"mitts" poems
3 X 5 index card poems
3 smallish poems in five minutes
~
reheating
honey can I make you something to eat?
***no babe, you know I hate to see you cooking, frying
standing over pots and stirring sauces
trying to brush
wisps of bangs from your eyes
while wearing kitchen mitts***
What I would prefer is something leftover,
reheated served with a smiling grin from my ear
to wayover down under there,
next to you
<•>
old words are better than than new ones
hey, hi! how you doing, old friend?
“yo, out of the hospital feeling so much better;
had some kind of ‘itis’ which they cured with an ‘yisis’!”
***glad to hear; impressed by all those new big scientific words;
frankly preferred your old ones, that were rediscovered and
reoriented in new ways in your poems verses;
me?
never better cause to hear from a man
whose optimism has yet to meet a
match
that he can’t best,***
heals all our wounds
<|>
if you told me
***that I could spend three successive rainy days in almost all silence, perfectly contented by myself,
i’d said you crazy,***
isn’t that true babe?
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 12:53 PM UTC
I’ve been going to this boxing gym and training every week.
And everyone there is fighting something
You can see in their
Eyes
They’re punching their dad
Or they’re punching
Whoever their wife is sleeping with
Or they're punching
Their kids who ignore them
Or they’re punching
Themselves.
Their boss
Their job
Their alcohol problem
Their poverty
And every week we get to fight our problems together
And we’re exploding inside.
What?
You can’t fight your problems?
It’s not only that I can.
I will.
And do.
Because crying alone isn’t good enough
Because all that fire you build up inside you has to go somewhere
Or it’ll burn you alive.
So you throw it into the heavy bag
Or into the guy you’re sparring
Or into the ground you run on.
We’re all fighting something
So what about you?
What are you fighting that’s so god **** important?
No, don’t tell me.
Tell that heavy bag.
He listens.
He listens when your wife doesn’t give a ****
He listens when it doesn’t even matter
Tell these padded mitts.
That one-two punch says more than a twenty-four volume encyclopedia
And speaks more concisely than Churchill or Hemmingway or Ghandi ever did.
Don’t tell me how it feels.
Don’t even try.
Let that punching bag know.
Because you know he’s listening.
And he doesn’t have anything else more important to do.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 1:31 AM UTC
I met this geezer down the frog
Who said mate you gotta have a butchers
So we went into the rub a dub
And I couldn't Adam and Eve it
There before me mince pies
Stood a treacle all sugar and spice
She was a bleeding treat
For this London boy with sore plates
For I had been walking for quite a while
But now I was beginning to smile
Watching her with a pigs ear in me mitts
Boy I was chuffed to bits
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 12:31 PM UTC
I hate how they never warn little girls
to beware the pretty boys
with eyes like gleaming jewels.
The boys with soft smiles
and music in their laugh.
They never warn
of boys with pretty faces
and blackened hearts.
The boys that leave little girls
crying in the dark.
The ones with words like honey,
sickly sweet.
The princes with big money,
who we dream of sweeping us off our feet.
They never speak
of boys with danger in their eyes.
But beauty true blue.
Little girls are never told
of boys of silver and boys of gold.
The little kings,
with angel wings.
The little beast neither soft nor sweet.
The beauty bombshells,
the golden adonis’s.
They never speak of boys
who run like the winds
under their feet.
The boys who shine
like the stars in the sky.
The boys with the world in their grubby mitts.
The boys with lips like cotton candy,
and sins warm and rich.
The ones who have our
stomachs doing flips.
The ones who seem to have it all
shoulders back, standing tall.
They never caution of
little boys with clever minds
and nimble fingers.
Of boys with Shakespeare's sonnets in their hair
and love songs in their whispers.
But little girl,
I am telling you now.
Beware the pigtail pullers,
fear the little Romeos.
Heed the heartbreakers
Shun smooth talkers.
Little girl,
don’t give in.
Little girl,
fear their sins.
Little girl,
run away.
Little girl,
don’t stay to play.
Little girl,
don’t stop and stare.
Little girl,
don’t twirl your hair.
Little girl,
please, listen to me!
Little girl,
loath the charming pretty boys.
For they are like roses
and like roses
they have thorns.
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 7:51 PM UTC
Mouse’s are a famous breed,
From lines of kings they come.
