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Thanks Siva

Thanks all

Wavering At The Door Too late I arrive at the family's request. They sit around the blocked body like a mistake. What I tell them, they hear as a meaningless aside. I bathe and dress him on the bed, rolling his body side to side, searching for a sign in his eyes that move like pendulums side to sid...

Thanks Billy

At the witching hour of 4 AM, I wake myself cursing aloud the people in my dreams. Jasper and Boaz abandon their posts; one draped over the back of the La-Z- boy, the other from his corner of the couch. They flank me from both sides as if they were Egyptian gods protecting an acolyte, the smallness ...

Thanks Bob

Thanks Michael

The very hairs on my head are numbered. I want to square accounts, but lost count after sixty seven thousand four hundred and three. When I was fourteen, I stole a watch from a blind woman. I began looking at girlie magazines later that same year, until my mother found them under my mattress. The fi...

Thanks Michael

Fascinating poem

There is plenty of time. No need to be concerned.

Thanks Bob and Billy

Excellent

Very spiritual. But you don't have to be spiritual to appreciate. Well done without being preachy or overly obvious.

Because the only way to supplant
death is with greater death.

Because he would not be taken
or killed by the Infidels, he blew

up his entire family, spackled
the whitewash with his devotion

in the palm groves of Syria where
even God looks over his shoulder.

Thanks Siva

Solemn. I believe every word. There is ambiguity that makes me doubt the baby was only sleeping. I can't tell if you meant that, but it's intriguing. Good write.

Thanks Billy

Thanks Bob

Thanks Bob and Billy

Requiem For A Unicorn The elders say a dead man went missing from a cave, and there is a place with no more sickness, fear, want or pain. My brother put his back into his faith, living what he believed, traveling to other countries building schools, hospitals, digging wells and planting crops. He se...

Second on Sojourn

I've nominated this

Five times she was stoned on the beach where rocks are hard to gather. She was too beautiful, porcelain skin the color of old moon light, tattooed blue-crab on her right shoulder blade one craw open, one snapping sharply when you came close. Between the pier and pump house, her hair an apostasy of t...

Great minds