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Continue reading →: Peeping Mom
She is peeping over papers, stuff that has heaped since her death. All I see is eyes. Sometimes, Mom, sometimes me thinks it would be good to sit and sip coffee and chat.
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Continue reading →: White Noise On The Morning
Clouds touch down through the gravity. The field, self assured, lies as a carpet under the cream mist. Bare feet on tufts impress the humus. Humility bends like kneeling fog.
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Continue reading →: Toilet Paper. Three Sheets to the Wind.
Toilet paper. That was the first thought that rolled across my mind this morning. Then I tore off the sheet and got out of bed. Toilet paper? Would it be over the top to write about it? It was stuck in the wrinkles of my brain last night. Frank McCourt…
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Continue reading →: untitled post 1278
Originally posted on Gerald the Writer: It’s not that I don’t want to. The mix isn’t right. Too much salt. I’m dried up… But I don’t want to be. The after burn is gone. No tracks to trace. No liquid pearls. At one point in each visit our eyes…
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Continue reading →: In Between
Who knows where wonder lusts, and how gold retains the end of all layered compulsion. The push pins of night will stick a staggered light, and day lids will fall again.
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Continue reading →: untitled post 1270
Originally posted on Gerald the Writer: They passed by. The waves of storms rolled toward sunrise. To the west a rainbow was pierced with a serrated knife of electricity. To the east tufts of clouds like pale pink umbrellas hung. Intervals of solid rain tucked me under the soffit…
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Continue reading →: Yellow or Gold, the gift of color gives.
Right below is the link to Claudia Schoenfeld’s Poem After meeting Van Gogh Yellow has been a theme of late which began with an iphone picture of a freshly cut hay field. Then thoughts of Vincent Van Gogh. Then a friend…
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Continue reading →: Look Both Ways, But By All Means, Look.
No parent wants their child to play in traffic. This parent didn’t know so many children are the traffic. Women and children jammed in a highway of hell. The wheels of hollow men merge, spinning faster in banal queues. Oppressor and oppressed become shells, abandoned cars. No body wins.…
Gerald the Writer 