writing
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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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Give me the steel rails humming beneath, my head against the cool window, watching the rolling landscape unfold like a living movie reel. In this theater of motion, I become both scriptwriter and audience. The countryside slides by frame by frame, and I craft stories from each passing scene. A train offers a rare symphony
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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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Oh, this one’s a cinch—let’s roll through it. Ever? Jesus. Strolled across water, turned H2O into happy hour, and owned it like a boss. All human, all God—confidence dialed to eleven. (We’ll table that divine chat for another day—maybe over nachos.) In history? Alexander the Great. Dude didn’t just call himself “The Great”—he lived it.
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March 16, 2025—halfway through the month, and my birthday looms just weeks away. Fifty-something isn’t a number that demands a parade or a spotlight, but it’s another lap around this vast, spinning blue planet. Lately, I’ve been hearing Frank Sinatra’s I Did It My Way on the radio, its familiar notes pulling me into a
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Negative thoughts? Oh, they’re like that one a-hole ex who won’t stop texting you—just lurking in the back of your brain, ready to pop up and ruin your vibe at the worst possible moment. Research says you need three positive hits to cancel out one of those soul-sucking negatives, but in relationships? Buckle up, buttercup,
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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
BB Grey--musings 