Saturday, July 02, 2022

Moon Dust - a poem for The Sunday Muse

Moon Dust Lady 

Moon Dust Lady, please 
Please sprinkle some more of your dust on us 
We've had a good dose back when in our teens 
We lived and loved on that for many years 
But now it's wearing thin 

There on Lovers Lane 
There where we were parked sent some magic  dust 
Magic dust from the moon you dusted off 
Top down it fell on our shoulders and laps 
Penetrated our bare skin knees and necks 
Our whole bodies covered well with your dust 
But now its wearing thin 

Lovers Lane's no longer 
Paved with greed and dollars rich men's pockets 
But the dust still lingers corners abound 
It's on the teens, on the young, older too 
On some sooner or later it grows thin
And ours is wearing thin 

O Moon Dust Lady 
We yearn for more want back our passioned past 
Couldn't keep hands to ourselves every inch 
Every inch your dust has fallen we've found 
But now its wearing thin 

Moon Dust Lady tonight 
Tonight we're ready Moon Dust's second dose 
The last has lasted years and years we've worn 
We'll be on the couch await snuggled down  
Blow a bunch our skin is wrinkled and tough 
Looking forward renewed passion and lust 
We'll take good care keep it long 
 _ _ _ 

 - Poem Copyright, Jimmiehov 2022, All Rights Reserved 
 - Photo, retouched, from Carrie's five at her link below
 - I am linked with Carrie at The Sunday Muse # 217, 
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Thursday, June 30, 2022

Sad, sad, Fisher Soul - a Poem for Friday Writings


     What I saw 

Walking along the beach one day 
I happened on a fisher soul 
Catching a lot of fish that day 
Poor soul was throwing back a lot 

Big ones, long, person was throwing 
And keeping much, much, smaller fish 
I asked our soul why doing that 
Soul shrugged foolishly, frying pan 

A nine inch skillet's all I have 
It's just right for the smaller fish 
 _ _ _ 

 - Photo and Poem Copyright,  Jimmiehov 2022, All Rights Reserved 
 - I am linked with Rosemary with Friday Writings #33 at 
  - Rosemary has asked us to respond to the phrase ‘Dream big’. 
 - Ten lines, eighty syllables for her.
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