Month: November 2024

How do I want to move through the world? Tell me first how to move through this sadness. a blessing from a stranger at the deli. the sound of rain in my empty car. all is heavy and beautiful. tonight I want to move with the...

spare college afternoons i returned to the shadeless paths this tiny headstone adam davis costen the letters too cleanly cut i see a mother wail and drive a chisel through a name not four years old – a name rough,...

then there are three foxes. they move low between shadows. i flee. we are sure the ones who stay mean us harm. as i return, the creatures still move in wary arcs. i remember a father comforting his scared child – look,...

getting lost as the sun fades i choose to walk deeper. soon i am darkness and animal eyes. i am afraid and ready. ambivalence to living is not the same as wanting to die. it is okay to fear pain, to grasp a stick tense and...

An empty chair is just an empty chair, that is until it’s not. And when it’s not, I savor company of someone there making me realize just what I’ve got. And my home is just a space, I’m aware where memories linger, singing in...

Here this morning, silver spindled bare trees stand reflecting as glass, crystal excelsior, a treasure, branches crackling like fire kindled midst bright cold sun in withered grass- here captured by my heart, no measure. An...

Untrodden ways, sun dappled boughs diverse and sprawling, sing of a wild shadowy wood. Here, gentian and azaleas disperse a scent that an undisturbed forest only may find. Fauna hides close to earth’s drumming snuggling deep...

I dab my pen into red ink. A cardiologist knows well the pump, pulses, and rhythms of this curious organ, but who knows the heart is a furnace, housing a blazing inferno, dwarfing Nebuchadnezzar’s raging kiln? The gates of hell...

I plunge my script pen into green ink. Chlorophyll flows through my veins and tints each sentence. In sunlight I photosynthesize. Fertility. Freshness. Vincent van Gogh brushed “Roses” in hues Of moss, lime, and olive greens. I...

I plunge my script pen in a blue inkwell A broad blue current seventy feet below torrents through a glacier crevasse. Secured by ropes tied by hikers, I rappel down frozen walls to an ice ledge above the roaring stream. I dip a...

I baptize my calligraphy pen in India Ink. The old TV screen explodes like flash bulbs in a burnt-out room. An astronaut severed from ancient space walk somersaults through galactic dust, past dying suns and methane moons— a...