Old Home

There was a house on a hill, quiet and old.

The floors creaked as you stepped and the windows let in what light they could afford.

The dust had long since settled, undisturbed for many a year.

Until he entered.

Long forgotten, he ran his fingers through the dust, leaving a long, thin, line across cabinets that had long past served a meal.

He picked up an old photograph and gently blew; the picture faded and no longer recognizable.



Another Post from the Archive

A majority of my posts are nothing more than a title, an idea. Some are fully fleshed out, others are not. They sit, collecting dust and I suppose they have been on my mind as I find comfort in going through each post and finishing what I started or creating something entirely new from what I had. This poem was nothing more than a title and it has become so much more.

$1.00

Hope you enjoyed and thanks for reading!

Time falls as raindrops: A short poem by Mike Cole

Time falls, all around us.

Each moment, a splash.

When life knocks, time answers.

A constant monsoon; sweeping, churning.

Breathing. sighing. And crying.

When time falls, it falls as raindrops;

A soothing melody to lull you to sleep;

Or a constant storm, left sorrow to reap.

When we reach out our hand, we feel the rain.

Every memory, as real as the day before.

Those moments, unchanging or born anew.

In the end, it not so much matters,

For time is all around us and nothing is ever truly lost.


Thanks for reading! It’s great to be back in the swing of things. I’ve really enjoyed writing poetry for the last 6 months and am happy to see my skills moderately improving. I have big plans for the year and am hoping to finish the year strong with plenty of content heading into November and December for the blog. It’s been tough adjusting to work and while I might feel exhausted, I haven’t been willing to sacrifice quality for quantity.

Cheers,

– Mike

Funds to send Mike to Mars

I love producing content. As I grow as an individual, so does my content. What was once acceptable now isn’t. As such, more time is spent working on each post. I do all edits, research, and content creation. Whether it’s taking photos for a post one day to writing poetry the next, my blog is keeping me busy. Donations are appreciated and are used to invest in creative pursuits whether that be writing classes, art lessons, and anything in-between.

$1.00

 

 

Broken Clock: A Sonnet by Mike Cole

The hand turns, yet tells no time.

Minutes to hours, none can tell.

A desert of dust, a relic far from prime.

An empty silence where only darkness dwells.

 

A man stands, moving the hand back.

The dust flutters and he begins to cough.

The further he turns, the more the clock cracks.

He becomes frustrated, then begins to laugh.

 

He begins to turn the hand forward.

It moves and more cracks form.

He turns too far, and time becomes altered.

The hand falls, the clock left transformed.

 

And so is left the lonely hour,

With no minutes for time to devour.


My second attempt at a proper sonnet. Better than the first but still a little rough around the edges. If you like my content, consider supporting me! Don’t feel obligated to but the money helps for the transition into full independence. Like poetry, comment below or shoot me and email; I love hearing from you!

Funds to send Mike to Mars

I love producing content. As I grow as an individual, so does my content. What was once acceptable now isn’t. As such, more time is spent working on each post. I do all edits, research, and content creation. Whether it’s taking photos for a post one day to writing poetry the next, my blog is keeping me busy. Donations are appreciated and are used to invest in creative pursuits whether that be writing classes, art lessons, and anything in-between.

$1.00