Poetry is much
Like Jazz; shallow minds only
Like it when it’s “good”
~
sck011815
Poetry is much
Like Jazz; shallow minds only
Like it when it’s “good”
~
sck011815
Was a cold winter’s day and there’s nothing to do.
Same as yesterday, nothing’s new.
So I took a trip to the attic to look for words and a view.
The crisp winter color of sky and water, reflected in deep icy blue.
~
The cobwebs hang heavy, there’s nothing new to explore.
Cold and flustered I stumbled back to the steps and slammed the door.
I went back downstairs and took some time to reflect.
Those things worth finding shouldn’t be that hard to detect.
~
Unless of course what seems lost, was never really had.
Though loses always remembered, it’s the forgotten that make us sad.
~
I went back upstairs where memories go to rest.
Pushing through the spider’s webs, to that place I like best.
It’s just a seldom seen pane of glass that compares to no other.
It’s a picture perfect painting, painted in the seasons changing color.
~
I sat upon a shaky box hiding something long forgot.
Steamy breath fogged the glass creating what can’t be bought
I viewed the shifting shades of pinks and blues that end every day.
Then I shared the chill with the fading sun falling into the bay.
~
Turning from dusk to shades of infinite grays with shadows intertwined.
I lightly step, hands outstretched and leave my little pane behind.
*
Sck011815