They have a mousey song, and a mousey creed;
They love mousey cheese, and mousey ***
Mouse’s love spirits, wine, beer, and ale;
They love to chew on cheesy things.
And when they’re drunk, they will regale,
Spouting stories of mousy kings.
In mousey castle, in mousey town,
Lived a mighty mousey king.
And his mousy eyes, looked up and down,
On every big, and little thing.
But his mighty mousy features,
Were struck by mousy mope.
For all his fellow creatures,
Were bereft of *** and hope.
“No *** No rum!” They cried,
To the king as he passed by.
They wept, and sobbed, and sighed;
“Oh my, oh my, oh my”.
In the kingdom of the mouse,
There can be no greater woe,
Than to find no *** in house;
It lays the mouse’s low.
“No *** can be got”!
Stated the advisor to the king.
“We’ve all got up, and drunk the lot;
'Tis a sad and sorry thing”.
All the mousy heads,
Hung low in grim defeat.
They played with mousy threads,
With mousy hands, and mousy feet.
But the king of mouse’s rose
Standing tall upon his mitts.
Wriggled in his mousy hose,
And strained his mousy wits.
“Who can build new ***
Asked the mighty mousey king.
But all the mouse’s were dumb,
On this mighty mousey thing.
Then from out the bleachers;
Stumbled little Georgey mouse.
A smirk bestruck his features,
He was happy; he was ******
With mousy hands he gript
A bottle tall and fine
And from its neck he sipped;
A liquor; so divine.
“I shound it through zzat wall”,
Announced little Georgey mouse
“Theresh enough for one and all;
Enough to build a housh”.
He sipped the liquor fair,
And shouted, “What a corker”!
He flashed the bottle in the air;
Black label Johnny Walker.
And all the mousey squeaks,
Wrung cheer from misery.
And the cheers went on for weeks;
“Whiskey! Whiskey! Whiskey!
Jun 8, 2010
Jun 8, 2010 at 8:19 PM UTC
In the linoleum dungeon
Sparkling swiffer creature
Squirts the floor
Calls polyphemic odors
Opening
And the crazy stench of allspice
Biting lime and draconian breath
Burning the nostril coins
Copper shield bending the cilia
Oven mitts plastered with narcotic grease and decomposing meals
Of yesteryear
Unclear
She speaks between steaming inspirations
Hoo-huh
Exhale the fire
It's'a hotta pasta lasagna
As the helicopters flap their handy rotories
Fast fractal birds
In circumfereferential motion
Cool down our mouths
Ice cubes in the juice
Plop a shot of gin
With that silly child's grin
And the room slowly cants
Begins to spin
As we laugh at the spots we cannot
Pin
Staring at the stellar mountain chains
Thrusted stone
Busted metal
Stabbing up into the sky
Competition
Where is the home beyond the horizon
Where we ate good meals
Not made alone
With parental guidance
As the days were stolen
By the erosive time
That spinning wheel
Well,
It's deep in us now
And the cells metastasized
Realized
That heaven is hell.
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 3:51 PM UTC
Lars lifts opens the toilet seat. The hinge squawks and he mimics the sound with his mouth. A dumb smile folds out on his face like someone unrolling a beach towel. He sits without dropping his pants or underwear. The cops are just about to leave through the screen door. Maggie offers a departing sacrament of right out of the oven of crispy flakey Pillsbury biscuits. They wave their hands parallel to the ground refusing. Maggie pulled the biscuits out too early. The bottoms are tan and dimensional but the tops are sloppy. They look like they have a glaze but they don’t have a glaze. They are pasty but still hot to the touch. The pan is hot. Maggie is wearing maroon oven mitts. One of the cops gets his foot snagged on the throw rug. They walk with their heads down but don’t notice the curled edges of the throw rug. They notice a black pug named Roger instead and nearly avoid fumbling over him. The cops scatter outside quickly like ducklings crossing the street. Lars’ dumb smile lingers and he laughs with a shushing lisp. He reaches between his legs into the toilet bowl. His hand disturbs the water. His nose is bleeding. Maggie closes the doorwall after the cops leave. The cops left the screen open. Maggie reopens the doorwall, closes the screen, shakes her head, and then closes the doorwall again. The kitchen is humming with improper wires. The light is electric pastel blue. The linoleum is too ***** to sleep on. Maggie’s ******* can be seen through her shirt. Lars wipes his nose with his arm and shoulder. He is hunched digging into the toilet bowl. He pulls out a baggie with a twist tie on top. The baggie looks reused. Maggie enters under the frame of the door and her lips roll out like a beach towel. The ******* in the baggie is very very dry.
