I remember we took a walk most days that
allowed it. In step down the sidewalks,
we might have laughed at something
or another that I had said,
there was plenty of laughter
to go around then—and plenty of sidewalks.
They stretched around the river and
laced up the streets past the gym
where we met towards the house
that became our home.
Walking back, you might have smiled
or playfully slapped away my hand
from the small of your back before
leaning in to kiss my cheek.

Affection was neither of our strong suits
but it was a suit you wore better
than I did.

I remember you wore a black coat on our
first date and shrugged
out of it as we walked up to
the restaurant—baring a lone shoulder
and my first glimpse into your past.
I held the door and you rearranged
your hair, hiding it again.

I remember the scar was barely noticeable then,
me just a stranger and concerned
with so many other things.
How would the food taste?
How would the service be?
Would you like me enough to walk
those sidewalks home for another drink?

It was not until later that I would
find out what a burden that
small slip of flesh truly was.

I remember you had a slight fear of those
sidewalk cellar doors,
just enough to step around them each time
with a bit of a blush on your cheek
as if it were something to be ashamed of.

How strange, these things you remember.

This place to me now is not a city,
but an old ruin full and full of sidewalks
and, like a child with imagined lava,
I fear to touch them for the burn
of what remembrance they might bring.

I pick up the pen
and I write
because I need
to bleed my emotions
on paper and sometimes I
write
just for the hell of it and sometimes
I write because I just need
to talk to someone anyone
I just need to talk.

we have new bird boxes up
ready for the spring
meanwhile autumn comes gentle

one breath of leaves across the way

it is a tiny garden out back
overlooking the grave yard

where the men mowed the grass
stopping a while
leaning on rakes

watching the weather

Sitting alone
in the hush of the bamboo grove
I thrum my lute
and whistle lingering notes.
In the secrecy of the wood
no one can hear --
Only the clear moon
comes to shine on me.

Noah weeps
His face is the Arroyo of the desert
His hands have a stigmata
of splinters torn
from building his enormous ship.
His feet stand between the
Devil and the deep blue sea.
Charybdis and Scylla

The children of his future *****
have drowned in doctrine,
the animals he carefully chose
and placed in his craft's stalls
gone extinct.

He weeps bitter gall
and vinegar.
Hardened by hubris
his future progeny posture.
Poetry is the psalm of the
posers, the ocean
only a place of
plastic shoals.

You place the ark in a bottle.

Hold fast, ye ship of fools!
Stay your course.
You're trapped by your
own nets...

Lie in the sea you sprawl out
for others.

Your brine dungeon
awaits.


SoulSurvivor aka
Write of Passage
2022