Reign of pearl shell hub haunts,
red rose bud scent woodsy,
riddle strewn engraved close,
redeems a gold throat verve,
relay sun cast tinctures,
rainbow spectrum gladden,
rousing spark, shrewd ethos
refuge bound coffee dock,
relish swirled oe’r fruit pie,
rekindles twin core fire,
rainy day swift chase off,
rejoice amid town cluster,
rank thumbnails on eclat,
resound a mirrored spell
Horse chestnuts and long sticks scattered around
where children ,balancing along a wall
had tried their best to bring the conkers down,
since it was not yet time for them to fall.
Some shells were slightly open, and inside
lay nuts that caught the sun, a gleaming white,
impatient kids using their thumbnails prised
the shell apart to find a fruit unripe.
These youngsters grow old way before their time,
exposed to influence beyond their years,
not maturing slowly to reach their prime
their childish minds burdened with adult fears.
Depression, self-harm and anxiety,
from images of perfection instilled
by social media and on the TV
fast forward through their childhoods, unfulfilled.
How many with sad futures? Who can tell,
unripened lives lived in their broken shells.
He stood beside me,
Wading in the waves of dreams
And in childlike pose;
Drifting on that fall day,
Above the sinking sand
And below any care of pretentious doubt.
I stood my back to him,
Hearing his laughter
Dance to ocean's wind;
Keeping my heart afloat
And my mind at bay.
I can still see the waves.
We were children then,
As close as two kindred spirits
Could be.
Now in our dormant thirties;
We are strangers,
Mere castaways on the beaches of time
And strangers
On the island of productivity.
Too busy for a phone call,
Too idle for a visit,
Too shallow for forgiveness.
But I can still see the waves.
I wonder,
Does he remember?
We were thick as two washed up
Sandollars;
Stranded,
Linked,
Hidden behind the rocks.
As close as two seagulls;
Hovering,
Gliding,
Riding the breeze of paradise.
How I miss those days,
Those memories,
Still paintings in the shadows
Of my mind;
Im not sure he if can recall
Those thumbnails of time,
Those pictures framed
In the attic of our frozen
heart.
Im sure he's blinded by hate,
Still drowning in pain....
But I can still see the waves.
11/14/2015 Mike Hufford
Webpage up and front of me.
World to my site.
Title bar defining me.
Scroll bar to my right.
Headlines large to calling me.
Clicking on for News.
Reading what they want of me.
Interests that they choose.
Little tiny photographs.
Thumbnails to their link.
Blowing up in front of me.
Memories in a blink.
Destinations world-wide.
Posts throughout the Earth.
Places I have yet to be.
Knowing not their worth.
Peace and joy surrounding me.
Images that move.
A world a way of showing me
nothing that they prove.
Thumbnails of memories we rewind.
Reel of real life has come to halt.
The old age is the time for
Shaking hands, blurring eyes
To share one's know-hows
And prepare for
Soul's transmute
From the
Chest.
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