poem
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“The years apart folded into a single breath,and the greater homecoming—to her, to Him—lit the universe with a quiet, unending hello.” It’s been twenty-five years, give or take a shimmer,since I last saw your shadow spill across the floor,a silhouette I knew for thirty-three tender turns of the earth.I’m older now—older than you ever carved
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“I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.”— William Ernest Henley, from “Invictus” (1875) Bathsheba, Veiled in MistI watch, unblinking,through the shadowed pane—I’m a silhouette cloaked in intent,my gaze a thread you can’t hold.Your form falters under my stare,cloth clings too tight,a confession I don’t need to hear.I feel
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“Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.”— Lao Tzu I left behind boyhood’s warm embrace,To chase manhood’s fleeting, hurried pace,Thinking joy was locked in that new space,But found instead an empty, hollow place. Then spent my years in restless, vain pursuit,To find the boy, to lost joy impute,Believing he could make my heart refute,But
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The day stretched long, yet held its grace,I toiled in fields, dirt beneath my nails a trace.My back groaned low, lifting burdens high,A job or two I sought beneath the sky. A younger me, with frustration rife,Spoke of bills, of girls, of a carless life.Gas too dear, the reason he was late,I heard his woe,
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Home from a long day, I turn on Vivaldi’s Four Seasons and let my mind slip free from the shackles of routine. I drift into the music, becoming part of it, letting it steer my thoughts. It builds a world through one voice and many—instruments weaving together, tempos shifting, crescendos rising, then resting, only to
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I live in a roomwithout a heart—not that I’m gone,but it feels that part. They used to come,“Grandma’s new place!”—a pool, a clubhouse,wide-open space.But had I knownit was a guise,to strip me bareof dignity’s prize,I’d have stayedin my home, my own,where the hallway’s wornby children grown,their racing feet,their candy smears,walls alivewith fleeting years. There, my
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Luna, It’s Saturday, and my pen itches to spill a line or two,to bridge the quiet miles and catch you up on this snow-draped day.A foot of white has tumbled down, with six more inches whispering near,and Monday looms with threats of yet another heavy shroud. There’s a hush in freshly fallen snow, a tender
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He’s sitting there, teeth clenched in his mouth,mouthing the last line of a Madonna song—a virgin, cherry popped—and it spirals: Hostess pies,lunchbox dreams,Twinkies, deep-fried in a skillet,sizzling next to a T-bone, rare. A dog flashes by, socks on its paws,German Shepherd, retired police,once ate a cat—had to put him down.Dad comes next,cancer stole his voice,then
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“The tools of conquest do not necessarily come with bombs and explosions and fallout. There are weapons that are simply thoughts, attitudes, prejudices… a thoughtless, frightened search for a scapegoat has a fallout all its own.” — Rod Serling I swing the hammer against the anvil of the day,each strike a clang of bone and
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You carried wounds you never asked for,shadows that were never yours to hold.Yet, when it was your turn,you chose to fight instead of fold. No one showed you how to heal,yet you learned,through trial, through error,through nights you thought you’d break.Still, you rose. The weight of silence pressed against your throat,but you spoke.The echoes of
BB Grey--musings 