Hello, hello, helloooo! It's me, I'm back and just as boring as ever. Here to subject you with more of my droning chatter. I have found that blogging is like a muscle, if you don't use it, you loose it. Getting back into the swing of things, exercising my blogus maximus, which ironically is performed while sitting on my gluteous maximus. Lousy poetry coming right at ya.
Amber Solace
Mountains carpeted with green, yellow, and red colors streaming,
sleepy mother nature prepares for a winter's nap.
Steamed apple cider chases away the dread of winter cold.
Under a round, orange, harvest moon, lovers snuggle.
They bask in the warmth of summer's last glow.
Crunching leaves beneath my feet sing me an autumn lullaby,
and whisper another season's retreat.
The Cornucopia is full reminding me in vision that I should be
thankful.
For this... and Indian Summer revisited.
Okay Ralph Waldo Emerson, I ain't.
It's the thought that counts people. Ha!
And with that said, I'd like to wish all my American friends a Happy Thanksgiving and all my international friends; a happy autumn solace.
Moni ;)
4 comments:
Your poem invokes nice, comfortable feelings.
My old guitar teacher always calls me Scotterous, short for Scotterous Maximus.
Thank you Scott--it's nice to be nice. ;)
Scotterous Maximas?! 'Cause you da man! ROTFL :D
Yes. Another year is coming to the end.
Happy Thanksgiving to you and your family. I hope this year's "harvest" is a good one for you.
Nice poem. And "blogus maximus". Ha ha ! Good one.
Have a good week-end and a great Thanksgiving next week. :)
Thank you Blue and I hope your harvest is very plentiful too. ((hugs))
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