prose

Rear viewed

Time is short,

and getting shorter,

I know this

more and more

every day.

Middle age

is technically

behind me.

The path ahead

is shorter

than what came before…

shattered….

Just shattered.

I am crawling forward

while looking over

my shoulder.

How can I embrace what’s left

if I can’t see it

coming?

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Daddy is not in

It’s a chore…

and I try to do my best,

(thank god I love him).

The reward is often

a glance

at a precious photo

or a moment when

he says my name….

It doesn’t matter…

It makes the day

priceless.

These kids can only throttle us

with the rope we’ve given them…

this crazy helix of promise

that only bears fruit

if we don’t kill them

first.

Don’t feed the demon

We have all been wounded

by those who judge,

hurl invectives,

put up barriers

or physically abuse.

We have been scarred

and marked by it.

But this

is not

our narrative.

These aggressions,

these demonstratives…

that’s their narrative.

Let it be their epitaph.

It is not the prologue

to our story.

It is what we do despite these things

that will serve to inform

who we are.

Mother’s Day

As I think about things,

my feelings,

the worst parts about

what it is that I am…

I try to remember

that I am just working my way

through the world

one day at a time.

It’s easy to offer advice

to the people around us,

to tell folks,

“I did this, and you should too”.

The reality is,

on any given day,

we’re working out

what it is

we’re supposed to be.

Nobody knows anything.

There are no geniuses,

there are just,

after the fact,

sages…

Let’s instruct

one – another.

Dirt museum

The valley here

was once the pantry

to the world.

Today the remnants

of its past

are lonely silos

standing silent sentinel

over the empty acreage

of forgotten farmland.

Here and there

fields still function

but mostly some urban warriors

working to reinvent

the archaic.

Somewhere East

lie the factory farms,

their efficiency

unparalleled

and unromantic.

Like accusing fingers,

raised to the sky,

these unnumbered silos

force a remembering

that shames us.