I like the early morning cold
That comes in a lonely fall
When the other creatures
Are stuck
In a no-man’s dreamland.
It is not bitter
Nor biting
Nor blinding.
It is soft.

It is gentle in the way
That a friend will
Put their hand on
Your shoulder,
When you have forgotten
Your good qualities
Or cast them into doubt.

Photograph

It is more than a flash
Or a tinker of parts
From a cheap device
You gained from a sibling
Or a cousin or a
Parent or someone
You don’t even know.
It is underestimated and
Underated in unforgivable ways.
It is a memory, sure
A flicker of the past,
A scent a sound a secret
That has been forever captured
In a box of time possibly
With the date in the corner.
But once again,
It is more than all that.
It is purpose.
It is undeniable
That we achieved
What has been forever
Frozen in a rectangular
Piece of time.
And it is proof.
It is proof that we are here
That we were there
And that we exist.
And that is
Irreplaceable.

I have not written a poem in almost three years. I’m in Panama City Beach right now, but it’s winter and there’s not much to do. And for whatever reason an idea struck me and I wrote something. My long period of writer’s block is finally over! Granted, this poem sucks, and it’s a VERY rough draft, but hey. It’s something.

Whisp

I went to the beach in the wintertime

When it was cool and white

And the locals come out

Without fear of strangers

Stealing long loved spots

With meaning that passerby

Will never know.

I could not point out to you

Those spots with purpose.

Havens have no markers

Save for the whisp of a

Thought

That flashes by when

You realize this is familiar.