Mother Baked Me Love-Bombs
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Lenomand it be then,
and while we await their upturning;
i already find myself
remindful of mum's homemade buns.
Panned pieces of eight currant-encrusted delight
Wafting about the room, that just-done-maked aroma.

And as tasting buds spring water,
To one side
A child stirs-it-up a drop
of vanilla essence
in2 the lemonade.

The End

...From out of the kiln of reflections; projection was their spur.

RIP Mummy

Dread, this is a fine brief with just that slender modecum of the normal comfort you so often provide. That modern sense of clarity and the every day meanderings of the marked classes, both in their kitchens, and, out and about. And of course 'rhyming ' need never be required in your work, nor shall it ever be instrumental - in mine. As long as it jells, toss it out like a piece of fishy, tasty bait. For in the welcomed realms of the underworld all are always seemingly hungry.

Alas, your intelligence level here, as always - acute as it springs forth. I liked the way you so easily tossed freedom verse out, and, those everyday inklings meant to spurn on in us freedom from derision. Your, 'Soft Play'. Well done, Sir. All bun lovers and lemonade enthusiasts are now well seated in your corner. All are now hungry.

Yes sir, love to have a shot at those buns. Hopefully 'sticky' buns and a tall glass of lemonade. Now, that would hit the spot, my friend.

" Free Form " on, Dread! " Free Form " on!

tommo / " The Island " ( Ireland )

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