-
WRITING MEMORY
It is well past time I wrote a poem about the great joys of my childhood, for memory should bubble up like lava through the crust of time, they should rain in flashes as so much matter dropping into the atmosphere in their ultimate light show. This isn’t going to happen, of course, whether because…
-
THE GIFTS
They brought him myrrh on a flaming salver and all he could do was say “This is something I would expect from a butcher or a carpenter, and the camera angles would never work, so bring me napalm or punji stakes that we have proven to work.” They brought him ripe oranges and the sweet…
-
THE GROVE
She walks slowly, the streets she once knew well, so much changed by time and memory released into the fog. It is hard going back when back is no longer there, where the store you owned, a place where you spent countless hours is now a sandwich shop, and so many others gone altogether for…
-
REMEMBERING ANOTHER FATHER
It was scrawled on the back of a grocery receipt, barely legible. Charles H. Boustead Tunnel, fryingpan river. The river is lower case, its capitals dangling by serifs in one of the tunnel grates that constricts the water’s flow. Outside the full moon is ensnared in the gnarled, barren branches of the white birch. She…
-
THE DARK TIME
The trees, bearing up strongly against the still falling snow remember leaves, though the memory has run deep into the sap and slowed. Beneath the frosted bed the bulbs imagine summer, try to picture their blooms, but quickly returned to frozen stasis. The cat thinks of venturing into our yard, sinks its paws into the…
-
Maximum Exposure
She carefully hangs her life on the tautly stretched line across her small back yard. A sun faded floral housedress a pair of bib overalls knees worn white on the kitchen linoleum, cracked and dingy. She waits patiently for Humphrey Bogart to arrive and carry her up the river of her memory. The chicken threatens…
-
AS I RECALL
Like most you believe that if it is worth remembering you will, that memory is keyed to some measure of value and if you forget that value had diminished without your noticing. You accept this as a sort of gospel truth for you cannot recall that you once rejected this argument out of hand, for…
-
TODAY, ALAS
Too much of what passes for literature in these days is really no more lasting than the evanescent pixels from which it is created. Books fade, pages crumble to dust but that requires the passage of time that our electronic world avoids or simply refuses to acknowledge, for history is something that lives in storage,…
-
A MESSAGE HOME
What I want to tell her is this: it’s fitting, perfectly, that you who so assiduously hid the past from me, your past and mine, now bars your entry, refusing you even the briefest glimpse. You want so to grab onto it to have it carry you to a place removed from here by time…
-
A WINTER MEDITATION
I have given up on winter, which is to say that I have fled its iron grip, but the memories I have linger painfully in the rods the surgeon carefully screwed onto my spine. It wasn’t the cold, though it was far from pleasant, but the snow that demanded but also defied being shoveled. I…
-
Subscribe
Subscribed
Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
an old writer and his words 