We heave up our shoulders to carry the stones of this world, the weight of grief, the bonds of labor,  the hard-forged metals of indifference and fear, the gravity of orbiting stars, repelling, spinning, then pulling close When you wait for the moon, it will fool you, appearing like a phantom, disappearing when you desire it the most, covered […]

Driving across the Flint Hills at dawnThe fog was rising like spirits out of the prairiehiding the new sun from me and my precious cargo Look Grandpa, the moon, said Liza, the babe of nearly threeMaxwell, the ten year old raised by philosophers and artistsCarefully explained water droplets suspended in airAnd how it was in

There was a rocket set loose in a tangled yard. Neither stone nor weed nor any living thing could deter this beast of bone and fur from its newly appointed rounds. Circle after circle, stone after stone, weed after every darn weed. Eventually escape velocity is reached and Zelma banks hard around the final fence

for The Boat by Aaron Fowler and Peter Mader We all enter this life alone, in a boat of our own. We all wonder – just how big is this ocean? Where will it take me? What will I need along the way? And, most importantly, who will join me? We spend a lifetime answering

First, the original herb, locked in chocolate – soft, mysterious and aimed at the heart. It can be followed only by the arabic elixir, god-like in its dreaming and chilled by lightning bolts. Then, as the night deepens, there will be the angry root of ginger – brewed sweet and steeped in limón and roses,

I saw an image of myself the other day, a portly older gent sitting alone at the front table, nodding to Monk, content with some French roast and a baguette, some rumor about an outside world filters in. I don’t think that’s me. Neither am I the guy impressing (or not) the wanna-be fashion model

Loft is a factor of air density and wing shape, velocity is a product of forward thrust and the sheer joy of flight, altitude is determined by the shape of the ground below. Persistence is essential in the history of flight, just old bicycle parts and bias-stretched fabric over light ash was all it took. We

The Earth swings away from winter tonight, drops those tiny kisses on our foreheads  and loosens up the rust from our frozen toes It’s just a lumbering beast that we’re stuck on the back of, we can’t abide the passing of seasons without his true and harmonious self. We just play the same record each

Tonight I built a fire to honor the Flower Moon. She is waiting for me, standing full and luscious in a cloudless, windless sky. The air is neither cool nor warm but is fragrant of both ice and fire. If I position my chair just right, I can see bits of her through the hackberry

A woman’s sixth and last child is born on Mother’s Day. The child carries water borne on the shoulders of the others, in pouches of cloth and leather, filtered through lives and days of the common, the unusual and the fantastic. The child dreams in metaphors, touches colors, speaks in lost tongues, waits in long