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Author Archives: Ken Greenman
147 Honoring Abe
I will lift weights, run off my buns, do sit-ups by the score, maybe even four score and seven in honor of Lincoln before he grew old enough to die so suddenly of a stopped heart. That’s how we all … Continue reading
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146 King of the bird feeders
The biggest squirrel chases the others around the feeder, dashes down the pole to the ground, up again, around the box, until, alone, he perches on top, nibbling seed, guarding his throne, king, while oaks, maples, firs, soar above him, … Continue reading
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145 Deer Path
You can see the path, the route the deer took, if only you look. The soil is pressed, leaves are flat, twigs are broken. The little brown pebbles they leave as tokens in white snow, in green grass, in orange … Continue reading
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144 cronic siezures
After years of fallings down, what if, without them, I still fall down? Ashes, ashes if I still fall down. Dust to dust if I can’t stand up.
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143 To Moe Downing on his dying
His soul now, robed in wonder, trailing light, fueled by joy. Nothing now can weigh his back, no tears can quench his fire, no pain can hinder his motion, no stumble in his path. His soul, now free, travels.
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142 On the cliff
I am dying to live! Aching for a life beyond the womb. Caring little for a life beyond the tomb, this existance full enough, once at a time. So, for now, At the edge of this storm blasted sea cliff, … Continue reading
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141 Reason to envy
I am envious of the unborn, the fetus nestled in mothers womb or in the minds of little girls who only play at cribs and dollies. I am jealous of that first smack and cry. For though he may be … Continue reading
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140 Christmas barn birth
Manure, ice, straw, blood greet the winter birth. Fascinating, hypnotic to watch a holsteins travail. The gory infant, hooves and nose first, a baby bull, destined for slaughter. The struggle for the right to struggle for short sucks on an … Continue reading
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139 Thoughts from Sheri’s death
I ache for men who cannot cry. Who, for whatever reason, bottle their pain in stiff lipped containers. Who twist inside, contort the soft framework of their souls so not to let one tear slip from their eyes to wash … Continue reading
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138 Maribeths first death
Timothy, the lumbering dumb puppy, paws to big for his legs, ears to long for his head, followed innocently after Big Red, the setter, chasing cars, trucks, tractors, with puppies daring, but no skill. The lumbering dumb puppy had no … Continue reading
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