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I AM ODOBENUS ROSMARUS, WHO ARE YOU?
From time to time it sneaks back into my mind, and once there is so hard to ignore or dislodge. It begins softly, “I am he, as you are he, as you are me.” It grows ever more present, foreground, “I am the eggman, they are the eggmen,” and all to soon, I become the…
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DEPARTURE
It is that magical hour of the day when the sun sets the pond’s surface ablaze. The fountain in the middle shoots drops of liquid fire into to sky, only to watch them return to their now fiery home. This magic only lasts a few moments before the water returns to its natural state, and…
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WINTER’S NIGHT
A fog settles in over High Wycombe gray clouds shroud a full silver moon great beasts, sinews drawn tight, ready to spring forward, instead crawl along the motorway, the faint lights of London cast a glow to the sky, my breath seems phosphorescent, falling coating the grass, stiff in the breeze.
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A NIGHT AT THE ROSE
Three beers over two hours and, giddy, I want to sing along with the Irish house band in my horribly off-key voice, just two choruses of Irish Rover or Four Green Fields. It’s beginning to snow outside and it’s a four-block walk to the Government Center station. I suppose it would sober me up but…
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UNGAN’S SWEEPS THE GROUND
As you stoop to pick up fallen leaves are you cleaning spring, summer or autumn? What seasons are deep within the winter branch? How does your work and that of the tree truly differ, and what leaves do you shed? A reflection on Case 83 of the Shobogenzo (True Dharma Eye)
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RE-ENTRY ALLOWED
He sits on the cushion staring through hooded eyes at the wall in front of him. He expects exactly nothing to happen, expects there to be no sound within his mind, only what happens without, expects that time will cease for him, or will at least cease to matter. He is not disappointed. The bell…
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ALLEY
It was a dark alley with no apparent end and I wasn’t certain how I came to be here. Actually I was. I followed her into the alley, followed the promise of light she made. I do tend to follow her not for her beauty though she can show that when she chooses, but because…
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BOOKSHOP
Charing Cross Road booksellers woven amid theatres cramped sagging shelves an out of print Christine Evans, slim, collected works of those long forgotten never noticed a damp chill enfolds old leather as the door opens and shuts on a late February. Morning, my purchases sink in the plastic bag dancing as I walk to…
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GHOST SITTING
I sat with the ghost again this morning, the one who inhabits the body that was once my father. Ghosts find it difficult to speak from within living bodies, so mostly it squeezed my hand and offered an occasional weak smile or nod, said I looked good, but ghosts do have trouble seeing out of…
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an old writer and his words 