Author: Pontvert

The weather is fine.
and things are fairly normal,
on the day after,

The trouble with truth,
is that it can hurt a lot,
and necessary.

Bring out your jumble,
any rags and other stuff,
that you do not want.

A spectacular,
did you hear the word spoken,
over the new king.

The military,
all were outstanding today,
and did us all proud.

It was Saturday,
a day that’s like and unlike,
any other day.

Water’s standing by,
just in case there is a thirst,
and it will quench it.

The obvious things,
can sometimes be just too real,
but are they correct.

Looking through pages,
of some old tattered notebooks,
and finding myself.

Out looking for fun,
they tumble down alleyways,
and out on the streets.

The frogs do not come,
but flies do, and buzz around,
until there’s a slap.

A hot chicken pie,
on its own and still tasty,
so, that is lunch done.

How the music plays,
tumbling through the springtime fields,
fresh and tender green.

The rhombus clouds show,
the rising thermals all around,
blowing cloud balloons.

Interruptions come,
some are good and others bad,
but they always come.

The ocean waves crashing against the shore,
a symphony of sound that fills the air.
with salty breezes that chill to your chore,
and lifts up the seagulls soaring up there.

The ocean’s a wonder world of its own,
where life’s abundant, diverse, wild, and free.
with creatures protected and left alone,
and free to be simply beneath the sea.

The ocean’s a place of peace and calm,
a refuge from troubles on the land.
and where we can go for a calming balm,
and let the scars and cares slip from our hand.

So, when you are feeling lost and alone,
remember it is home and skim a stone.

The drums are beating,
that guitar cries out loudly,,
lifting us with it.

The penny’s spinning,
around and around it goes;
heads and tails flicker.

The song is ending,
and we cling to its coat tails,
and that last sung word.

He called out to her,
as she swam out yet further,
until just a dot.

And the midday sun,
stared unblinking down on them,
as they all laid still.

Ice cream and coffees,
it is what he likes the best,
a blending of sorts.

And washed up on the shore,
they lay exhausted and cold,
from the nights passion.

Curled and uncovered,
she lay with the waves lapping,
gently at her toes.

Traces in the sand,
and the clouds lofty patterns,
just painted itself.

Piano music,
spilling out, running a mock,
in danceful beauty.

The night was a flame,
with a passion and a lust,
for those rhythmic tastes.

She ran to the night,
though he tried to call her back,
but she was long gone.