Up creaky stairs in the attic
Dim light through grimy windows
Dances on cobwebs
Forgotten treasures
Protected by the dust of years
Huddle in silence
Maternity clothes
Stored in anticipation
Of expectations never met
Ebony discs
Etched with music
Like their makers, now forgotten
Leather tomes
History in black and white
People, places, yesterday
A uniform, tarnished brass
A country called
Youth taken
Time captured, years frozen
Memories wait here
For what? For whom?
Up the creaky stairs in the attic
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About oldmainer
I am a retired manager living in Southern Maine and a would be writer of poetry, narratives, short stories, and random opinions, and that's how Oldmainer was born. Recently, I decided to try an experiment. I added photography to the mix, using only a cheap cell phone with a limited camera and the editing software that came with it, and added the blog site Inklings at poormanspoet.wordpress.com to showcase the results. So, feel free to use whatever you find interesting or worthy, but please honor the terms of my copyright when and if you do. They may not be much, but they are still a piece of me. I appreciate your checking me out and hope that you find something that will encourage a return visit. Thanks for stopping by.
Ink lings 
Reblogged this on oldmainer.