With Debbie Chilton

Author and Poet

Saturday, March 31, 2012

My Thoughts


Pretty Things

To keep . . .
Pretty things don’t belong in boxes,
They show be opened and enjoyed,
Savoured and consumed as designed,
Pretty things shouldn’t sit in boxes.

Why not?

The box is clear I can see and enjoy,
The brilliance of the hot pink bottle,
That holds a scent once open is toxic to me,
Some times pretty things do belong in boxes.

Pandora’s Box . . .

Once open it can’t be its dangers lurk,
It’s beauty beckons to be used,
Its toxic sweet aromas to easily escape,
Sometimes pretty things are safer in boxes.

Temptations . . .
Its beauty dazzles the enquiring nose,
That fears not danger from the room perfume,
Once opened, unaware strangers may let toxins escape,
This pretty this is safest kept in its box.

To take . . .
If a pretty thing can not be savoured,
As it creator intended why should it be
Keep in a box and never enjoyed by anyone?
Pretty things do not belong in boxes.

The gift . . .
The brilliant hot pink bottle of sent,
Hold beauty in its design as an ordainment,
On the bookshelf in my bedroom,
The pretty thin h remains in it box – keeping me safe

The view  . . .
Which I still enjoy as I see the bottle,
Remembering it was chose for me by my sister,
For me to enjoy not someone else,
This pretty thing belongs in its box.
  
Debbie Chilton (c) Copywrite 2012

Sunday, March 4, 2012

Boys Toys!


Photo taken by Carolyn Cordon
Used by Permission

Resting Place

Look at her what a beautiful beast she must have been,
Judging by her cover she’s had her last run,
Just look at her will you, she must have been loved by someone.
Pulled apart and put back many times I suspect,
Even in this pitiful state I can see she was much love.

What or should I say who brought her here to this spot?
Such a beautiful but lonely spot to die,
I see like any murder they robed her of anything of value,
Torn from her bashed-up shell any organs they could sell,
If it could be sold the thugs taken it!

Wasted! I can still see her multicoloured skits dancing,
In the cool summer afternoon breeze still,
Full of life she danced before speeding off,
Leaving the other girls standing blowing wolf whittles,
Her splendour colourful coat fails to mourn her death.