Poetry is the Pacific.

Bubbling foam caressing my toes,

At the edge of an outgoing tide.

Wooden shutters painted cobalt blue,

Adorning a nearby cottage.

An aquatic symphony,

Composed by waves themselves.

Mesmerizing anyone within earshot,

Creating the rhythm, as they roll upon the shore.

The glowing embers of the fireside,

Complete with a glimmering backdrop of the star filled night.

Every crystal detail painting the most magnificent mental illustration.

I haven’t been to the beach in over five years.


Poetry is baby soft.

A look of wonder and curiosity,

From the eyes of the most innocent.

 The joy of a newborn,

Blending with hope for a better future.

 A row of tears,

Racing each other to the edge of my smile.

Creating personalized lullabies,

In hopes for long night’s rest.

My sister will soon be starting kindergarten.


Poetry is memory.

What makes a year feel like yesterday.

The heart of my nostalgia.

I write to resurrect.

Paving a pathway from my past,

to the foreshadows of my future.






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