Lunchtime Poetry
Rain falls. Even these words are wet and soaking. A fog rises and obsures the past. The crust of past experience. But sometimes I remember how it used to be.
Category: Writing
Balloon, Orange Juice, Tape Recorder
Dominique Manfredi sat outside at a corner table at The White Peacock Café. He had just ordered two eggs (sunny side up), toast with raspberry marmalade, espres...
There Were Trees
I remember there were trees, And shadows And the smell of wet grass And tiny ripe berries That my Mom said were poisonous, So that I wouldn’t eat them. An...
A Woman Named L.
A woman named L. Read the book of M. In something less than a house− A stranger’s strange medicine. Despite her scorn, For the word well-worn, The book on...
Sublimation
My child lovingly fashioned a silhouette from dream fragments and broken trances, and wistful moments on a park bench tottering, and behind bars crookedly drawn...
Question
Trees and a cool breeze and the damp, pungent odor of summer just begun. Diaphanous noon rays burst here and there through a canopy of green, rustling leaves. M...
Goodbye
Out there. Just beyond touch, but close enough to see, she sits upon a raft drifting farther out into the broad ocean. Amber moonlight casts her long, undulatin...
Behold the Human Spirit
The son knelt beside his dying mother. He held her hand and stroked her hair, and tears fell from his face. A silver necklace hung around her neck with a silver...