I have always loved taking pictures. My favorite childhood gift was a camera of my own. My collection of black and white photos from my early years is nowhere near presentable for public viewing since most of them are of friends, relatives, animals in the zoo, etc. Childhood subjects. I did develop a rather good eye and a passion for capturing a particular moment as a permanent reminder of its being. For decades these multitudes of photos did nothing more than rest in boxes in the corners of closets waiting to be viewed every year or so and triggering memories for my entertainment mostly near holidays or birthdays. Along with them sat notebooks and folders filled with my writing. I have always been a writer, it started when I learned how to make letters and spell words. My younger efforts were mostly poetry and a school play or two, some short stories, and more poetry. Side by side sat photos and poetry. I never tried to publish my poetry because I never could title them. It's a shortcoming, the inability to title a poem. Or is it. One day a couple of decades ago, my muse tapped me on the brain and suggested I take those dusty old photos and match them to my poems. Photoetry was born: Photo + Poetry = Photoetry. I have a book of them I hope to publish as soon as I find the best format. I offer one now for your perusal. Feedback is most welcome!

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Notebooks filled with yellowed aging papers,

Boxes filled with torn and tattered parts,

Broken tapes of melodies all scattered,

Corners filled with dusty, faded art,

We are all the dreams that never happened,

Put away amid your fears and tears.

Now we sit in dust, decay and memory,

Slowly fading with the passing years.

We can still remember the beginning,

When you found your soul and shared your heart.

Passion raged as you began your mission,

Co-creating wondrous works of art.

How you loved to share your work with others,

How they condescended to agree,

Then you learned the heartbreak of their judgments,

And you bought the verdict of defeat.

We're the stories in the faded notebooks,

We're the songs that no one ever sings,

We're the poems that never have a reader,

Waiting for the future no one brings.

We're the paintings in the attic corner,

We're the ideas shoved into a crate,

We're the books who've never owned a cover,

Buried here in dust; we sit and wait.

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