Venus dropping chandelier dreams
Jupiter glides catching cocoa creams ~
BASKET OF OINTMENTS
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In youth, I did endlessly frolic and play,
With nary a care in any given day.
But now I must confess,
With a moan and a sigh and much distress,
I’m totally loyal to "Pharmacy Jay."
With his basket of ointments and creams,
I’m embracing my age, or so it seems.
Though I laugh and I jest,
I must say, I’m blessed,
For my youth lives in fond, silly dreams!
in a leather jacket
birthday cake sandwiches help
clear my sinuses
Googly Hancock; and backseat baristas
Bob Dylan is back in the studio
did he pop out to the shops? Where's he been?
Big Daddy Kane outside Dapper Dan's -
You tossed a coin in the fountain
Wishing to be as happy as a blue cat
storckappopotamus
there will be no custard creams at my wake
nor chocolate bourbons;
take a long walk off a short pier
homewreckers and g'day mate cubes
It is the devouring of ice-creams on the peer as seagulls swoop down and attack the hapless.
It is the sound of the ocean swell with sandcastles going with the tide.
It is the overturning of the caravan as the eldest has lost his roll of film.
It is long coastal walks, the sun burning tips of noses and sizzling sausages on the bbq also burning tongues that evening.
It is the panoramic views of the cliffs while on a holiday resort on the captivating coast down south.
It is the sneezing children from the pollenated plants where they explored the nearby field.
It is the lathering of suncream on the baby much to her loathing.
It is cherished family time together but summer like any season does draw its curtains.
Each month a craft fair,
is held at Pyree Fields in the open air.
All the local crafters are there,
proudly showing off their homemade fare.
Behind each stall, a pair of eyes stares,
hoping you will buy some of their wares,
or better still, admire their works and cares,
in making things, every devoted crafter shares.
Step right up to the craft fair.
Baskets, blankets, knitted ware.
Soaps that smell like orchard rains.
Scarves crocheted from woolen skeins.
Leather belts, and rings of brass.
Goblets and bowls of colored glass.
Jams from berries, wild and tart.
Paintings brushed with love of heart.
Patchwork quilts and scarves of dreams.
Homemade fudge, sweets and ice-creams.
Pottery crockery with glazes that swirl.
Wind-chimes and vanes, ribbons that twirl.
Wooden goblets and bowls, timber-scented schmooze.
Wax candles set, in solemn rows, pining like pews.
All around, the crowds have streamed,
past stalls half-baked and well esteemed.
With every artist standing up so tall,
So sure their work outshines them all.
So let's not disappoint them!
Join in Folks! Cheers!
We cannot fight old age – So, when I get there… I’ll just embrace it with a big dollop of humour!! Quote by poet.
My decrepit body makes me cry
Growing old ain’t fun, I cannot lie
My bladder leaks, it makes me sigh
Pelvic exercises I will have to try!
I’m not so agile, I am way too slow
When I need the loo I HAVE to go
Cos I can’t control my urine flow
Pass me a nappy, I won’t say no!!
I piddle when I cough or sneeze
I’m chesty, got an awful wheeze
My boobs have sagged well past my knees
Do I want a new body - ooh yes please!
To hear bird song really loud and clear
I need a hearing aid for my deaf ear
Going totally deaf I truly fear
I’ll get ears checked again this year
My aching limbs sure give me gyp
Got arthritis in my knees and hip
No cure for wrinkles around my lip
Anti aging creams dumped in the tip!
I repeat myself, that’s no falsehood
Instructions can be misunderstood
I repeat myself, that’s no falsehood
Oops my memory is not very good
Time cleans out the rusty clogged drains
to forget the gritty dusty details
logged in echoes, stored for recall,
too messy, too truthful to retain.
I wonder why?
'cause the rough stuff
lodges in dreams stored
in the gooey
caramel centers
of chocolate creams.
This old brush would once brush cleanly
This old brush once smoothed my hair
This old brush once snagged a single strand
When I was kempt and fair
This old brush began to clog up
With the hair that it had pulled
This old brush was like a fur ball
Can my barnet be refuelled
Ain’t gonna need this brush no longer
Ain’t gonna need this brush no more
Ain’t got time to rub those creams in
Nor to tap the surgeon’s door
This old brush served through my youthful days
But now lives in a drawer
If this old brush could be bigger
I could use it on the floor
This old brush outlived its uses
This old brush redundant now
This old comb is all I need now
This old brush must take a bow
This old comb ain’t working proper
Like that old brush always did
There’s a dumb old tufty bit
Of which my comb will not get rid
Ain’t gonna brush this hair no longer
Ain’t gonna sweep it to one side
Cos I’ve got this centre parting
It’s about four inches wide
Ain’t got time to rub those creams in
Nor to tap the surgeon’s door
Ain’t gonna need this brush no longer
Ain’t gonna need this brush no more
Breakfast done, lunch so far away.
