Tag Archives: Prose

Dark

What pleasure there is in sitting up on the couch in the small hours of the morning, sipping hot milk, looking out the window, where strings of orange bulbs on the horizon gleam like self-assurance, reading Whitman’s sublime Leaves of Grass, steeped in Chopin’s sweet Nocturnes, watching doctors on the silent tv fight to save […]

Best Friends

I am sitting here and the pale night-lamp, pretending to be day, spills over the desk. Leaning back on its paste-board support is a picture in a frame of Melissa and I, both in our stiff-collar, high school uniform, my hair pulled back in a pony-tail, hers in a short bob framing her face. Ironically […]

Mystery Blogger Award

  I would like to thank WCS Poetry — Food For The Heart (Bill) for nominating me to participate in this most fascinating award. Bill is the ultimate romantic poet of our century. With exquisite finesse and grasp of the limits and range of nuance, he plunges his readers into the depths of human emotion. […]

Phosphorescence

Before you, I wrote often in private. I was not concerned if nobody read my poems, only with the poems. My interests were tension, texture, emotional honesty. New words interested me for the effect they might have on those things. Funny, tension seems to alter with what we use to create it. They are not […]

Fumes that Billow

I was about to pack up for the day when the boss walked into our department. It was half past five, so the office was nearly empty. “Ah, both of you,” he said, gesturing to Paul and me. “Glad you’re still here.” I pulled a chair towards him, and Paul trotted over, straightening his after-hours […]

Storm

An old lady with a brown shopping-trolley is crossing at the lights. She turns and waddles towards the tram-stop where I am standing. Most commuters have already left, and the traffic has begun to thin. Warnings of high storms and damaging winds forecasted for the late afternoon took over the airwaves and every messaging medium […]

(Real) Estate

I sometimes go off to my country home, where the pace is slow and every moment deep. There, the world becomes small and vivid, in which one follows birds in their rustle or hears crickets list their griefs. Without looking, you could feel the sun slant upon your toes, or the air hold your face. […]