nostalgia
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A broken clock is correct twice a day. It strikes true.Its hands remain motionless.Gears, sprockets, jewels, springs—all frozen. You and me?Two pictures. The clock keeps timethe same way you and I do— twice a day,working,doing time.
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Hey Dad!Her tiny voice—a small, blue birdat the nest’s edge.She’d remembered her way home,but her mom wasn’t there,and I hadn’t set footthere in years. Hey sweet pea, great to hear your voice.How’s work, your new place, your husband?It sounded strange—my own words,a slow fall from grace. Chirp, chirp, she went on,a new song I’d never
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I grew up in that age when television screens stretched anywhere from a 13-inch “personal” set to a 28-inch family behemoth. In our house, we had one TV—24 inches, rabbit ears on top, wood panel sides, and a dial that clicked its way from channels 2 through 13 on VHF. Channel 3 was just snow,
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Hey Dad, How’s the view from where you are? Is Jesus keeping you company, sharing stories over some cosmic equivalent of coffee? Yesterday was your birthday—eighty-one, if time even bothers to count where you are. Do you celebrate, or is that date just a faint echo of a life left behind? I wonder, sometimes, if
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I’ve built some incredible homes as a general contractor, but one stands out—the “Disney Home.” The homeowner and designer told us to let our imaginations run wild. I built a treehouse bedroom with a 15-foot-wide trunk, rope bridges, and a ceiling that lit up with constellations. The craftsmanship was unforgettable, and the bonds formed
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“Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere. They’re in each other all along.” — Rumi In fields of wheat spun gold at harvest’s crest,as storm-blue skies, speckled with grey,spill rain like rose petals—nude and pink—against ivory clay, smooth, untouched,waiting for the weight of oil and pastel,for the whisper of charcoal, for colors in between. A stroke of
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Capaldi weeps for nothing.I shuffle forward in the queue of the dead,never once lifting my head,feeling I should create for something. Emperor penguins,a waiting room—life and death strung on a clothesline,attire we wear to tear yet still look fine. Morning clock strikes noon.Motors purr, then roar, then still.Now becomes soon.Restlessness makes for ill. Scurry
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I smoked my first Parliament cigarette today. I’m not a smoker, but I’ve had maybe 40 cigarettes in my life. Second-hand smoke? I lived with a father who smoked two packs a day until I left for college. Google tells me I’ve smoked ‘20 pack-years’(a back year being 20 cigarettes) indirectly. Add my own, and
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Morning usually brings hope, so I continue to wake up earlier and earlier. Night has the greatest despair, so I toy with the balance at 3:30 AM. I have always sprung to wake at this time, even when I was married with “kids nestled upstairs in their beds.” Now that the kids are gone, the
BB Grey--musings 