Its saturday, its saturday
and minus ten degrees,
the trees stand frozen statues
as there isn't any breeze,
the coldness of the blue
spreads its mood of darkened gloom,
a contrast to the stillness
of the warm air in the room;
the bird that waits on top
of that twiggy weeping tree,
a willow hoping for the sun
the wish of well nigh everyone,
I put away my pillow once again,
to meet this winter's morning without sun,
as I chew my breakfast, finish this poem.

I walked in a foreign land
Where our fruit had fallen
There in rows were crosses
Did our fruit's seed grow these

I dreamt that our fruit,
Had both arms and legs
These had only one leg
Were they from our seed

Did we sow these seeds
Were they cloned or bred true
A near copy of me and you
Why did they reproduce so.

This land is not their home
In this place they have grown
From the loins of us so far away
As a monument of their time..

someone said consummate...
I wondered of what kind...
but isn't LONDON all heated up???
Come to Canada its normal ...
minus 37 at times, often
and all houses warm
no clothes needed
consummation is quite easy
ere the power fails
it never used to,
but now a day’s one can't say
Twould not do
so keep yourself warm
ere the guys come and storm
and try to you warm.
hahhaaha
take it easy
be cozy
the summer is not far
except for Aussies as
one does say

The art of getting through
like a canvas filled with sadness,
a word that causes thought
yields us to our common steps.

Standing on the desert butte
just as the sun goes down,
within the orange magnificence
I stretch to kiss the clouds.

A look-at-me-I'm-sexy waitress
working for her tips,
one whiff of her flavored naughtiness
I can't help but flirt a bit.