wishing everyone only the best in 2017.
You’ll be somewhere
Talking to me
As if you knew me,
Saying, I’ll be home for next year, darling.
I’ll be home for next year.
And maybe sometime,
In a long time,
What I had said there.
I said, I’ll be home for next year, darling,
I’ll be home for next year.”
My lovely Canadian friend Paul was gracious enough to write a letter for me. If you aren’t following this very talented and funny guy, you are missing out on some really thought-provoking and hilarious posts. His blog has it all poetry, random musings, insight information, Canadian goodness and witticisms galore. He seems to have a weird Air Supply fetish though. Must be a Mapleleaf thing
Dear Tosha, I once mentioned Air Supply in one of my blog posts and you found it funny. So funny, in fact, that you haven’t let me forget about it. I appreciate that. That being said, my intent for this letter is to litter it with Air Supply lyrics. In fact I planned on starting this […]A Letter To Tosha
Friends, Funny, Writing, Paul’s Letters, Life, Humor, Personal, Fiction, music, Poetry, Love, People, Letter, Blogger
Outside of her was history.
A shroud to the past
The living beneath a life.
beyond the open door
an engraved coin, the swell
of violins, conjured spirits,
the echos of and
etching of yesterday
The yearning for a new day.
Inside of her, dwindling reason
An endless ticking watch
The watch was her mind.
Sometimes I sing in incomplete rhymes.
I write in crayon and leave
my shoes beside the sandbox.
I sign my letters with x and o.
I ponder in doubt, the crisscross musings
speaking out loud.
Sometimes a woman needs
flowers out of season, homegrown vegetables, romance,
sex, and easy to read instructions.
Instead she meditates on ice cream
Jung and HGTV
Attempts to become enlightened.
Prays to paper and pen.
Looking for an all encompassing view.
Hoping for an all embracing embrace.
She offers herself to drumbeat and sage.
The rhythm under the air. She turns her heart
to some inferior door, finding something buried
in red. Hope for a moment sustained
The air thick wirh honeysuckles
The sun pays homage to the street.
Birds annouce supper time
A couple dancing on the veranda
His full lps.
Her womanly hips
And I sit watching
thinking what a lovely view
Wishing on this soft spring day
that I had a hand to hold
and a man to give me that
Instead I head inside
to my forgotten kettle
burnt now by the stove flame.
I arrange myself on the sofa.
not bothering to look back
through the door.
Silencing the whimsical pitch
Setting my disenchanted soul free.
Electing the liberty that comes
in the form of a book.