A place to gather words before they get lost.

Voices, echo

Words crawl inside the collective mind, a world yet to be turned from such madness

of race and division

for how shall we come together and truly begin to see each other - not beyond skin and history, but somewhere within it?

Some men rise from ash and assassination — women do, too — these fragile bonds of possibilities linger in the imagination as

Voices, echo

  • upon thinking of Martin Luther King Jr.

Methuselah's Long Shadow

What do you see, bristlecone tree, when you reach your limbs into me?

Who’ll sing of your rings, the song etched by eternity?

Where will we be, bristlecone tree, when this land returns to the sea?

Who’ll sing of these things, a world forever changed by degrees?

— Inspired by piece about bristlecones in The New Yorker

Upon this bridge of words, footsteps linger

Where writers go, readers follow — the singer

calls out the tune, a melody line, true to song

Where harmony meets melody, we, too, sing along

these stones, buried like bones, keep secrets close - like stories we keep buried deep

for Terry

Scribbled scratched and unsightly, what contains my words barely hints at the beauty beneath

left as comment at

I am the eyes in the corner of the space, where the book finds comfort, or conflict, or perhaps a bit of both, all at once, even, and all I really need is quiet, a chance to ponder the conundrum of story

left as comment at

the rope grips my hands, my fingers raw from worry; when weather changes, so do I

Spring yawns, its warm breath the death of cold winter days; and then sleep, again

Stories splinter, don't they?

Some become dust

Others must settle before they can be told

Too many words waiting in the wings yet never one enough

choosing is tough

but if we focus close our eyes wander the mind

what surfaces may well be what we need to proceed

smooth where the world seems rough