was getting some ice, “You watch him with the too-still poise of a cat about to strike.” I smiled at the complement because I love cats.

Every once in a while I’ll pinch him, to make sure he’s real. “Oww! Stop that!
“What?!” I ask, pulling back as if innocently confused.

I got him a room at the Marriott Essex House. It’s 400 feet down W59th from Lisa’s building entrance to the front door of his hotel. I measured it off, with urgent steps—then I helped him unpack. We unpacked a lot.

Later, we joined Dave and Lisa for a Christmas light tour—Manhattan’s flexing its wow-factor for us.

I didn’t get to sit on Santas lap this year, I’m a little old for that,
but I did get what I wanted most—I’m sure I’m grinning like an idiot.
It’s not quite Christmas yet, but thanks, Santa.

🎄Merry Christmas🎄🕎Happy Hanukkah 🕎🌟Merry Kwanzaa🌟
💈Happy Festivas!💈
.
.
Songs for this:
Heat Wave by Linda Ronstadt
Same Songs by Kelly Jones
.
.
Two days until Christmas.. how ‘bout some Christmas playlists?
https://daweb.us/xmas/
.
dub-u, dub = a big win

a petal wafts through the fields;
as though a cradle for the morning dew
forged by winter’s labour.

the flower remains anonymous.

Huddled, strained, with craned necks to the board,
They wish for that missing number,
The hope they wait upon—
The launchpad to their homes.

Puzzled, drained, enraged—the muttered sounds.
They miss that sudden cue,
The rush to be the one;
That fearful scrum of drones.

Tom Lefort

Travel an emotion
With lots of happiness and Hopes
Either crossing timezones
or to the nearest city
Either Holding hands
or setting yourself free
Exploring the essence of
New Place, People and Culture
Travel could find your true self
making it the best refreshment
Keep travelling!