Here’s a story about six young people from not so long ago who lived in a town called Freeport and dealt with physical abuse in various ways. Paul Henry was 12 years-old, a dreamy, quick-footed kid from a large family of all sisters and no father. He was walking home one evening in October from […]
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The boy in the browning field Does not see the scattering Of crabgrass, sunflowers, or tumbleweed. He does not smell the lavender or the dull decay of a coyote kill. He does not remember the rusty beer cans He kicked off the dirt path To arrive here at this intersection. He stoops Watching a black
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At this late stage If the shoe fits Buy it. For comfort is harder to find And a little jig Can jar the memory To green fields and pop flies And star flecks of first love. Maybe even buy a second pair (the first you might yet outwear) So you won’t lose pace And become
I Long before the Great Rains of Radiation, the people had divided into two races: the Hunters and the Heavyheads. The Hunters were a tall, handsome people – outgoing, fun loving, and athletic. They shunned the Heavyheads, pointing to their large ears, orb-like eyes, short bodies, slow feet, and their preoccupation with meditative arts as
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“To love truth for truth’s sake is the principal part of human perfection in this world, and the seed-plot of all other virtues.” Locke “The vulgar crowd always is taken by appearances, and the world consists chiefly of the vulgar.” Machiavelli I am certain that I am not the only writer who is having difficulty
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Herbie was a slow, heavy, dark-skinned man who kept himself clean and well-groomed. In the summer when the weather was warm, he dressed in cotton short sleeves and plaid Bermuda shorts, and he always carried a white handkerchief to clean his wire-rim glasses or wipe away the beads that constantly reformed at the end of his large nose
Forever Forty-Something Read More »