Tuesday, November 02, 2021
Wednesday, October 06, 2021
hot humid day.
Captain of the ship (a boat with a shade awning) is on the shore of the lake
smoking a cigarette.
The crew of two (the wife and the daughter) are lugging the lemonade and the beer and bag of sandwiches and snacks through knee deep muddy water
to wet sandy feet
to the blanket he laid down on somewhat soppy Bermuda grass.
The flies on alert,
the mosquitoes’ flight-pitch elevating,
a puff of smoke disorients them
but only momentarily.
“You shouldn’t smoke!”
comes the call from just up-shore,
from a kid with a stick poking holes in the mud.
“It scares away the bugs,” says the captain with a stain-toothed smile.
The picnic is ready.
The cigarette is stubbed out.
The eating commences.
The ants began marching
when the blanket went down.
Thursday, May 27, 2021
Wednesday, May 26, 2021
Wednesday, March 03, 2021
Sunday, February 21, 2021
Tonight I looked up
And zeroed in on one star
Missing the wonder I used to feel about stars,
Not even the internal dialogue about
How the light I see tonight emanated long ago.
That conversation wasn’t there.
There was no magic
Just a feeling that the stars,
Well there they just are—
At least the ones we can still see
In our light bleached night sky
And they might be all gone to us eventually
And what if we get used to it?
Once, one spoke to me, offering good sense and comfort as my heart was being broken
But I dismissed it and ran headlong into the night of trying to unravel, undo the reality that was presenting itself; that actually he was gone to me already.
Tonight this star with its clear blue sear
Said ha, you wonder why you are not wondering.
This time I said thank you.