I’m leaving, on a jet plane
I know when I’ll be back again
as I walk through a pile of clothes
and other tidbits on the floor
I begin to wonder
just how big the bag will grow?
Will it be little, will it be big?
here’s what my Mum said to me,
Ke sera sera, what will fit, will fit,
and so I go on my own,
tackling the debris of some clothes
and some soap
as I sway to music on the floor
others dancers may be jealous
that I’ll be off, to see land new
singing aplenty tunes
(off key, mind you).
Ah, travel bug, you!
Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to packing I go!
I know nothing of ballads
nor rhymes or rhythm
to sing a note
or follow a tune
of music and musings
are rare and few
I know nothing of the moon
nor the tides to pull
heartstrings a few
I know not my right foot from left
and of dancing
akin to drunkenness
of romance and gentlemen’s way
I know not what is wooing
or how to even do it
all I know is
I cannot go a day
without greeting you
without thinking how happy you’d be making
with just by being you.
I know not of ballads,
nor the power of pretty flowers.
My dear all I know
that the day is fairly bare without just a simple glimpse of you.
I know not how to sing to you.
(Only because I need a break from reading papers. Here is another tea break creation. Excuse any short comings, I’m slightly sleep deprived and high on caffeine.)
Pitter pattered the rain,
the tin roof hummed,
softly danced the fire,
while the lumber crackled along,
she sat rocking the old wooden chair,
while clock chimed hour into the morn,
She glanced – steam had long abandoned the meal
at the table set for two.
She still rocked that chair beneath