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 7:56 PM UTC
Creased felines crossing lines,
Pressing claws into dust.
Western hemisphere,
Reviving the pilgrimage.
Bubbles and logs
Satiate their under garments.
Enhancing hair follicles
Resembling shards and spurs.
At a woodsy bar,
A tabby liberated the fangs
He rented last holiday.
The bartender shook with perplexity.
Reacting simultaneously-
A minor character, Little Leon.
The dusty town called him
Leon, for he was alone.
Little Leon got taller
In a basement full
Of water. The dusty town
Was an adjustment.
The tabby and Little Leon
Faced off for recognition.
Leon wretchedly charged
The floor boards with sopping ends.
Crayon versus colored pencil;
They chose their weapons
Anxiously. It was
Bring your son to work day.
The bent bartender
Spared his child’s eyes.
“I’m not your little boy,”
The child shrilled at him.
“I don’t want trains,
Or fake guns meant for play.
I miss my mom,
And dresses on Sunday.”
Cats on a pilgrimage,
Rarely stop from
Slurping a drink. Pity refilled
Cups, as tails twitched in trial.
The tabby and Leon
Came to a halt, seeing as
Punishment was engraved atop
The bartender’s grungy mitts.
The clowder gathered,
As the Tabby scolded the man
Behind the bar. “Remember where
you leave your beverage.”
And that was that.
Leon’s internal complexity,
Being left with only himself,
Dissipated. There are others
Who feel more alone.
Tabby picked up his crayon.
His spurs clanked
And spun, as his guided
His feline friends out the front.
Tumbleweed skidded
Outside the bar.
The bartender finally saw
That his son was not a son.
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 5:10 PM UTC
Girl turns three on a homemade cake
She had candy balloons and plastic grass bits
Toy princesses and marscapone rakes
And mom burnt her finger because she forgot the mitts
Girl turns five on a store bought cake
This time it was shaped like jack and jill
And she wondered if it was a fake
It was the month mom got ill
Girl turns seven on a cupcake
And mom could barely get up let alone bake
Dad taught her baseball that week
She peeped at her parents through the little door creak
Mother.
Other.
Her.
Girl turns nine on a chocolate bun
Mom gave her blessing through the grave
That was the year dad knew no fun
And they kept telling her to be brave
Girl turns eleven on a self made cake
Mom was back but her ******* were fake
Dad was googly eyed, yes
He neglected that his baby was depressed
Girl turns thirteen on a seven layered cake
It was all this posh she couldn't take
This year new mommy and daddy started fighting
And she'd turn up the music and dim the lighting
Girl turns sixteen on a birthday card
This year, dad started drinking
And life felt hard, really hard
Deep down she knew she was sinking
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 10:07 AM UTC
as the coffee cup is rinsed,
the filthy little ******* lands
on the counter to my right.
immediately,
seeking a bludgeon,
his demise is envisioned.
however,
this housefly stays in
my periphery
for just a moment
longer
and
I cannot help but notice
his tiny little mitts, working
and fretting.
imagining the tiniest string
of rosary beads wrapped
around his housefly fists,
it occurs to me that he
might be making his peace
with God.
offering up his little housefly
benedictions, contritions;
apologies for all the sugar bowls,
he’s puked in during his
miniscule little life,
all the little maggots that
he might have fathered
and subsequently abandoned.
I think, without thinking really,
to chide my little countertop
cohort, saying:
“Ah, give it up little one, He isn’t there, He never was,
and if He is, He doesn’t give a second’s thought to the
likes of us.”
the housefly looks at me;
still furiously working his
unseen beads.
“You fool.” he says.
“God has obviously heard my contrition, my apologies,
and has granted me a reprieve, however brief.”
interrupting his novenas,
the housefly continues:
“You, my friend, are so great,
and I am so small,
yet you’ve heard my voice,
seen my beads,
given me reprieve, however brief.
I had asked God to give to you,
just one golden moment of
true, honest belief.
