Author Archives: Ken Greenman

It occurred to me this morning, I have the same hair color as my Father. I started out a tow head, he started out a brunette, but we have met today in balding shades of gray. I know people say … Continue reading →

So, when the lady said, after a pleasant first date, “Do you want to come inside for a little while?” I thought, “What does she mean?” And since I could not quite uncover it, or get the lay of the … Continue reading →

I threw a book at the cat this morning for I was well provoked. He was so – intentional, scratching on the wicker chest, his cloying hint to be let out or fed or petted or something or nothing, just … Continue reading →

Because I’m nuts, I find wierd exercise as I walk the woods and look for trees, bent over, dead, but still standing and I push them down as they deserve. I knock ’em over, these bent and broken birch for … Continue reading →

Beware bent, broken birches, white skeletons on forest path who could not, by either strength or flex survive wicked winter winds. Beware grasping birch bones which trip you along your way. Fruitless to ponder why that birch but not this … Continue reading →

The anarchists face, the dictators face, is the same face. It’s in the eyes. Eyes that will not see where my nose begins, eyes blind to all but Will, the Will to see as they will, no matter what their … Continue reading →

In the lacey laberinth of leaf and limb lies a path to nest and nuts, unmarked, but to those who know the map. Up the trunk, out on the branch, tetering on a bending, bending, bending twig, s t r … Continue reading →

I admire the leaf unhurried. Who is in no rush to be buried. Who holds to life, through wind, storm, ice, holds tight for he knows where he’s bound if he’s blown to the ground.

“….and then I woke up” But there was nothing to be like, scared about, you know? It was just a nightmare. The 747 I wasn’t flying wasn’t about to explode. From the Everest I wasn’t climbing, I wasn’t gonna off … Continue reading →

The life span of a leaf is brief. From springs gold birth to summers green, to Autumns red and then she’s dead. But in her time, she’s worn the robes God weaves so fine. She’s fluttered in breeze, kited on … Continue reading →