It's never too early or late for Elevenses!
Perhaps a seed-cake, sweet fragrant and so very proper.
Or a steaming currant bun, warm, light and spicy.
Oh perhaps the splendor of a freshly baked scone with jam and cream.
Or delicate petite fours scattered with remnants of a dream perchance?
Who stole the plate the strawberry tarts, red, tangy and sweet?
Or the short-bread creams rich in flour and butter, filled with icing?
All swerved with steaming tea, brewed in a pot, warmed in a knitted cosy!
It's ten past ten, how can we wait any longer?
For the clock to strike - Elevenses!
I could write of stellar
skies -- Really I could!
Could write of lozenge
moons~ of over-saturated
beams, arriving and departing,
concentrates of extra sweetened,
totally addicting, poetically
whipped creams:
(unfold, eerie immaterial, cobwebby
tightly creased seams, of long
seeming ever taboo gleams -- )
I could write...really I could!
compose glitter, like diamonds,
a huge, full jar -- Aladdin Stories,
fantastical adventures from romantic
afar -- I could strum a string strung
between, distant star and my near,
dear, sparkly guitar --
rather savor your toffee lips
chocolate licks like a Mar's Bar....
Fairy godmothers winged dragons and such
Ability to fly, thanks very much
Wizards and warlocks, interrupting my dreams
Mermaids and unicorns dressed in fancy light creams
Brownies and gnomes sneaking in and out of my ferns
Fantasy on full alert, though none of this fiction earns
Gargoyles rolling their eyes and spitting at me from above.
Cheshire cats, and sneaky dogs, are a few things I love.
A pegged round point gleams a dream as a passerby
pauses briefly at some display of hearts. Creams alot
enchanted in velvety reds filled with sweet treats that
address the same in my deepest fantasies. Employed by
the Creatures that slither their way, shading their point in
passing. Then a heavenly-sent gifts a genteel speaker
drifts a spun floater albeit a dove's solitaire feather.
Angelic hands reach down to gather it up in chorale
chants achieved its disciplined course. In brevity
breathes deeply, exalting with the soothing blessed
Suite, performed by Johann Bach. Toccata, Adagio, and
Fugue in C Major, with cultured ivory chords and refined
pedals as the fantasy seized a day.
Deep within my hidden pastel dreams
are soft sweet colors of a newborn spring
dressed up in mauves and pinks and windham creams
while giving hope to love and all it brings.
Painted in the colors of the dawn,
like pinks and purples of the morning sky,
magenta dreams will bloom and love will spawn
as newly mated hearts begin to fly.
And thus our lilac love has taken flight
while sharing orchid thoughts without remiss;
soft words and fuchsia touches in the night
are punctuated with a crimson kiss.
The coral sun rays beaming from above
are raining down these colors of our love.
October 23,2024
Poem of the Day - October 24, 2024
Sunday church garden
of lime green blooms, reds and creams-
Luxuriousness!
Gracefulness and scented smiles
greet butterflies in hued styles.
Orange, yellows, pinks
in the sweet whirlwind of days!
Gathered together.
To the silence, bluebirds sing
in warmth of spring, evergreen.
In a world painted shades of rose,
Where costs are hidden, no one knows,
A silent burden, an unseen fee,
That rests on women, unfairly.
A razor's edge, a bottle's hue,
The price deflate for things in blue,
Yet when in pink, the cost ascends,
A subtle tax, which never ends.
A shampoo bottle, a gentle scent,
But dollars more are often spent,
For lotions, creams, and fashion threads,
For something that society spreads.
They say it’s choice, it’s just supply,
But why should pink make wallets cry?
In aisles where colors softly gleam,
It’s more than just a consumer’s dream.
For girls are taught from tender youth,
That beauty’s cost is simply truth,
But let us break this rosy chain,
And paint the world with fairer gain.
No more the silent tax we pay,
Let equality lead the way,
For every dollar, every cent,
Should reflect what’s truly spent.
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