I don’t use umbrellas, dear
I’d rather dance in the rain
Let it cascade gently over
Cleansing us of lingering pain
Let me take you in my arms
Into your dreams – my words will push
Looking deep into my eyes
As I squeeze your tush
Don’t succumb to the pitfalls
Don’t seek permission to live clean
We all owe the future an honest try
To what might be; not as was once seen
Looking for a new sunshine
Eclipses as the morning grows
Coffee slowly loses its warmth
The way only the fatigued might know
Sleepless nights convort to visions
Dreams well placed into our eyes
Caffeine not enough to shake souls
Waking to these cotton candy skies
Spinning my empty cup on the table
Attempts at any fully formed thought
My mind completely wiped clean
I spy my woman’s naked form; damn she’s hot!
What I need is a good ol’ western storm
To wash out my soul
To cleanse these dusty roads
The low thunder returning me to whole
Leaning against the doorframe
Draped in my best dress shirt
I see you’re in for fun & games
Already cleaned of the day’s dirt
You tease me with a wink
For your essence, I’m a glutton
Every moment my willpower shrinks
As I watch you finger the last button
Red lipstick & a tight ponytail
The pretty piano player; a punk rockette
The domestic goddess with a need to be clean
Living on the edge of the cosmopolitain set
Hoarding her guilty pleasures fiercely
The moral ambiguity is a stubborn crutch
Ignoring nature’s perfectly placed laws
But she’ll only accept the light’s soft touch
Wearing an evening gown at her elegant leisure
Within her mind, no better way to take a selfie
She’s blunt with her standards & expectations
But lucky for us all, my poems are gluten free
Image by Kelsey Vere from Pixabay
Lost in a deteriorating moment
What more can we do to be free
Close our eyes to the darkness
Tiptoeing quietly, down to the sea
Searching franticly for the answer
But the obvious truth is often a ghost
False memories are unruly traipses
Inclinations leading me, down the coast
Is there a way to be clean again
To bathe in the ocean’s gentle roar
Hope against hope; possibly a way
To find sunshine that might restore
“After all, perhaps dirt isn’t really so unhealthy as one is brought up to believe.”
― Agatha Christie, Murder in Mesopotamia
Stepping out into the light
My eyes can’t adjust to the sunshine
Night left me with nary a sleep
Stumblin’ home to all that’s still mine
Life comes at you hard & fast on the inside
Wondering when the pitches stopped comin’ in underhand
Won’t wallow in misery nor memory of elsewhere’s joy
These speeches fail to convey truth I can’t understand
Where do we go to return to the proper roads
Did I miss the signal for the game to truly begin
I’m old these days; confused by angles & trajectories
Yet I can still & once again wipe myself clear of my sin
Captain Q 