Monthly Archives: August 2018

Gone are the 8 o’clock sunsets

How much was left undone by summer’s end, in the corner of our back yard by the maple tree. The work was coming in again, with everyone coming back from vacations and wanting their things fast-tracked, rush jobs. Learning all … Continue reading

Posted in identity, prose, writing | Tagged , , , , , , | 18 Comments

Catching up with Pablo

At the end of a long day I cleaned myself in the back yard with Pablo Neruda, setting him down on my stomach, rubbing my eyes the way you would a catcher’s mitt, breaking it in. And I remembered a … Continue reading

Posted in Memoir, prose, writing | Tagged , , , , , , | 13 Comments

That last Sunday in Prague

Brad said he was getting up at 5 to photograph the Charles Bridge. That time of day, it’s only the serious photographers out and the drunks. He described scenes of people on their sides getting sick, some passed out, unclear … Continue reading

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Song for late summer’s sorrow

When the sun came out it hardly mattered with the wildfire smoke and clouds and cloying mood that comes from late summer days you’ve seen enough of: No, the sun was going under, swallowed and swollen, buried by messy, careless … Continue reading

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Walking down the unlit hallway of life

Outside in the mid-afternoon there was just the sound of birds and kids and cars going by. It was too hot for anything, everyone hanging onto the edges by the shade. I’d gotten up when the church bells struck six … Continue reading

Posted in death, Memoir, travel | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , | 24 Comments

In the Alps with Eberhard | Size Really Does Matter

We went back to the Austrian Alps and it was the same as it was last time, ending our hike on an old chair lift, coming down the valley with the sound of cowbells and accordion music drifting up, back … Continue reading

Posted in hiking, humor, Memoir, travel, writing | Tagged , , , , | 31 Comments

Dream of forgetfulness in the wake of night

In the papery pre-light of dawn my wings like a honey bee’s begin to break down my body a weight I can’t let go, these words are the weights when they hang here, unsaid.

Posted in identity, poetry, writing | Tagged , , , | 6 Comments