Sometimes we think we hear / their laughter clambering over / the back yard’s seven foot fence, / while we chuck boredom at the opposite kerb / and catch it bouncing back again.
poetry: Kids at the house with the fancy curtains Read More »
Babylonia I am as close to the start as I am to the end. So these are my instructions. And I can’t hear you, anywhere. And weather takes place in the home. Smudge glass to gaze through glass. Clean every view. Grow root crops, quiet, in the garden. Keep an empty-ish glade, snot-toned pollen, a
Grown-ups drinking with friends – a barbecue in may. it’s the first summer weekend since we got the back garden to host in. meat moist as soap on a plate by the grill. I laid it out. we bought too many sausages stickered in lidl and cheap. and too many cheap beers – people always
they all write so well,
but then, they have space
to stretch out in. american
poets have it better
than anyone else. all that undiscovered
country could make anyone
make anything so easily. all that sky…
poetry: It’s easy to say from outside Read More »
Epiphany [not in the sense manifestation of Christ to Gentiles as represented by Magi (Matthew 2:1-12)] Despite Jewish law’s at least soft prohibition as a physician plus human I’ve been all-in about end of life thoughtful autonomy for those of us who are considered to have terminal ills. But since around block witness to state-certified
Citrus My friend often stops by at lunch to talk about our kids–how hard it is and how lovely. It usually happens, because I love them, that I’m eating an orange, or a mandarin, Sumo, blood orange, temple–one of that whole bodacious family of juicy mamas, and I separate a section or two bursting with
Liquid Courage Rhonda finds the perfect purple ball on the rack that fits her slim fingers snugly, hefts it skyward with one hand, gel-lacquered nails disappearing into the drilled holes. “Remember this color,” she says. “I want my eyes to be this color.” I nod, pulling out the little wire-bound notebook I keep in my
poetry: Liquid Courage Read More »
Guess Who Is your person wearing a hat? Mark asks, leaning his metal folding chair against the cabin wall with a creak, steepling his fingers behind his head. I’m looking at the sunbeams streaming through the open windows, the gauzy curtains flapping lazily in late July breeze, terns on the wing over the lake, my
I don’t want to die but if i do I hope not to burn in Hell forever but burn in Heaven, be on fire for Jesus as our Sunday School teacher says it, burning the very best way she sings out so Sunday after church I returned to our classroom, empty then but for God
poetry: I don’t want to die but if I do Read More »
Bookmarks It might be a receipt, a bus ticket, or if you need that ticket to return on, the foil paper ripped from a half-packet of gum, an old hairclip, something humdrum, a pen, or even, in desperation, a tissue, slightly used (do not judge them) or whatever else can be foraged from the handbag’s