Almost Haiku: Twenty-Five

Old cemetery tree

serene among

crosses and tombs.

About a Chaffinch


I was strolling barefoot through the garden
Thinking about what to write to you this week
When I came upon a fallen chaffinch,
Under a withered rosebush. Continue reading “About a Chaffinch”

Written In Passing


So what if instead of a post there is mostly silence?

A photograph and silence, and just a few words only, to go with them.

A few days ago I spoon-fed my grandfather soup with a teaspoon.

It was a wonderful experience.

And I hope that perhaps one day my grandson will spoon-fed me as well.

What more can one ask for?

He cannot speak, though he mumbled my name.

Other than that, he sleeps like a log,

Drifting between semi-consciousness and a comatose state.

“It’s night,” he mumbled.

He cannot open his eyes.

After a certain age, people become like old babies, I guess,

Some of them at least;

They want to return to the womb, the womb of the Earth.

Like the Russian greats above:

Quite dead for a century, yet still alive,

In print.

Our blogs could outlast us – they are not subject to decay.

Isn’t that an uneasy thought?