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OF DREAMS
I am now of an agewhere I can no longer rememberwhat terrors gripped my sonsin their dreams, causing themto appear beneath our blankets,I relegated to the bed’s edge. Perhaps there were noneand I was destined to bean edge sleeper, the boystaking advantage as a jokeplayed out night after night. I know what dreams nowcan rip…
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WE COULD
We could, if you want,sit in the park on our foldingchairs or better a folded blanketand stare out over the pond,its silver surface shirredby a midday breeze. We could picnic, sandwichesof brie and apples, or for ushummous with tahini anda bottle of chardonnay, carefullypoured into plastic glassesimagining themseles crystal. The dragonflies would ignore us,busy doing…
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WINTER
As I stare out the window and watchthe snow slowly build on the limbsof the now barren crab apple, paintingit with a whiteness that bears heavily,giving the smaller branches a betterview of the ground in which theirfruit of the summer lies buried. I am forced to wonder if the treecontinues to watch me, if its…
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TRAVEL: TWO THOUGHTS
The packed suitcase sits on the futon but neither it nor I are in any hurry to depart. 4 AM in Chicago blanketed in snow is an orange neon painting.
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DAWN, AUGUST
They cut neat incisions across the slate blue sky. The wounds they leave slowly peel back the white edges slowly spreading until the sky hemorrhages its cloud-like streaks. The oak drops yet another acorn and the squirrel scampers to gather it in before the sky flees under its gray-white blanket.
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ANGRY, BUT ONLY A LITTLE
You want it spicy, but just so that the tongue remembers it a moment after the mouth has moved on, a lingering sense of having been present. It should be a mantilla, a shawl, not the blanket some claim, gently caressing, lighting up the plate. Its host, freshly from the rollers, was born for this…
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DHARMA
In Tibet there are more than 80 words to describe states of consciousness, several words to explain the sound of prayer flags rustling in a Himalayan breeze that reaches up to the crest of the peaks that lick at the slowly gathering clouds, all of these words never uttered. There are no words in Tibet…
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BURDEN OF WINTER
On this one a taste clinging gingerly, on this one clumps, here a variegated blanket. Each tree bears the burden of winter in its own way.
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TOMORROW
As night settles over our house we slip beneath the blanket and imagine the day to come in all of its promise. By morning, reality will set in and I will awake to a day reliant on us to set its course, a captain with no chart and only hope and compassion to steer us…
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an old writer and his words 