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EMPTY SACKS WILL NEVER STAND UPRIGHT
There are nightswhen the songof a single cricketcan pull you away from sleep.She says that she has heardthat not all Angels have wingsand neither of themis sure how you would knowif you met a bodhisattva.He searches the mailevery day, for a letterfrom unknown birth parentsbut none of the credit cardshe ought to carryoffers to rebate…
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VOW
I swore, once, that the poemI was struggling with would be my last. Actually I swore that more than once,several, maybe mamy times in fact. In my defense, that poemand the others that followed wereeach the last I wroteunder their respective oaths,so there was a fulfillment,however partial, of my vow. I am not making such…
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IMAGINING
I never imagined any of this, couldn’t have you correctly note, but I imagined many things that did not, could not exist, that after all is one purpose of dreams and nightmares. I did imagine writing, words shaped to fit odd places, never round pegs or square holes, but fluid, shifting shapes like lava seeking…
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FOUND POEM
Each morning, beforeI finish my morning cappuccino,I scan my email, hoping to finda perfect poem that hasgone forever unclaimed. I have enough skillto alter it sufficientlythat I can safely claim itas my own, if the ownerever were to appear,by adding, After XXXXX. All I have ever foundis the odd limerick andfrankly I can to betteron…
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THE OFFICE
Step into a hotel elevatorand you will see the sign“Elevator certificate is locatedIn the General Manager’s Office.” If Einstein were to come backto life and see this, would heinquire as to where he could findthe Special Manager’s Office? And George S. Patton wouldno doubt bellow out a demandthat the Corporal Managerstand front and center. But…
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CONVERSATION
Arising into nightthe departing suntangoes away with its cloud,memories soon forgotten.Other dancers take the stage,now a romance, nowa war dance, feathers raisedin prayer to unseen gods.Night will soon bringits curtain across this stage,the avian cast’s final bows takenthe theatre will darken, awaitinganother performance,a new script tomorrow,but for this solitary momentof frozen grace, it is wewho…
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HUMPTY DUMPTY SAYS
He had long since decided that language was impossible, the English language in particular. He had acquired all manner of dictionaries, and had searched the web, using it as a reverse dictionary. But all too often the language came up short. Words at best approximated what he meant, what he saw, but to get even…
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THE WRITER
Why do I write, you ask.I’m a writer, so I should havea good answer, or at least a glib one. I could say I write for othersbut you would ask whothose others are, and smile knowinglywhen I have no answer. I could say I write for myself,and that would be true enough,but rather sad and…
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HISTORY
We only see the present as history,by day history is a matter of minutes,by night of seconds, years or centuries. There is no future to be seen, onlyimagined, the mind writing a storythat can never be read, never told. It is only when we close the eyesthat the present truly exists,independent of the past, free…
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THE WRITER STUMBLES
Each yearin Pamplonathe bulls begintheir slow descentdown the narrow streetsgaining speednostrils flaringmuscle and sinews tautthey forge aheada white wavepreceding themin their mad dashand each yearthere is one,some years twowho, by slip of footor lapse of judgmentmeet the hornsof the lead bullwho in disgustsnorts“this oneis noHemingway.” First published in Defenestration ,Vol XVI Issue 2 August 2019
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an old writer and his words 