Poetry

Sitting solitary,
On my old and wooden rocking chair,
I peek through the window,
To my long lost,
Phantom past.
 
Flashbacks waft in,
With the gentle Southerlies,
To repaint the whitewashed canvas,
Of my age old memory.
 
Is that infancy?
Perhaps of boyhood?
Nothing seems clear.
Just a feeling of a tender touch,
a sense of harbor,
warms my heart.
 
I sit on my age old wooden rocking chair,
Peeking through the window,
Into the placid blue sky.
I see moulds of my memory,
in the white soft clouds.
 
Did I tell you? It was the beginning of summer!
The northwester comes and goes,
And draws the images of my by gone days,
With the brush of gusty wind.
 
Was the storm real?
Or, was it my peaceful mind,
Throwing a sudden frightful tantrum?
I can hardly fathom.
 
My turbulent present,
Mocks me,
As I reminisce,
Through my misty past,
To find a tint of gold,
As a clue to a blessed future.
 
Sitting solitary,
On my old and wooden rocking chair,
I peek through the window,
To my long lost,
Phantom past.