An Amaranthine Love

A loud thunderstorm and a soft translucent rain.

Comparable to good loving.

A deep warm hug.

A tender kiss

A delicious meal.

Soft rain stirs my soul deeply into ustulation.

Washing away my continuous growth of nemesism; from past and present days.

I feel like rain is a sign from God that we need to mindfully redintegrate our souls.

In one sentence the rain dirls my heart, mind, and soul.

I wonder if anyone else feels this way about the rain.

Please tell me you do?

That you experience theses ineffable feelings when the sky cries.

Either 1,2, 3, or 4 moods bewitch me.

A deep euphoric sleep.
Rapturous energy serges; fixing all melancholy in my eyes before the thunderstorm. Reminding me that my time is short and to be happy I have breath in my lungs. No matter my frustrations the rain renews my joy. It signals an unspoken promise that’s etched across my heart. ( Have joy in the midst of this worlds sorrow!)
Equanimity; a yearning to stop all things and meditate.

Seek out calmness. Composure, of breath and watch the rain fall down my windows as I drive. Upon my skin, starting with the palms of my hands. Praying to be cleansed, as I reach out and over my porch.

4. A deep mourning. I cry for No other reason than to let out emotions sometimes. Can’t pinpoint it to anger or frustration. The rain just calls me to cry and both sing sometimes. I don’t know if I’m crying for lost souls or for my soon to come frustration once the rain stops. But I can say it’s from the heart, slow and one by one. As if the result of each and every thought I hold dear.

Hopefully, it’s not just me, although me and rain we go way back.

We will always share our amaranthine Love.

Even in death, I’ll welcome it to my corpse.

Fall on my grave top, seep and penetrate my tomb.

Oh, how I love rain.

And he loves me too.

Diligently and sweet…

Through heartache and grief…

Rain sweeps me off of my feet.

Sagacity

I want to suck the nectar from his spine.

Ring the juice from his bountiful grape vines.

Pluck the fruit from his glorious trees.

Ring them apart to plant my own seeds.

Enter his brain and travel its course.

Mine out the Gold and cipher his source.

For this, I will need to cast a spell.

An illusion to drink from his well.

To pluck his rip fruit, I must prevail.

Determine the strength of his roots.

I need to raise up a troop.

So that I can become a well, and water my vines.

How to befriend an enemy? To make him speak, to learn of his penetralia.

Get them to cast a spell, have him believe that you are a dry well; just a bit gormless.

Dependant upon their strength.

A damsel in distress?

Or a strongly minded sang-from lady?

Maybe someone who is a bit in between?

A gentle being with a hint of masculinity? An effulgent aura!

I think the best is a young hungry maiden who’s comparable to a typhoon.

Typhoons strikes fear into the heart. All while causing their victim to feel awed. Causing abeyance at her presences or entrance.

Thinking run, all the while begging to be kissed by her waves.

Yearning for even just a stiver of her attention and care.

I know not the exact tactics to envelope his ways.

One thing I do know is that I will win this hunt and learn his sagacious ways.

Mr.T

Mmm hmm Mr.T

similar to the Grinch.

Who’s learned to smile bright?

Masking his face with light.

Mmmm Hmmm Mr.T, I don’t want much to do with Mr.T

I feel he’s sick

Not hurt, just sick.

What if it’s the other way around?

Who knows, I still don’t like this Grinch.

He steals the show, but I bet he’s truly a bitch.

And I don’t mean in the commonly used way, he’s untrue to the image he shows.

Some call him cute and I think ewww.

It’s not normal to be so good at being cute.

Sometimes I see the Grinch.

I just know he has a black heart.

He isn’t truly nice.

I say this because he’s maliciously sly; with his cute pleasant smile.

depicting a soft demeanor.

He has a hidden motive.

And like a switch, out comes his mask.

I think I could describe him as the “Son of the mask, discovered by the Grinch”.

He’s not a “yes man” but he makes people perceive him as just as easy going.

Any feelings?

Nope, I’m cold.

Or am I…

Because I do wonder and allow my mind to ponder.

But I’ll try to be nice to the Grinch.

Miss.

Miss,with the eight and a half size feet.

Miss, she is truly uncategorized. She is simply reticent.

She’s nice but she’s also a trained eccedentesiast.

Too much is what she is, always being technical.

Questioning the sanity of others on a norm.

Smart but not quite wise.

Blessed but obviously fighting curses.

Miss, with the eight and a half size feet.

Is pretty according to the view point of others.

She herself is afraid to see.

See past her vain beauty and delve deep into her inner self.

She has orange cream sickle skin.

Thighs just a tad to big.

Open but foolishly closed.

Telling truths without divulging her truth.

Walks by dragging her feet and attempts to keep a perfect posture when she strides.

Eyes that have mastered the art of glowing upon call.

Discerningly pleasing, and pleased to please.

All because it sets other people at ease.

Skirting about relationships.

Befriending only to a certain degree.

Lazy while seemingly hard working.

Chatter box with an earnest heart.

gently assuaging the subconscious.

