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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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WRITING MY STORY
With the stroke of a pen,they enabled me to write the story,gave a framework on whichI could hang all mannerof dreams and assumptions,inviting a search I neverquite got around to making. I wandered the beachesof Estoril in my dreams,stalked the avenues of Lisbon,looking for a familiar face,but found only ghosts. With the stroke of a…
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PENNED IN
He stares at the collectionof pens crammed tightly intoa coffee mug whose handlehad long since broken away. He knows some are dead,awaiting a proper burial,following a brief memorialservice paying homageto their illustrious past. He is certain that oneor more is secretly harboringthe poem or story that hehas been meaning to write,the one that the journalon…
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MONOLOGUE
I would like nothing more thanto have a long conversation with the birds,that there is much they could tell me,much they know that I should understandbut I am the interloper here, and theyhave lost trust in my kind. I watch them closely, trying to discern what I can of their thoughts,but in a flash of wing,…
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THE REST OF THE STORY
It should be the storiesbehind the stories that get told.We have to blame the songwritersI suppose, telling only the partof the story they choose, leaving usto sit and wonder, no answers, forthcoming.We all know what happened to Billie Joeand the damned Talahatchee Bridge, but howdid Becky Thompson snare the brotherand for that matter, why Tupelo?And…
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VERITÉ
Only in a French movie does a girl stand on a bridge threatening to jump or not and weave a story that so draws us in that by the end, when the couple is together, she now pulling him from the same brink we almost forget that the movie was in a language neither of…
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WEAVING
She plucks the odd loose thread puts it on the table and finds another and a bit of what could be twine. She weaves them together loosely, with seeming abandon until they are an ill formed braid barely hanging together, a jumble of color and fabric, a true hodge-podge. But when she says to all…
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MILES FROM NOWHERE
Three hundred fifty miles along today’s highway the giant green sign reads Harriet’s Bluff Road and you cannot help but wonder what stories Harriet’s true road is holding back from telling you.
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WITH A CAUSE
She says if you could only peel back the photograph, you could read the entire story that lies beneath. It is deeper than the image below which it lies trapped, and wider, imbued with a meaning the image could not capture, just as, she says frowning, there are no words for parts of the picture,…
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A PEELING
She says if you could only peel back the photograph, you could read the entire story that lies beneath. Is deeper than the image below which it lies trapped, and the wider, imbued with a meeting the image could not capture, just as, she says frowning, there are no words for parts of the picture,…
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an old writer and his words 