As a young newspaper photographer, I saw some pretty horrific things. Continue reading Crybaby
“I’m done resting Ethan, how ‘bout you?” I whisper.
We both feel soft after practicing yoga and our hour-long, turning-within meditation technique. We’re still resting on the large mat that covers half the floor of our studio apartment. Two years ago while learning this technique, we met and three months later we moved-in, meditating together ever since. Continue reading The Caregiver
Lady feels liberated. She glides through the hallway. The day’s events sift and fall through her head like fairy dust. Blue carpeting ripples under foot like a rising tide.
THE TORN, TATTERED AMERICAN FLAG LIES ON MY
NEIGHBOR’S DECK NEXT TO THE TWISTED SECTIONS OF
METAL THAT ONCE WERE HIS GUTTER.
TORRENTS OF WATER GUSHED THRU THE ROOF, THE STEADY
DRIPPING OF WHICH I CAN STILL HEAR BETWEEN THE
SHEETROCK AND STUDS.
PEEKING THRU THE REMNANTS OF RIPPED
ROOFING SHINGLES , ARE THE RAFTERS AND JOISTS, EXPOSED
TO A SUN AND SKY THEY NEVER SAW BEFORE.
THE REAR ROOF, RISING FOUR FEET UP THE RIDGE LINE,
WAS TORN OFF FROM ONE END OF THE HOME TO THE OTHER.
AROUND THE CORNER, CARS LAY CRUSHED BY TREES THAT
HAD STOOD PROUD FOR GENERATIONS, NOW RENT UP BY
THE ROOTS AND LAY LIKE FALLEN SOLDIERS ON A
THE MUSTY ODOR OF MUD, DUST, WATER AND ROOTS SMELLS
DIFFERENT FROM ANYTHING I HAVE INHALED –
AND LINGERS IN MY LUNGS.
OUR LANDSCAPE AND OUR HOMES HAVE BEEN
TRANSFORMED INTO SOMETHING THAT IS SURREAL AND
THE BEWILDERMENT AND REALIZATION THAT A TORNADO
CAN CAUSE SUCH DEVASTATION – IS INCOMPREHENSIBLE —
UNTIL ONE IS WITNESS TO IT.
BUT JUST AS MY NEIGHBOR RAISES THE AMERICAN FLAG AND
SECURES IT IN THE BRACKET — SO WILL OUR TOWN RISE AND
STRONGER THAN BEFORE.
For most of my adult life, I would call my parents, but only once a week. Even into my retirement, I had to preserve my sense of independence. But their average age is now over ninety, so our daily phone calls reassure me they are stable and I energize them with my adventures.
On Halloween Eve, while Rick littered his front lawn with mock foam tombstones, his former neighbor Chuck stopped to visit. They shook hands. Chuck was close to 50, his once brown hair now peppered with gray. Rick hadn’t seen him in years. “What’s up, man?”
My best writing? Right about now. Unless it was earlier.
*Originally written for Pawling Public Radio’s “America the Beautiful” poetry presentation
I lay on the land, grass tickling bare toes.
Descendants of descendants of descendants of the first ants to explore the soil