Previously published in Yellow Medicine Review
The dreamt-of people are more numerous than us. But take no space…
They gather around me,
shimmering the air,
recalling for me
the days and people past.
Mostly, when they remember,
strong brewed coffee,
lilacs in bloom,
just cut grass,
wet leaves in fall, or
thunder during a summer's morning storm.
Sometimes, though, it's more complicated,
because they have their own
It's like looking into a mirror,
and again, again, again.
They recall for me those people
whose endings were retold in newspapers
tucked into Mom's hand-stitched leather purse,
the one she kept hidden in her closet
away from prying child eyes.
Or they recall for me those people
whose stories were placed in Grandma's scrapbook
where every misfortune that fell upon her small town
were gathered together in yellowed pages
bound with a delicate cord.
When it's like that,
to hide their sadness,
they laugh and drink in remembrance,
just like we do,
and clink their glasses
over my head.
raining upon me.
Previously Published in Haunted Waters Press
Walking after midnight
with a man
it was a crazy love,
a Patsy Cline song
played to life
in the well-worn
Their chance encounter in
the skid-row hotel hallway,
and I became
their records' scratch.
It was the late 50s,
and they did what was expected,
what was supposed to be right.
There was a single room
overlooking the train depot
and she tried to calm
the baby through the rumble
of the evening's Empire Builder.
But the Seagram's 7 sign flashed
throughout the nights, and maybe
that pulsing whiskey light ruined her blood.
It ran through a vein of thirst,
nearly under control
until it wasn't,
and then they just did
whatever they could.
Regardless of the genre of art, the artist is sharing an emotion, a thought, a story. I find the stories in others' art and use them to create my own.