haiku

time’s arrow just is
won’t vary in direction
you’re getting older

for Putting My Feet in the Dirt

poem

what is the relationship
between beauty and wisdom
tough to tease out because
nobody i know
seems all that beautiful or wise

for Putting My Feet in the Dirt

Words of Rediscovery

i started a diary on the day i turned thirty and kept it going without missing an entry through to the day i turned forty. every once in a while i dip into it. it runs to twenty-five large volumes.

i thought i might learn something, visiting my younger self, and i did. the past, in my memory, is indistinct, gauzy, without much affect if i don’t dwell on it. i learned, reading my words from those years, that remembrance is painful.

the good times, the bad times, just the times, are lost, irretrievable. proust spent his life attempting to recapture his past. i can’t do that. my spirit can’t sustain the wounds i experience, reading and remembering rather than simply remembering. the regret wells up, not for anything i did, but for being here, now, not there.

i’ll pass the books along to the kids, or their kids, but i haven’t been able to let go of them yet.

for Putting My Feet in the Dirt

poem

we can only resolve
the climate crisis
by treating it like
a pandemic
but shutting down
so much
will never happen
can never happen
not by us anyway
nature may be another matter

for Puttinng My Feet in the Dirt

suburban stays

I hadn’t seen my sister and her family for a while, so I arranged a visit with them in the suburbs. It’s always such an abrupt change in population density going there, that it’s a bit of a shock to my system. Families in homes laid out on streets, separated by grass and flower beds.

My sister and her husband and kids had friends scattered around the area and we would drive over to visit them. Stop at a market and pick up sundries needed for the day. Go to the occasional movie in a half-full theater.

I could only take it for so long and then I had to pack up and head out, back into the woods.

for April Writing Prompts

Honeymoon Destination

Lamplight City Windows Another sewer screenshot from yet another game...

More than a billion souls on the planet have no access to electricity, but there aren’t many cities completely bereft of it. Ngambonala is one of them. No wires, no juice. But at night, lustrous lamplight. Wander the streets with you lover on your arm, bathed in the warm yellow glow poured from the windows of preindustrial shops. Carry a gun, though, to protect yourselves from the desperately poor. The good news: you’ll be the only one so armed. Those who attack you will be using machetes, iron bars, and clubs.

for Writing Prompts

Home Sweet Home

Here it is. Kansas Corners, Hubbard, Ohio. My hometown.

I live in the brick building on the left, second floor. An apartment much like that which Charles Portis lived in (author of True Grit and Dog of the South). Different state but similar ambiance.

I walk out the door in the morning and cross “the corners” catty corner to Katy’s Corner for a light breakfast. Then next door to the massage parlour where I spend the day helping to align chakras with my bare hands.

There are about eight thousand souls in Hubbard. I haven’t handled any of the souls but I’ve handled many of their earthly containers. You could say I’m in touch with the populace.

for April Writing Prompts

haiku

spring comes too early
reluctant pouting petals
my rhythms disturbed

for April Writing Prompts

haiku

rainbow spans two clouds
the forest soaked and silent
a sign of good luck

for Putting My Feet in the Dirt

twin tornadoes

no two tornadoes are alike
not even twins
these two are spinning in opposite directions
big tornadoes can have child tornadoes around them
with grandchild tornadoes around them
all we know for certain it that for some reason, they all like trailer parks

Image: AP Photo/Stormchasingvideo.com/Assoiciated Press
for Putting My Feet in the Dirt September Writing Prompts