Clouds on My Oatmeal
Amidst the passion, that holds me bound
to the hand that chokes me
out of life and breath,
a light and wooly remembrance,
steals inside my bruised brain,
of days when love had a different meaning.
When the sunrise kissed my eyes awake,
and moonlight meant a time to sleep,
and loving hands stroked my weary soul to rest.
A time when love meant laughter, and song,
and planning, and singing, and taking, and giving
in everlasting cycles, love meant all I was to be.
Amidst the passion, that holds me bound,
such memories come stealthily to me,
disfigured and gray, like clouds on my oatmeal.
Carmen Ruggero .2003
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So glad you dropped by my pages and left a comment, for
now I get to see what your writing is like...and I like.
If you enjoy reading humor, check my cat stories. I'd be
anxious to know what you thought of them. And thanks for
your comments on 'Shortest Poem.'
to the hand that chokes me
out of life and breath,"
Very powerful!!!!!!!, good work Carmen
Now what am I going to do with my oatmeal.
peace
This is so unique ty, Dani
I am so caught up in this one
never look at my oatmeal the same.
excellent reply to the challenge.
"Amidst the passion, that holds me bound,
such memories come stealthily to me,
disfigured and gray, like clouds on my oatmeal."
This is excellent for the challenge.
"Amidst the passion, that holds me bound,
such memories come stealthily to me,
disfigured and gray, like clouds on my oatmeal."
Such a wonderful poem..
Peggy
Carmen, this is fabulous!