Fingers and toes were long ago Outnumbered by the times I came home to find you in that Comfy chair. And just the times we turned it Into “family bed” have gone Into the dozens. Now, each time I see you there — In reality or in my mind’s eye — I get the same
PDA is not the way U want me to display my love 4 U I on the other hand would happily demand a kiss that started on the sidewalk (quiet this dumb talk) and then moved inside touch look listen how your lips glisten with that gloss U use let me have a taste feeling
Morning smell of sleep lingers in the air And in my memory as well. It is the silent reminder of our need to dream. The eye movements may be rapid, But the becoming can be slow. Like the warm down comforter Supported by our bodies Against the weight of gravity, We will rise high and
Starting with a little chill I begin to notice the change Of heart. With only one wish, we got nowhere. Now that our wishes have multiplied, So have the avenues of going along. Will we get there soon? I doubt it. And who cares. It’s the pilgrimage and the accompaniment (not the arrival) That’s the
When I wake, there is one thing I long for in the darkness. The bitter taste of night makes my longing even stronger And more fearful that I may not see it before my leaving. In the fatigue of the prior night, straight-faced tenacity Was our friend who guided us through ticking those Final lines
There’s no need to wonder if you’re pondering your life. Every day you’re right out there with it: You delve deep, work hard, forgive gigantically And often. There’s no need to wonder if you care about your friends. You adjust schedules to ensure time with them And quality time — each time — at that.
Cool streams of water Fold our way in Unknown directions; Caressing edges And turning attention To who knows where. Adrift, And glad. ~ by Stan Stewart Copyright © 2010, 2015 by muz4now, Inc. All Rights Reserved.
You open your eyes and mine are bathed in light. ~ by Stan Stewart Copyright © 2010 by muz4now, Inc. All rights reserved.
My Monday Morning a whitecapped wave of perfectionism knocks my mojo off its board temporarily, I’m sure drawn in to distraction I check stocks (the market – down) and ruffle through piles of paper the weekend so blessed this workday response can be little more than avoidance of success copyright 2009, 2010, 2015 by Stan
