my avacado heart
how well it sits in my potting shed
in slumber-mask it sleeps flute notes of globe.
I have heard through gossips column of a cow
it's fingers are too tall
it cannot walk and talk in unison.
it is as ugly as the scarecrow in my room.
but it has a throat that sells me time of day.
there are no gods to interupt
it's swollen cup sucking weather from my eyes.
half-dead. half-happy. empty.
only half-dead but this day is very young.
it is where the pressure points that matters most.
I am never bored when you courtsey for a queen
or read me bedtime stories
in your trilby-hat that tickles as it shifts
lopsided like a chicken breast in an oven with a scarf.
it is cold in here
our weather thick with batter on the tombstone of a tongue.
rein me in my sweet transparent thing
whistle me a supper
fit enough for leprechauns and kings
and I will be your cabbage patch.
your flower in the rain.
-
Author:
Melvin James (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: June 18th, 2024 12:34
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 13
Offline)
Comments3
Inspiring!!!!! Amazing words and vocabulary used!! Nicely penned
thank you for your kind words.
much appreciated.
Tremendous. I love your work.
many thanks Thomas
This poem is bursting with incredible imagery and contemplation. The beautiful, final stanza ties it all together with a golden bow.
you are most kind Bella.
thank you very much for dropping by to comment.
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