Author Archives: Ken Greenman

Hollow jangles, clanks, bounced off cold gray blocks and patterns of steel. Echoes reechoed, echoed and died. Faces stared through thin cracks, peep holes of cells. Eyes followed feet past door,wall,face, bar, door, wall, face, bar, gone down corridors through … Continue reading →

In answer to my curious, but not morbid question, “I wonder how I’ll die?” comes another question asked by the Evesdropper, far off. “Now, Kenneth,it doesn’t matter, really, does it? Enjoy pink blossoms, turquoise sky, long smooth thigh… I’ll call … Continue reading →

I don’t have time to die. Don’t remind me of deaths incidentals. I’m living forever. Life grows, intwining around me, a breathing, woven vine. I wander my maze, no exit signs, no rememberance of enterance, watching friends to their amazment, … Continue reading →

I admire the moment of suddenly sinking into the dark tunnel. We know its coming must come, the when, exactly, is the constant unknown. So, our train speeds with such- purpose and the darkness comes and we never see it … Continue reading →

I rode a horse named Pardise around the carousel and never once went anywhere, but neither did I care. For a merry-go-round is a wonderous toy, all lights and music in motion and what else matters but beauty and joy … Continue reading →

comes that equalibrium: momentary momentums-cease peace and madness-balanced the world sits- panting or sleeps- disturbed while the teeter totters.

the candle flickers bright in sightless midnight. its mellow glow gifts my room with sight. my paintings, desk, books, some still unread, revealed. on my table sits an apple, cheese, bread. soft candle flame in day of no effet, so … Continue reading →

shell strewn shore gives witness to carnage. weary waves wash ashore, an ocean repelled by sand. a shattered sliver of some long slaughtered scallop, a sea urchins prickily dome, hollow, its life drawn out in horror, to feel ones essence … Continue reading →

sand and rock melt. shimmering apparitions. liquid heat rising. white sun glaring. no shrub for shade. no hope for one wet drop. baking breeze burns. sand grains sting. scorpian fries itself. i am cinder. you are ash.

the prodigal sun, in blushing red, returns, creeping up to warm his child. he stays a while. then in a similar hue to the mornings embarassment, slips away under cover of darkness.