April

Daffodils under;

lace flung reckless to the cold,

bare green splayed.

What are you wearing?

Blades of grass act as informants;

buds heed innocent faces,

pretend to be plastic.

Winter is high on the lash;

sends April running to the lavatory,

licks speed from her hand.

I kiss. You stay kissed.

It will melt soon enough;

every bit squeezed, drowned,

trickled down, murmuring.

tk/April 2014

R.A.D. Stainforth enjoys a glass of wine...contemplates April...

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group.

*photo: Finland, 1968, by George F. Mobley

Feed a Cold

R.A.D. Stainforth has the sniffles...

It's good to eat
when you have
the sniffles.

Your head is a bowling ball,
but go ahead, gorge
on chicken soup
and copious whiskey.

Lay it on a pillow,
stuff tissue in the nostrils;
call yourself
Princess Vanilla,
even though you don't look it.

As for starving a fever,
it's a little too risky ―

you always prove 
deliciously beneficial.

tk/October 2012

Sick Woman, 1665, by Jan Steen

Join The Mag creative writing group.