poem
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October 21, 2025 I tried to find meaning in the numbers today,arranging them forward and backward,stacking them like tired integers.They all fall in their twenties,and perhaps that is meaning enough. Today is like any other dayonly in this: it will not return.This notch on the yardstick of time,rigid, measured, singular,exists for me alone.The One who
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I feel the air against my face,tugging the hair from my eyes.The sun sings its same old refrain,assuring me the day has no end,and this kingdom of dirt and lightis mine to rule. Come here, friend, I tell a ladybug,and study her through the glass,a tiny iced donut from Winchell’s shop.When I stare too long,wings
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The sun is practicing its escape,pulling a blanket of cloudsover its tired shoulders.I watch it go. This gray afternoon has been a thief,lifting me from my own life,leaving me with thoughtsthat don’t fit my hands. I’ve been counting victories,stacking them against the losses.The sky holds its own scale—evening will be the judge. There is a
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Journal Edition The mind is quiet this morning.No blaze, just a low light.That’s okay. The world insists we know at once,as if understanding were a switch,not a seed. I dreamt a stalk rising into the sky,a ladder of green—something to send me upand bring back downwhat I knew could grow. So much of what we
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Some people are addicted to chaos because peace is unfamiliar.—Unknown The calendar circles something close. I don’t mean to wound—only to tell the truth: we’re speaking across a distance we built, one line at a time. You said, “We need to have a conversation.” It lands like corporate speak, a eulogy before the body’s even
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After the squirrel, after the bread I. 4 a.m. — the heater hums its question. Afternoon, the air conditioner answers back. Between them: my body, a pendulum of want. II. Winter is a furnace. Summer, the frantic living. But here, autumn — I am learning the grammar of letting go while still breathing. The verb
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It’s Friday, which is supposed to mean something—and I suppose it does, to those people. The ones I imagine still belong to the Thank-God-It’s-Friday congregation. Their voices rise like smoke from a distant fire I can no longer smell. But at fifty-seven, when there’s so little left to kill, Friday arrives like fog along a
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The night bled outthrough a failed attempt,a fragile line. A voice, thin as the trace on an EKG,spoke your existence—some other time— spiked. then fell. An earthquake, somewhere.A flatline.A beep. And me—caught inside the mouth of silence,where every wordarrives too late. One shot to speak.One prayer it was enough.But the map of failureglows brighter than
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I thought how lucky I’d been —you plunged both hands into my chest,fished the last beast out by its roots,proud as some surgeon of sorrow.You called it mercy. I called it vacancy.A wind now whistles through the chamberwhere furious heat once kept me warm. We die on hills we did not choose, and some we
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Rain in my boots once taught methat misery seeps upward,one cold inch at a time.Feet chilled, blood chilled,the whole body trickedinto believing joy was impossible. Life does this too:one regret, one old griefrunning its circuit like a tide,turning the warm currentinto undertow. Today, I’m on my knees,teaching how to lay flooring.Snap, click, measure, cut.Start at
BB Grey--musings 