And, so He has, and now
you understand that
the prayers of a housefly
have stayed your hand.
So, it doesn’t matter how
great or how small,
God listens to each of us,
one and all.”
***
-JBClaywell
©P&ZPublications; 2016
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 10:38 AM UTC
I knew her for a little ghost
That in my garden walked;
The wall is high—higher than most—
And the green gate was locked.
And yet I did not think of that
Till after she was gone—
I knew her by the broad white hat,
All ruffled, she had on.
By the dear ruffles round her feet,
By her small hands that hung
In their lace mitts, austere and sweet,
Her gown’s white folds among.
I watched to see if she would stay,
What she would do—and oh!
She looked as if she liked the way
I let my garden grow!
She bent above my favourite mint
With conscious garden grace,
She smiled and smiled—there was no hint
Of sadness in her face.
She held her gown on either side
To let her slippers show,
And up the walk she went with pride,
The way great ladies go.
And where the wall is built in new
And is of ivy bare
She paused—then opened and passed through
A gate that once was there.
1.5k
The lightning forks forth
Shoots Up north
Like spindly shafts in
Perfect formation.
Strange synchronization
In Martian formalization--
Grasped in nightmarish,
Garish mitts of particular
Deviant sensations...
Little Alice enters her Wonderland,
Not by the rabbit’s hole--
Rather a guillotine’s hand...
Her Wonderland;
This dreamscape quicksand--
With snakes writhing; convulsing on lurid
Inferno bandstands,
Pushing the limits of your understand--
With preposterous and impossible socks;
Technically causing bruising on acid brains.
Meanwhile The Martian walks the streets
Of the Big Apple in
A deep diver’s suit,
Picking along his way, low hanging and
Chromium laden passion fruit...
And Alice, she like what she sees.
She likes the alien’s helicopter breeze--
She’s all about melting clocks draped upon
Bristlecone Pine trees--
And she’s going to fly into the mouth of the
Martian’s galactic lion, and **** on it’s liver.
May 5, 2017
May 5, 2017 at 12:43 AM UTC
I'm nothing more than a delusionist, making you see things that don't exist.
In this imperialist nation, i'm something more than an extortionist, making my money off these
stolen and sold-souls, taken from anyone who resists, 2 birds with one stone - i collect these broken bones
and use them as collateral against these religious drones.
I am a little less than an illusionist -
my hand's being faster than some people's witts.
The cards i clutch within my mitts.
Dealing out the hands i think should exist.
Counting these cards with little trouble, i'll put out some cash and make it double
Apr 2, 2010
Apr 2, 2010 at 10:28 AM UTC
Your brain is plugged and foggy;
Your mind is on the freaking fritz;
The poetry is lost and boggy;
You hold your pen in woolen mitts.
Try a senryu about your life
Or a haiku on the froggy pond;
Cut through bloc de l'auter with a knife,
And slog out of the slough, Despond.
Sometimes it helps to focus long
On a single spot on the wall of life
And see what image comes along...
(I like to think of my pretty wife).
This writer's block's a funny thing
Tied somehow to the lives we lead,
And sterile writers need a fling
To let their stubborn poems breed.
So walk a while, or take a Jeep;
Visit the county fair...
Milk a cow or shear a sheep;
Wear flowers in your hair.
Or be like me and go take a nap;
Read a good book, or call an old friend;
Some poems are babies not yet in the lap,
Developing elsewhere, somewhere in the When....
Be sure they'll show up when they're ready to shine;
They'll trip off your fingers; they'll flow like red wine;
They'll sparkle or spark, or they'll whimper and cry,
But your poems will arrive, and I'm telling no lie.
Be patient, Good Allys..., the block's not an end,
Your poems are waiting ahead, 'round the bend.
