Itch

Was yesterday that I thought of you
..your walk, your smells
the scent of you..
the smell of sunlight and perspiration
Your work worn hands
with their chewed off nails,
The creases that mark
your otherwise uncluttered brow,
The secret mole under your arm..

Each a story, a discovery, an event!

I will think of you again tomorrow,
And scratch the dull itch of missing you

Smokescreen

Sometimes I wonder if my thoughts,
Would stand up as decorations of sorts,
Or if they’d work as a big smoke screen,
Through which I’d look quite serene,
Maybe I’ll pile them up and paint them red,
Fashion them into posters for my four-poster bed,
Or grind them into pulp so fine,
They’d make for heady intoxicating wine,
If I stuck some wicks and little handles,
I’d have myself a gazillion candles,
But I know that in the end all I do,
Is rhyme and write
To you.

Remote Control

It's a pity that this should be,
Time to write more poetry,
For my pen slips, commits hideous crime,
Instead of its usual produce of fair rhyme.
How I wish that I could emote,
At the click of some tiny freakish remote.
Then I'd say sunny and it would so be,
The sun casting shadows through languorous tree.
My fledgling verse could then take flight,
And bask in the warmth of the bright sunlight.
I'd never say "rainy" for it does so happen,
The cloudy weather does far dampen,
And ruin my rhyme of the day....
And that's all I have to say.