Unable to stay the same constantly growing in wanderlust by the day.

Miss, with what seems like two eight in a half size feet;

seeing in others what she refuses to see within herself.

Traveling to her Sophronia; A healthy state of mind characterized by self-control, moderation, and a deep awareness of one’s true self, and resulting in true happiness.

Savory Brown Spice

Asthmatic.

You make me feel asthmatic.

Faint of heart, at the same time it feels to big for my chest.

It swells, pauses, and skips to a beat just for you.

When you suddenly frown.

I could count my pulse without touching my skin when he comes close.

Even the bottom of his feet has a honey glow.

His abdomen firm as a drum.

Your back welcomes me home.

Your kiss, sweet as a mango warmed by the Islands sun.

Jazz, calypso, reggae, Reggaeton and my favorite soca song.

He’s my inner rhythm with no need for the Blues.

Rnb cant compose a song to express his moves.

But if I would choose one it would be Smokey Robison Cruise.

Gliding to our unspoken toon.

Your a savory brown spice.

Sprinkled all over my life.

Crimson spell

Rose, in the evening

Scarlet was the letter.

Currant, were her words.

Blush, within her sigh.

Apple, was her iris.

Peacock, threaded tide.

Coral, upon the sand.

minty was the ocean band.

pistachio etched the sky.

Melencoly or blue was apart of her spell.

Rosewater,

Tinted cry.

percolate, rise, and swell; bloody rage,Garnet, ruby, fire now in her gaze.

Amber,was her name.

Crimson was the spell.

Scarlet were his words etched upon her heart.

Monkey, was the year of her lapis frosty lover.

Honey Drizzled….

This man…

Honey glazed.

Serendipity filling me just from his gaze.

Bemoaning from the depths of my soul.

Fierce from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.

Warm like a blazing fire on a winter mountain top.

Sugary smile, in his taunting, sultry way.

Eyes the center of the universe.

Gravitational pull, all in the palm of his hands.

Querer. My desire.

No more words to describe the glory found in him.

Silent admiration.

of his.

Honey drizzled skin.

I see him.

He see’s me.

It’s not just eye contact it’s our breath shared in sync.

Comfort in my soul.

nearer than kin.

Not a dream but reality we share.

My man and his honey drizzled skin.

A Dime Nor A Penny…

A book, for your thoughts.

Glasses, to help you see past your own thoughts.

The image.

Tea represents an unquenchable thirst.

In hopes of increasing your thoughts.

Their value and depth.

Girl, a penny for your thoughts!

They’ll have to bid higher than that.

With the aid of books, you increase that penny stock.

Let them chide “a dime for your thoughts and maybe a nickel for your time.”

As you age like a book it increases your value.

The press only printed one.

Let man search for another copy.

And I dare to say, they won’t find another.

Ooo, guess what?

Mine, was hand mad.

Printed in the South of the Northern American land.

Refined in China.

Aged in Quebec.

Abridged and Trimmed in Thailand.

Revised in Africa’s land.

Stamped with many a places and times.

Never ceasing to critique and develop the width of my spine.

The world is my editorial board.

And if you look at the back of my book I never forget my errata.

Darling I constantly, revise and integrate.

My death shall be my final submission.

As you age so does your spine.

You’ll need a thick spine to command more time.

In exchange for valued thoughts.

Ooh, as they tremble, fingering your nimble spine.

Thumb through your pages.

Taking notes of your footnotes.

Never forget the impact of your pages.

Humph, a penny for your thoughts!

Soon they’ll be no price worthy of your thoughts.

Do increase the value and ensure its a generational wealth.

Not only for your children but everyone.

Imprint your essence on every human being.

Plant it deep in the blood so no one can uproot or diminish its seed.

Circulate, the contents of your message.

Ensure, they cannot judge your book by its cover but by the contents of its pages.

Imply, everything you intended.

Implore, others to conquest Earth and Space.

In the search for more information about our inner and outer space.

“A penny for your thoughts?”

Who was the author of this phrase?

They must not have heard any of our thoughts.

A dime nor a penny for anyone of my thoughts.

Prompt: Write a poem including the objects; a book, glasses, and a cup of tea.

If you enjoyed please like and leave a comment and I’ll be sure to get back to you. Also, don’t feel shy to follow. Most of all thank you for your dear time. I believe it to be well played. 🙂

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Hello, as everyone knows I really enjoy following prompts that I find on Pinterest.

This is a poem that I really like and I hope it moves every one of my readers. 🙂

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Kissed her soul.

Hugged bravery down her spine.

Commanded time to unlay its hands.

Pleaded for her to stand.

Spoke of her existence as his core.

“Don’t you dare relinquish my hand.”

Gazzed deep within her eyes.

But all she did was lay.

Refusing to stand.

Abashed, he kissed her hand.

Caressing of her skin.

Throbbing for her heart.

Cupped his hands and rinsed them from his heart.

Mumbled his vows, “Till death do us part”.

Majestic, she stayed.

No longer in existence.

Just a morticians display

Prompt: write a poem in which the reason for the title is unapparent until the end.

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