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Pick a day. The random date generator chose: January 13, 1835 There are still generations formed from those that fell in love, married, birthed sons and daughters on that day. Each an unrepeatable existence. Family lore and crests enshrine the first kiss, the birds that soared the sky, the color of flowers in his/her hand,…
The oaks perceiving the assailing breeze shiver off their nuts, swallows and squirrels upwards to a dark fearful sky that camouflages broken peace in the wild promises of the swirling winds. Night breaks night— smashing every compass point in impatience. Bricks stem to snow, the wind ghosts every leaf in mournful woe. …
I am oxygen for you are the sky. We exist only because rain has formed the sea. Our memory is buried in every tide. Its waters swim inside the roots of our blood. The fluid of our language, rippling stories in the school of words. The bits of dreaming are…
My dog finds a conch nestled in the sand- half dead, half alive- in the foaming tide, She paws at its exposed pinkness ignoring the hermit crab seeking shelter. The conch shrivels beyond its lip the scent of dead flowers pouring out, my dog in a frenzy to taste its exotic flesh, this beautiful creature…
For my reversal and recovery, For my wife’s lost womb, For a future free of cancers, For the old brick house toppled in the wolf tornado, For the new cradle being raised on an ancient cry of earth, For the mothers who died never seeing their children wed, For rescued memories stuck on cardboard, For…
I never thought brick dreams could tumble in the wind. My wife collects our scattered memories in a undersized bin like a child on the tide line collecting beach glass and seashells. She listen for the sound of blood amidst the dying wind mistaking rustling pages for her breath cycling in and out, her pulse…
I loved this old crooked tree that refused to grow straight with the sky but willed itself to stretch with the horizon, limbs resisting what every oak near it wanted— to kiss the sun. It had a brother, long since cut down, its stump never uprooted, ground to chips. Decades of weeping, trying to…
Read More "On Seeing My Old Crooked Tree Uprooted After the Tornado"
One night when skies have donned their stars And parted the lunar drapes Scattering silent bats to afar To huddle with their mates, We’ll fix our eyes northward, my dear, To distant lush Spring realms Where musicians play songs with cheer And nothing overwhelms. And we shall travail lovely streets With restaurants and bakeries, Serving…
Wait, I spoke to the highest star. It winked and bowed to dawn. Wait, I spoke to the low sun that set. Wait, moon. It just glowed on, gracing, gifting me with bright words. Wait, I spoke to my sad heart. It beat as a heart does, disobedient less it stop trembling…
