I picked up my clock.
Three twenty.
My head had been full.
Sadly, now empty.
But letters were still there,
floating around,
waiting to be caught like claw machines
at a fairground.
Sleep would never come back
to me now.
There was a field full of words
I had to plough.
I needed one turn of phrase.
"The beaks of eagles?"
No, but that thought led me to
squabbling seagulls.
I adopted the guise of a plumber,
my pipes unblocked.
The words emerged as a torrent,
verses now unlocked.
A solitary jogger makes a rhythmical sound on the sand.
Squabbling seagulls break the silence of this windswept land.
The bashful sun hides behind any available cloud.
The sand dunes hold their secrets, not to be said out loud.
It's like I'm sitting in an open air museum.
Memories roll in with the mist, in the sky I see them.
The clouds paint their pictures of a childhood best forgotten,
of someone waiting to explore pathways as yet untrodden.
The turbines eerily still despite the gusty wind.
Like me they've had to learn how to be thick skinned.
The beach was a place to which we came but not as a family.
Posing for meaningless photos, papering over the disassembly
of a unit already doomed and a child who sensed this,
who felt then that these were times about which he wouldn't reminisce.
The sand dunes provided an escape, there he felt free,
looking up at the sky, reflected feelings of kindness, love, empathy.
I close my eyes and I feel myself back there again.
Could be that boy of six or eight, five or ten.
The sand I sink into like a memory foam mattress.
All those years ago I found my own road to Damascus.
Clouds spill not rain but memories and scenes
and words that were born from my troubled teens.
9/10/2026
The Words That Got to Me
But letters were still there, floating around, waiting to be caught like claw machines at a fairground. *Ohhh, Bernie! You and your oh-so descriptive similes! There was a field full of words I had to plough. *Seriously? What I wouldn't give to have that level of creativity!! This is FABULOUS!!! The sand dunes hold their secrets, not to be said out loud. *They evoke this feeling in me, as well. There's a place in Northern Nebraska called "The Sand Hills," and that's exactly ALLLLLL it is - for miles and miles and MILES. And it is so EERIE!! OY! Like me they've had to learn how to be thick skinned. *I like the volumes this speaks. I close my eyes and I feel myself back there again. Could be that boy of six or eight, five or ten. The sand I sink into like a memory foam mattress. All those years ago I found my own road to Damascus. Clouds spill not rain but memories and scenes and words that were born from my troubled teens. *Whoa. Juuuuuuust when we think it's safe to invest in this spot with you, eh? Brilliant way to trap your reader and then shake him silly. You are so masterful at the craft of writing, Bernie. I have so much to learn from you. xoxoxo
SO thought-provoking. And aching. And upending. A lot of everything, each sentiment offered up so subtly. Like a small, sweet treat...that turns deadly when ingested. Very memorable poem. xoxox