Antique

Among the dusty musty stalls
they sit.
Once mighty
oak, pine, maple.
Hand-hewn,
hand joined,
hand shined.
Beyond my will
my fingers
caress the grain.
Warm
still full of life.
Made to contain possessions
now harboring history
waiting
to be used again.

Comments

Through Winter Windows

Trace of footfalls pierce glistening white, tokens of travellers. Bygone origins, trivial destinations. Blinding reflections as icy air sneaks through unseen fissures. Warmth beckons and beauty is abandoned.

Whispers

Faded pages whisper of the woman who bore me. They whisper her heart, her dreams, her cares. I read and strain and caress the whispers.

Travel Nocturn

In my place between wake and slumber exists a platform, a waiting spot for the dream train. Weathered wood planks roughened by time and elements joined by rust crusted square spikes. Wind whispering, stars shining, no covering in sight. Ancient iron tracks stretch from horizon to beyond beckoning the dream train. On a night my mind’s self reposes there, labors, worries, and joys jumbled in thought until I board the dream train.

Nana's Pen

Search This Blog

Antique

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Through Winter Windows

Whispers

Travel Nocturn