Alone on the Trails at Night

PoetryWritings

Nightfall. Alone on the trails. Running, lost in thought and the rhythm of my own body. Out of nowhere, blinding pain. A screech. Something attacking, hitting my head. I am stunned. Not sure. Brain racing. What just happened?  Did that really just happen? I am in shock. It happens again. Something swooping down. Claws! Claws in my

The River at Dusk

PoetryWritings

I wonder, sometimes, what it is that connect us,to who we used to be,other thanfragile memory,often rewrittenor willfully forgot.was it me — or someone else —who was here before?i think i am me now.but i probably thought so then too.so what connects those me’s i cannot say.the answer,it would seem,must lie in the simple wisdomof

gross, rude, uncalled-for and stupid

Poetry

topsy turvy, upside down, inside out, and backwords. beaten up, broken down, undernourished, and over fed. overweight, out of shape, unaware? don’t care! head down, eyes closed, over worked, and underpaid. manipulated, lied to, used, abused, and discarded. It all just seems so gross, rude, uncalled-for and stupid.