Sep 5, 2016
Sep 5, 2016 at 11:36 AM UTC
When I die
Don’t be sad
It won’t change a thing
And I’m not coming back
If you care so much
Lets be happy now
Together
When I go, don’t pick pretty things
Sweet petaled flora
Piling the dying on the dead
Instead, plant me something colorful
Make sure it gets water, and sun
When I leave
Don’t whisper angry should-haves
Or wish you’d let me know
Start writing
I would love to hear from you
Read more
Help a stranger, or someone you hate
Commit yourself to something
Quit a self-destructive habit
When I’m gone
Talk to me
I’ll listen
Think about things that make you cry
And be braver than you are numb
Pray, even when you've stopped
Believing or think it’s dumb
When I’m done
Don’t march in black, or be scared to use my name
Celebrate your own vitality
Tell stories and remember
I hope I made you laugh
Drink and hug and live
And say to that creeping specter
That ever looming doom
To **** off
Not today
Don’t hold grudges
All love comes from forgiveness
Of self
Challenge your ideas
It’s alright to be wrong
After me
Keep living
When you are empty
When you are down
When your winter soul is a frigid void
Feel my mitts on your tense shoulders
And the warmth of my arm’s cocoon
Swim in my eyes
Let me heal you, let me soothe
When you doubt it most
When there is only sting and ache
I will be with you
I will love you
You will never be alone
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 4:35 PM UTC
My night, under opaque wraps, collects my candid questions —
unkept before the walls crept back up on me and
crammed my thorough thoughts
into sufficient suffocation and disallowed my dislocation
from total cerebral closure —
and covers cognative wonders with a dense fence-like stone cure.
The clean-cut cold sheets, tucked beneath the bed springs
spring my curiosity through layer after layer
of teeming tides of blockades and prohibition
but someone sits at the edge of the road, just before crack
drops to cliff and he catches my despair, tangled in the rye, and
before my in-experience allows me to cry,
he hurls my candid questions back my way and continues
my disallowance of detaching myself from purity.
But despite his baseball mitts, he can’t catch my verbal fits
so I scream, “My wants can’t be blocked forever and Holden,
I’m holding onto my life for the sake of avoiding strife with you but
celibacy of the mind can only lead to our true demise.”
He looks me in the eyes, scared he’d been outdone,
so he tries to run but the cliff leaves him hanging and
I reach for his undemanding hand that swats my offer
with a backwards hat.
But his fear subsides in his recollection of his misinterpretation of
a silly old poem that led him to believe he could catch our innocence.
So wear your hat straight, Holden, ‘cause in the rye,
you’re not the groundskeeper, but keep your ground and
catch yourself before you fall off the cliff and lose yourself
in your selfless tantrums and your disregard for your need for wondering.
Let me break through my caul, ‘cause it’s burning of decay and
I’ve overstayed my welcome in this amniotic gate, devoid of vitality,
and I like my life in my own hands, so I’ll tell you now:
I’m holdin’ on, Holden. Get a grip and hold on, yourself.
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 3:54 PM UTC
Imagine
if you can I say,
the certainty on Christmas Day
If Infinite Wisdom should decree, Christmas
Day to be snow free. Happy children need Christmas snows,
(Ask your parent, they already know);
To use their skates, sleighs and skis, And mitts and coats
so they don't freeze. History dictates outside toys
Combine quite well with outside clothes.
Skates match well with socks and toques, Sleighs slide faster
warm in boots. Snow awakens sleepyheads, gets kids outside riding sleds. They'll ride their sleds down downy slopes, begging
brothers to man sled ropes. For smiling Cherubs on Christmas morn, hope and pray for snowy lawns. There in safety they can mold
a fortress or a snowman bold. HA! Now listen to my homily, snow's not for kids only. What would we do on Christmas Day, with ready kids, no snow for play. Imagine kids - your very own - doing
everything at home. Your son, too eager with his horn,
playing Gabriel in the early morn. Recall the rush for toys and games, the push of crowds gone insane. "Why won't she play outside at all?"
Instead she cartwheels down the hall. SCREAMS OF LAUGHTER - RESOUNDING; PEELS OF JOY
ECHOING; HAPPY SHRIEKS
RESOUNDING
on silent
Christmas
morn.
Nov 18, 2014
Nov 18, 2014 at 10:37 AM UTC
Are you ready for the main course?
Prepare the condiments
Thin oven mitts
Teas cozies
Lace doilies
It's just a decoy
Here lies the kid who was left home alone while is parents visited The North Pole
Try to consolidate the front door
And here's a laxative called LSD to aide your constipated mind
Now go on with the insurrection
And fight Parliament for the sake of the proletariat
Who's names are always written in lower case lettering
The limousine drivers
The skrimpers
The savers
The single mothers with bad habits who have to dance off skimpy clothing to buy formula for their babies because they're milk is tainted with junk
The weary recipients of justice obstructions
And catch 22's
Who have been singled out because they have monetary deficits
Console them
Until Eureka!
