Sun On Rocks



There is something to be said

About the

Cold blue ice

The breath of winter

But it’s sunshine

We all seek


You can love the darkness

Sing to the moon

It’s sunshine that warms us

The heat

Of burning madness

The warming of rocks

Beside the cold pine lined water


The sun shines.


winter wash

Bare beyond belief

upon the sand

under the stand of the lifeguard

they sat on an empty landscape

with the breeze blowing

tender to the touch

raw emotions rolled with the waves

The sunlight washing winter away.



If you were born in the dark ages
and I saw first light today
we would still be friends

no space
no time
no status
would separate us

I could call
and you would be there

with a

“how you doing dick face”

loyal like brothers

willing to bury something in the backyard

nothing could separate us
not dirty deeds
rising with greed
not being born in another time

we would be friends no matter what

you could take a baseball bat to that.

Pocket of Space

I am

Within your grip

the moon the tides
Can not change it

I will struggle
Strain at the hips
Drive my teeth
Through my jaw

before I lose you

There isn’t a force on earth greater than you

Not a pocket of air
More comfortable to be with in
every bit
Of what I am

You grasp

Love Letters

I have no Idea who you call at night. I never asked for your cell number. Its those wild blues. The grey blue, its that laugh. I sat there with a smoke in my mouth. A thousand drags, a thousand draws on life looking at your freckles. I wondered how you looked before the sun came before you were kissed with so much beauty.

I woke like any other morning and looked around me, I looked at the sun through the window, unsure of how late it really was but when I turned I saw your back and each drop of light that ever touched you. I looked over you like a field. How long would it take to get across you? Each freckle a blade of grass. I wondered when first light had touched your back. I was sucked in. The scent of your hair made me breathe deeper. A thousand freckles unsure of where to begin.

The next time I hooked my finger on your jeans, the tip touching your hip bone. Like citrus you said to me and I thought of lemons. I was sure I smelled and tasted of the earth. I was sure I was low tide. But you said no you taste like citrus.

Cookies and giggles we laugh within our eyes. Your sneakers scuffing my shoes. I can still feel your hip bones and the way your breath was drawn as we touched cotton to cotton.

How you said we had gone to far. I agreed and you slept better. You slept better than you had so many nights before. But I lingered in the late night waiting on the chirps of birds because I could not contain myself. Wondering why  I wanted to write love letter again when I never even asked for your number.

The Second Hand Shop

Thanks Rochelle for hosting.  All links can be found here.

Copyright - John Nixon

Walt looked over everything in the shop.

Nothing but trash, he thought.  Who would pay for someone else’s junk?

All the whites were stained-over yellow, dust was several inches thick.

Place looked better from the street.

“Can I help you with something?” the owner asked.

“Help me?  ‘Cause I have a cane I need help?” Walt barked.

“No, sir. It’s just what I ask customers in my store.”

“Sonny, if I need help, I wouldn’t ask you.”

The owner lit up a cigarette.

“You can’t smoke in here!” Walt shouted.

“Read the sign, old man.  It says second hand.”








There was a pungent not quite socially acceptable smell in the air

under the darkness of the end of the work week.

Down the  corridor of the cul-de-sac

thick green smoke swirled.


Animated turns,

into the windowsill.

Under the shade of  a wrinkling summer umbrella

The locomotive

as useless as a caboose

slowly exhaled.


Peering at the neighbor for judgmental reactions.


The train wreck

behind bright lighted out windows

yelled out with scorn

your wind is coming my way.