Sand between my toes

A massage in the Swiss Alpes,

Green hills behind cucumber slices, 

Five people plucking kneipping

Pulling, burning and painting.

I will not in golden be framed, 

Nor filter light by marble veil,

I wasn't created to be a muse

Nor to delight or amuse.

I am made of pounds of flesh

the sun burns and the sea frosts.

Give me a moon bathed beach, 

you can keep your red carpets. 

Wanted Swiss Cheesed 🤠

A red and blue patterned cloth

folded ties his muffled breath.

The wild dry dust in its swirls

tries it's way in nonetheless.

Drums echoing but he slows

their crescendo deaf beat.

Focuses in the beaming stare

for a sign of hidden unease.

People, well they think the trick

is bein' fast on the trigger.

It is not! To read their fear!

The last air that rushed in,

in a general tightening.

That is when your fingers sing

like your life they are handed.

But this kid is ran by ice,

no heat tears run down his hat.

I begin to feel as the mice

that had the short misfortune

to meat this lusty slick cat.

See fear keeps you in this ride,

now will as well make you dead.

That my cunning friend is why:

He is no longer wanted alive

swiss cheesed preferably instead

and no full wit steps to the task.

Mindless the mouse I trap inside,

won't will me out this snag. 

My mother's color

In my earlier days,

as the sleepy first ray

touched the wooden shades

in my small bedroom frame.

She would slide with no pull,

her lips drawn in a curve:

"Goood morniiing from

the lark to the blackbird"

That was one other quirk

I could not comprehend

that would bring to me glee

no matter where I'd stand.

Under echoes of thunder

I'd be the one visiting,

her square bright room,

with for furniture a

double bed 'n' a stand.

But the sun exploded

shone its nuclear a core,

and its warm a color:

embraced circular lamps,

dripped along the long drapes,

bounced on the smooth duvet,

poured down the carpet

and swallowed you mellow.

The room has since enlarged

symptoms of a good age

but the color remains

her favorite today.

I still guarantee her sight

gets wrong, blue?, signals

when yellow fills her eyes.

Yet I climb to a nest

when those touches mine.