And now sit on the white brick
Monday, December 3, 2012
And now sit on the white brick
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Monday, October 15, 2012
Friday, September 28, 2012
Monday, September 10, 2012
Monday, August 27, 2012
Here is a pantoum I wrote about the beach:
Saturday, August 4, 2012
Friday, June 29, 2012
He forces everything down deep inside
Note- The 4th line translates from French as "Come here my dear"
Friday, June 1, 2012
Monday, May 14, 2012
His dirty sneakers slam into puddles, slush and sun baked pavement.
5 miles a day.
1,825 miles a year.
Every morning, every evening.
through rain, sleet, snow and hail, he runs.
His apparel varies with the weather.
He is a star of track and field.
hurdling every obstacle with ease.
Long and lanky.
A fine specimen his coach says.
a man with a round belly and a yellow visor.
he could never keep up with his students.
as his students run, the coach jogs around the track.
Yelling, "Faster" "Harder"
An ever ticking stopwatch clutched in his hand
as his shrill sounding whistle bounces
up and down on his chest.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
He doesn’t see everything in the world.
Only part of it,
It is simpler for him.
He sees the world through
Lewis Hine’s lens.
Black and White.
His ailment goes unnoticed.
All the crowd wants is a show.
They shout and cheer until their throats are sore.
What do they care anyway?
It should be his palace; He should be comfortable there.
He’s more of a Ferdinand.
Would rather sit lying in the wildflowers,
Then be in the arena.
Where the ground is covered in thick dust.
And there is no peace and quiet.
The matadors don’t understand.
Why he doesn’t respond to the color
They’ve tried them all
To no avail.
He doesn’t understand why the crowd
Jeers and boos.
The other bulls do.
The tease him
A simple “Kick me” sign would do
Made by horns
Line his side.
It’s always the same
The Matador reluctantly
Drops the red cape
He looks half asleep
The crowd boos.
He is led away.
Just 54 ties.
It is no life for a colorblind bull.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
The wind blew remnants of the house across the forest scattering debris among the trees. A long piece of gutter blew and entangled itself in the branches of an elm. The trees were green and vibrant but no birds were perched in their lush branches. The whir and rumble of a car motor broke the silence and soon a Model T slowly came into view. The car drove on a dirt road and its tire crunched over small pebbles that were lodged in the dirt. The windows were tinted and the car looked out of place in the spring foliage. When the black car was parallel with the remains of the house it slowed to a stop. The window slid down and a man with binoculars looked out of it. His pale skin had a green tinge to it and he had bags under his narrowed eyes. Underneath the navy blue binoculars he smiled and rolled up the window. The car drove away leaving tire tracks in the dirt. Silence was all that remained.
Bells tolled loudly sending a startled flock of pigeons into hasty flight. The dark square was relatively empty except for a few street performers who stood drearily in the thin drizzle. Most of the shops in the square were closed and the cobblestones were lit only by a couple of dim street lamps.