-
COLLECTIVE
Don’t listen when people talkabout collective memories. We both know it is hard enoughremembering what you experienced and in the recalling we add filtersto bend it to how we wish it was. If there were a collective memoryhow could you despise the immigrant who only wants the better lifethat we talk about so much. You…
-
THE VEIL OF TIME
I still search for you behind the veilof time; I cannot look away.I wonder what you saw that night,what you felt in that unexpected,unwanted moment you couldn’t escape.I know I am struggling to reach intoa world I do not yet wish to enter,but all I recall are your eyes, notas they were that night but…
-
OUT FOR REVISION
Someone, I cannot remember who, suggestedto me that I write the story of the world,not that the world needs another edition,but perhaps because it would occupy meand I’d stop sharing my poetry that so fewreally want to read and do so out of politeness.I thought about this and it is an intriguing project,for I would…
-
AGAIN, AGAIN
It is the seasonagain.It is always the season,and everythingis now interpretation,relativity rules.Once truthwas absolute,it was notmalleable, fluidseen through a lensno one possesses,only asking faith.Deafnessis an escapeout of its reachand it will bethis way each dayuntil the election.It willagain be the season.Rinse andrepeat.
-
IN PASSING
As we walk along the shoreof the man-made lakein the planned community’s “town,”the birds array themselvesin a ragged single fileas I pass and I imagined eachlooks up at me posing.Once I would’ve stopped,raised my camera, capturedthem, or their facsimilebut those days are donefor I no longer blog themone thousand posts gone byand my back and…
-
IMAGINE THAT
There is a certain joy in writing fiction,for many readers will assume the protagonistis the author or at least partially basedon the author, never pausing to considerthat the villains and lesser charactersare just as likely to be based to some extenton the author or bits of his or her life.And often the readers are not…
-
CIRCLING
This morning as the bellsignaled the end of morning zazenthe whistling ducks took uptheir song, circling the wetlandas if inviting me to photograph them. They quickly grew bored waitingand flew off to a placeI do not know, can not imagine. Perhaps they will returnthis afternoon, circlein a duck like pose as I capturethem with the…
-
CHILD OF GHOSTS
I am a child of ghosts, my parents adopted and birth, all visit me, but only in my dreams, for ghosts prefer the reality that dreams allow. Some say that dreams are not real, but they live in the mind as do every other reality I experience each day, my senses merely inexact lenses for…
-
Subscribe
Subscribed
Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
an old writer and his words 