Grab some Q-tips and clean out your ears
Stop gritting and grinding your teeth
A new realization is in bloom
When did be aware turn into beware?
When did alertness become fear?
Forget and get over your
Remanding-accursed-sweet-tooth-fatigue-that you let in
Because it's all in your head along with the idea that hyphens make things look more important and scary
I contest all that ********
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 2:10 PM UTC
The snow in my backyard mildly thunders below my feet
Making a statement of solidarity with her fallen brethren, the autumn leaf.
I make the choice to hear her untimed song, rather than the complaining chorus of popsicle fingers.
Our ball of rain’s most miraculous makeup, hiding the blemishes of men and gods,
In my backyard, on a snowed-in, slow and lovely Tuesday afternoon,
the snow paints the moment perfect, and freezes it for just a flashing moment.
But perfection is too hot, even with mother nature’s Achilles-strength oven mitts adorned.
The moment melts.
The deer have been here, perhaps an hour or two prior
Based on the gentle, temporary fingerprint of existence they left behind.
They are perfect today, and I like to think them well-fed and basking in the holiday spirit.
The coffee is likely ready by now,
And the driveway is not going to shovel itself.
I’ll walk out my front door
And the snow will be stained with 21st century existence.
There is no known cure
And it is terminal to dreams,
But at least for these few frozen frames
I can pretend that the whole world
Is like the snow in my backyard.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 9:13 PM UTC
When winter came with blankets of mist
A cover of cloud through the day
Skies would stretch in endless grey
No dancing rays of an ochre sun
Then, what comfort and sweet bliss -
Was a cup of tea with cinnamon.
All wrapped in scarf, cap and mitts
Warming hands and toasting toes
Singing rhymes or talking prose
We'd whisper tales that winter spun
Tucked at night in layered quilt -
With a cup of tea with cinnamon.
With happiness, memories sing
Of smiles of youth that teased the cold
Battled wars that could be won -
To gloat in glory when grey and old
Oh, what comfort it still brings -
That cup of tea with cinnamon
Feb 1, 2025
Feb 1, 2025 at 11:23 AM UTC
Ding Ding Ding enter the ring
Now introducing the fighters, and the sting they will bring
I look in his corner his shorts are blue
I can smell he’s in fear, of what I’m about to do
Touch mitts to mitts
People start thinking, what if he quits
Fighters are you ready? Let’s get it on
Time to put the brass, up against the brawn
Moving my feet, as quick as I can
Silence from the crowd, the mouths of every fan
I jab with the left, follow with the right
Prepare to raise the hand, of a new champ tonight
Put my hands down, give him the taunt
Trying to see, what he’s got to flaunt
He swings a wild hook
But I read it like a book
I dodge and I duck
When I get him in the corner, we both know he’ll be stuck
Fire back at his nose
Look at his toes he’s froze
Giving him, combo number one
Now I’m just, having a little fun
Combo number two
Look at his corner, look at his crew
They rave and they rant
Knowing their fighter can’t
Take this beating all night
It’s a sore site
They grip the towel
He begins to growl
One final burst of energy
As he swings his fists at me
My last punch connects like a boom
Sending him back, to his dressing room
By the time he begins, to realize
The rolling of his eyes
Seeing the back of his head
People wonder..is he dead?
Should have taken up another, sport instead
Now he’s on the ground
Can’t hear a sound
The ref counts to ten
Ring the bell my friend
Still laying on the mat, and he felt the sting
Ding Ding Ding now get out of my ring
Jul 12, 2010
Jul 12, 2010 at 4:15 AM UTC
A cherry pie, homemade by my wife. An apple pie, cut, opened, sliced.
An oven with a turkey, croutons sprinkled on western fresh lettuce, oven mitts, salad dressing, the works.
Lemon lime juice- squirted on the meat.
After meal deserts. Garlic bread, the tastes, butter smothered, my wife's lips covered, in icing from handmade cakes.
A little chill outside, the old fireplace burning. Wood hot the fire heated. Love making at midnight. Passion yearning.
Nov 23, 2015
Nov 23, 2015 at 10:54 AM UTC