Category: Writing

I walked into a shadow. I found my mother there. Age is no longer a factor. Though memory leaves a feeling of 98.5 years. But what do shadows, dreams, and what fairies in the dust have in common? She’s no longer suffering from macular degeneration. I can still see her as a 78-year-old son now.

I conceal my craft beneath the shell of an armadillo, snug in its embrace, nestled near its warmth, as insects buzz under the midday sun, where stories collide with struggles, and words fester like unresolved thoughts, distant from the critics’ needle pen hearts. Their relentless demands, cold cash, and hollow praise layered thick with honey

Does the night soar beneath your breath?  Do you yawn to the sun?   It has departed on its pilgrimage to bear witness To the Gods of whom we boast.    Do you bruise your knees swollen and mauve and  Clasp your exploited hands ‘till dawn?   Do you dream of Him and  Toss and turn in

Picked up a DJOn her way to the partyFiguring he’d do wellFor dinner and dessert.Recited the necessary opinionsTo maintain each other’s favor,Stopping for protectionAt the closest corner store.No Wi-Fi requiredTo hook up to the servers,Using minimal dataAnd AI search results.Well, it was pretty damn good for 7-Eleven,Not a bad boost for discount coffee beansProving that

last night you asked me,drowsy, and muffled by the pillow,if I believed in God.I said yes but I didn’ttell you that my god lookssuspiciously like you.complete with black choppy bangsthat fall over thethird sparkling eyein the middle of her forehead. in the morning you told methat I’d better bring bug spray to workin an accidentally

breaking the backyard silence a flock of crows finds breakfast as a squirrel hustles by   two bumble bees compete with each other on a dandelion blossom for a morning treat   a chipmunk cheerfully runs after its mate through the grass enjoying the chase   i sit revering this solitude before my morning shift

This Decemberduring wide nightshemmed by blackness,I remember roses.Pink yellow red violetthose satin blooms of June.We must wait six monthsbefore seeing blossoms,touch their brightnesscrush their scentwith fingertips.Now there are onlyebony pools of winter’sheavy ink of darkness.Dipping into memory ofmy lips touching petalstantalizing sweet buds.My body longs for softness.I glimpse brilliant faces offlowers right before me as

There it was: the find!Pretty pickaxe leaningagainst faded garage wall amongmany worn out tools ofrural work: dig—saw—cut—haul—drill—rasp—plane. dirt—steel—lumber—trees,Muscles taut:push—pull–lift—breakup—smooth—sharpen. Metal head extended,a ready-set-gowoodpecker,feathered handle smoothed byyearsmonthsdays’ effort toget that something done. Lift, admire:future ease of breaking throughdecades-packed driveway dirt.The power of pickaxe,the line of farmers, foresters, miners behind me,bending forward,moving me forward. The work gets

The child open, curious,smitten by snail, noIndy 500 here justidle, slow, spiralling ofslime and camouflageand, the best,housing is free. Aha! There’s oneandanother andthis onetiny and perfect,look! look! Tippytoeing on paths littered withweed piles browning asquack weed deepens, lengthensluxuriously assunflowerdips lower, languidly. Curious child still searching.Hummingbird turns tail fromblossom and feeder towinter wherever(may it always havenectar