Author Archives: Ken Greenman

I need no bibles guarantee of immortality. I need simply to sit and see, growing in the grotto I cut in our woods, a young maple tree, standing among other saplings staring high into a grove of old oaks and … Continue reading →

I used to think, maybe if I can just learn to live until I die, I’d be a very lucky guy, or, maybe, if I could learn to cry whenever I needed to cry, I’d be a very lucky guy, … Continue reading →

Baby Jesus wrapped in burlap. Mary and Joseph softly glow. The nativity, wreathed in snow. We take a moment, ignoring wires, to consider the Christ, sired by the Maker of this winter and this ice. Though we rejoice with synthetic … Continue reading →

Our new cathedral, now four posted, blanketed in quilts and cotton. Our most holy place, luxury between sheets. When we take our warm communion, it is our love substantuated. Then, as two amiable spoons, cosseted in the silver drawer, we … Continue reading →

All my winter friends returned! The downy woodpecker, the downside up nut hatch, the determined black cap, even the junco, who pecks at the suet holder where once he scrounged droppings in the snow, and the big ones, the blue … Continue reading →

In dreams there is no sin. Only the awake are culpable. In a dream there is no victum, no perp, no crime. The raped and rapist,equally innocent. Nightmares rage ridden riots, grottos of horrors, merciless murders, bodies and hopes strewn … Continue reading →

But I am, not yet, me. Nor am I the me we think I am. Nor am I the me you think I am. Nor am I the me I think I am. I am, after all, still becoming. I … Continue reading →

The strength of the silken spiders web, flimsy, filmy, fluttering in the softest sigh, yet sturdy, beyond the moths strength, more powerful than the hornets hope of escape. The spider waits with prescient patience its pleasant repast. Yet worse than … Continue reading →

Ribbons of red trace through the green pines. Alleys of blood reveal an October reminder. Nature is real. She lives, bleeds, dies. Then She rises again and, like any born-again saint, She will be intolerant of unbelief.

Why was that raccoon rushing his crossing? Did he have a reason? Fear? Rage? Or was he merely rambling, ruminating about the nature of reality or the reality of Nature and on that spur of a thought, said, “Say! There’s … Continue reading →