A mountain they seemed
Piled way up to the top
Different types of meat
Vegetables and fish
5 hours after noon they all were done
Me in the midst of my favorite room
Surrounded by utensils and sweet smells
Burning flames bright and blue
Under stainless steels and Dutch pots
Chicken wings clothed with spinach Floating free in juicy ripe red bell peppers
4 stews, brown rice, and fish steeped in soup later
A week in meals was done
In absolute darkness I sit
Awaiting your caress
Silent prayers whispered
That mundane thoughts soon will turn to words
Fatigue clouding my cognitive
Obscurity still stealing the show
I will like to go to a café with you
On a mid-Wednesday morning like this
Sip on hot cocoa creamy smooth and brown as you
Nibble sweetly at bits of marble coffee cakes
Strawberry glaze staining my happy lips pink
*I was in the city on Sunday, and saw the name of a cute cafe, Bale Cafe, and this poem was born 
*
Buttered toast and honey oats
Fingers crossed with cuddled toes
Warming fires snuggling close
Lovely night with unburdened clothes
I am new…
New in your august array
Dawn spreading joy quietly over me
A blanket of warmth peace and love
Birds chirping to my heart’s delight
A brand new day a brand new month
And lo & behold
What do you know…
A brand new me
*Happy new month friends, may it be a great one . God bless*
A rainbow will appear
At the end of spring’s silver rain
I patiently await
Time heals the pain
It soothes the pain
The pain soon becoming (fond) memories
Of which love never dies
I like how we complement each other
You and I
Your dimpled smile and my freckled face
Your wit and wise, my sweet and charm
What a pair we are
You and I
Like this and that
Sweet and wise
Wit and charm
So and so…
You and I
I ask not for words on a platter of gold
Only on blank screens and papers
Straight from my heart
Where truth resides
I long for the days when words flowed
Like rivers of many water
Pens running dry at the sight of paper
Inks wasted not night after night
Blisters and finger sores
A sign of victory
Wisely masked between metaphors
And Sunday’s steamy nights
