The clang, clang, clang, clang, clang, clang, clang, clang, clang of brass flag fasteners against the pole across the street wakes me to cold wind blowing outside my door and inside my heart.
We have blood at our doorstep. Jennifer alerted me while viewing our garden from the kitchen window. I headed outdoors. A hawk flew from ground between two spruce trees to a branch across the street. White and gray feathers, and blood, adorned fresh snow, one animal’s desire to live and feed itself ending the life of … Continue reading Blood at our doorstep
Why do I forget who taught me to worry judge pray crave donuts? Why do I forget what helps me to relax ponder dream eat salads? Why do I forget when it would be good for me to forgive thank encourage ride a bike? Why do I forget where I put my keys glasses notebook … Continue reading Things I forget
The old man sitting in the corner reading a print newspaper. Well, he’s a bit older than me. He leans in to the paper and over it and lifts the paper with both hands to turn page after page, now rubbing his head as something has captured his attention. The breaking news section, maybe the … Continue reading Sunday morning in a coffee shop
birds singing their voices diverse as instruments in a full orchestra a symphony of the ages played anew at sunrise in this land of enchantment pierced by a steel-winged creature whose voice follows its own trail to the southwest
O Fear Prophet of Failure Eternal Foe Why do you hunt me in my quiet hours and in my public hours Why concern yourself with my unhappiness for I am nothing You pursue me as a worthy trophy I turn away again and again and again but you find me and win O Fear why … Continue reading To the Prophet
Things change; not a secret. Amber wisps of frosted grass call me to ponder. The world changes constantly despite many's hope for things to stay the same, to be great again, or some other narrative of the good ol' days. Nature, politics, religion, art -- it all changes. Change today seems to occupy … Continue reading Things change
I come to the page on winter days with baggage. Will my heart open?
I put pen to lined paper and scrawl mindless thoughts. My soul slowly thaws.
Winter's moon lighted last night's walking path. Does hope exist in this world?