A case of the “I can’t hold on any longer”., The stronger the grip is on me I seem to be losing my own grip, a slip of whatever I’ve in hand. The thing can stand on whatever surface it will occupy, but when I try to take hold of it, it slips. The hand that grips loosely play loosey-goosey with possession. It’s an obsession of mine. I’ve come to find I am the dip that keeps on dropping!
A heart so true,
you can’t help but believe
for it will leave you in awe.
Every flaw becomes invisible,
becomes indivisible to your character.
An honest admittance that
costs a pittance but has great worth.
Where else on earth can trust and a faith
in purity offer surety of a connection
fair and true. It is up to you to believe,
I will not deceive. It comes straight from ♥ here.
In your heart I hope you know I’m sincere.
The bond we’ve made was instant and permanent, this haggard poet gent and you, my darling granddaughter. I sparkle when I am in your light, a bright beacon in a world in need of your luminescence. I get the chance to hold you close. You look intently as I gently tell you how much you’ve given in the short time we’ve been together. Your skin is so soft, mine the coarseness of leather yet we complement each other sweetly. Wrapped neatly in a swaddle, you flutter and coo, you blink and explore, and what’s more you smile, a contented little lass (proving it’s not gas), and I melt. I haven’t felt this joy since your mother and aunt were born. But on this morn, it is you, Brooklyn, who has brought beauty into this tired life. You’ve so much to learn, and I yearn to teach you all I can. Until then, I will revel in something so beautiful!
So, here’s the plan! We’re going over the wall. Or under it. I’m not quite sure. We’re doing it Tuesday night! Or maybe Thursday morning if the weather cooperates. If it doesn’t then the following Sunday. Meet us near the rear of the guard shack. Or the back of the garage, I’m still not sure. We’ll need a code word easy to remember, like… um, um, I forgot but I’ll get back to you on it. Our signal will be a whistle, the Brandenburg Concerto. Or we can shout, “Hey, over here!” It’s not quite clear. Ok, got it? That’s the plan!
Not a satchel or saddle bag, a multi-colored tote zippered and stitched, something of which I know nothing. Looks like something that escaped the sixties. Holds your doo-dads and a lot of clout. Far out!
Welcome to our Bistro! We hope you will enjoy the menu Ira has prepared. We’ve spared no expense… Aw, who are we kidding? Ira’s just learning to cook. Her soups are like spackle it makes Mrs. Wilton cackle. There she is staring at the coffee pot on the counter. 12 hours old, I’m told. But our “chef” can screw up a ham sandwich on rye. And while you’re at it, Do not try the BLT! Don’t ask why, just don’t. It won’t kill you, but it might make your stomach rumble. You say you’re feeling brave? You want to know what Ira’s Lunch looks like. See for yourself. It’s over there, and over there, and some over there on Mrs. Wilton’s shoe. Thanks for stopping anyway!