Poetic Shutterbug

Both photos taken by me -View of my Street from the Great Highway along Ocean Beach The wind caresses my face while I follow cotton candy clouds dancing against blue skies. Seagulls gracefully swirl above while black hawks hover over sand dunes. The pounding of waves against the shore reverberate in a familiar echo as an aquatic symphony permeates the salt air. I breath and inhale the refreshing sounds in a moment of sheer joy. When all of a sudden, the silence interrupts. The birds mute, the wind quietly slapping my cheeks without even a whisper and the waves lost. Heavy footsteps, my own, are all I can hear amongst the dead solitude despite the colors of life surrounding me. For a moment, the deafness brings me to a place of relentless despair. A place where complete quiet resides and my ears no longer exist. Sounds escape me and I am lost in a world without life.

I'd like to thank my dear friend Chey for her beautiful poetry. This is a guest post by Cheylinn. You can find more about Chey on her Facebook page and her Myspace page. Carla Cried Inside she felt her world begin to crumble, Yet she put on her public face, stoic and strong; She needed to honor her mother's memory, To behave otherwise for her was wrong. Mourners sat respectfully, each in their seats, The memorial service was beautifully done; As the pastor read her mother's verse, One felt the loss of this precious one. Her mother would have been so proud, As she smiled down from heaven above; And to the many who were left behind, She'd left forever her legacy of love. One by one the mourners went to their cars, To begin the procession to the graveside; Where there was said their last good bye, Only then, could her tears no longer be denied.

I'd like to thank Mitch Marcus over at The Argus for this guest post. The Light There are things they say that can't be seen, can't be held and can't be dreamed. There are worlds of wise-men dead men too, some too kind, and some too cruel. There are tiny places we all hide, the caustic evils we store inside. There are great big valleys and hidden seas, elemental genius and the Pharasees'. Time marches forward time stands still, Time slides backwards, always will. Lost in shadows mired by night Then comes guidance then comes Light.

A Writer At Heart Words emotional expressions inherent deep within spirit. Passion are these words undeniably expressed, shared, proclaimed in stanzaic precision. The writer sensitive, intuitive feelings arise, awaken born from within depths of the soul. A soul unknown if not for their words. Ego revisited firmly understood and happily embraced. The writer paints words with a knowing of authentic self creatively expressed. Memories, dreams parade the mind as streaming videos. These visual scenarios breathe life into the heart and have no choice but to be reborn. Reflections a glimpse into the heart where the writer resides words a mirror to the soul. A soul which lives within the mind without fear. The heart pumps words through the veins never missing a beat. And the writer writes to a different beat only he hears.