she does scrimshaw

she d❤es scrimshaw

she does scrimshaw on roses,
her velvety touch,
she does marvelous work
maybe a little too much
she uses red ones and white ones
and pink ones too
you'd be amazed at the carving that she can do
she engraves love symbols, like hearts and flowers
she can do this so long, for hours and hours

she started her scroll-work in another place, too
lately she carves on my heart,
what can i do?
my heart trembles and shivers
when she sculpts away
she's taken to doing this everyday
she carefully, softly, carves with her scrimshander's art
i can feel the markings when we're apart
deftly, her fine tools carve and create
i sit still for her artwork, no matter how late

she's engraved her name in the center, so deep
she said it's forever, it's there for keeps
i never objected and i never will
her artistry enthralls me
her love ever fills

❤ ❤ ❤

More love poetry here.

Comments

can't wait

Life Without Color

Someone asked, "What would your life be without color?" I answered, "My life would be pallid and pale without color. Each day would be drab, dreary and dismal. There'd be no primary colors, no rainbows, no yellow sunshine, no red-blue-yellow sunsets and no white clouds. No white snow or black storm clouds. I'd walk in an indistinct and neutral existence. No green trees, no green grass, no blue seas, no blue skies, would leave me cheerless and dry. My face would not turn red with anger or embarrassment. My face would not turn white with fear or pain. I'd not grow green with envy. Nothing would be just black and white. My life would be full of motionless emotion, if there were no color. © 2013 ajwrites57 Image URI: http://mrg.bz/fwDYZp Image URI: http://mrg.bz/g6haeq By Hairysuncold Please find my other writings on Hub...

old friends

old friends searched online for former friends surprised to see untimely ends friends, their spouses, moms and dads sad to see the deaths they had the inexorable tick and tock of time, leads us all to fields, sublime through twisting, turning hands of fate, soon we'll all be known as "late" years roll on, time is passed no one knows how long it lasts each life is counted out by days as friends we oft go separate ways friend's faces show the lines of age as each one turns his separate page fools fleeting time waits for no man eighty years our lives may span so count your days with special care for who knows how, who knows where our beating hearts will one day stop find old friends before they drop © 2014 ajwrites57 A Long ❤ ❤ ❤ Image adapted: By SDRandCo via morguefile.com

ajwrites57

Search This Blog