Like the bees busy making honey,
I love kissing my Honey,
Ashes to Ashes, dust to dust,
I love you more,
Than your mother does.
My heart beating like drums,
hands clapping like churches,
Lips so kissable like Roses.
My feet needs a (14) days rest,
They are too weak,
her love, my place of rest.
her body my cushion,
she loves playing games,
love seeing her with the bat & balls in hand,
wishes coming through like a swing of a wand.
Like a day at Wimbledon,
speechless, awe.
The mind wonders,
Elmer Fudd shh.. I am hunting Rabbits.
The joy of a hole in one.
The image of her beauty,
Halleluyah..
Quintin & rubbing eyes.
Her body glows..
such excitement, what a surprise..
About the Creator
Sean Noble
Poetry from the spiritual mind expressing Ways of creativity. Read passionately mini sadness, pure happiness. I have no Stripe account but will accept gratuity via PayPal. [email protected]. Thank you. Most High First Every Day.
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Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson4 days ago in Fiction
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