Author Archives: Ken Greenman

My back porch light, a dim, golden shimmer in the dark, my beacon in the night, leads me home, brings me back to the back door when my dog and I have tarried to long in the woods, darkness catching … Continue reading →

Life is a long, slow beating. Standing waist deep in the surf taking the blows, the pounding, taking it, taking it, until one last wave saves us from the gradual wearing away, hits us side ways, hits us unaware so … Continue reading →

The strongest wave’s not the tallest wave, it’s the one who stands alone, the one who draws its strength from the Power that gives it motion. It doesn’t crest to close to its sisters, leaves a deep,wide trough before it … Continue reading →

I prefer to sleep in bed with my hands clasped behind my head, but I tend to snore in that position, more, and Nancy, at all hours whispers, “Ken, roll over!” I, though comatose, apologise, obey, So, when I’m dead, … Continue reading →

After my 3:30 AM pee, (as if I needed more evidence proving I had survived another REM DEATH,) I lay on my left side rocked by a life pulse banging in my ribs, roaring through my ear, a slow-mo jackhammer. … Continue reading →

If all the Earth is soluable and all humanity cries, how is there still rock or soil? How can anything be left? Tears are emotions currency. They pay our feelings debt. Since history’s a vail of them, How come everythings … Continue reading →

My wife is a great wave on a great wave day. I catch her, cresting, clear, seperate, a long way out. Her strength would pull me under if I hadn’t felt her coming, wasn’t moving with her. Her surge grasps … Continue reading →

we are earthen vessels clay kiln fired we last until- then our shards litter earth forever. but we are all not all clay. divine impurities, glass, mica, diamonds, shine from us- brighter light unsensed by stone. these soul sparks are … Continue reading →

Birdsong is springtime. Snow cover’s winter. Mixed messages from Mother this mid-March morning. For me it’s a matter of a warmer jacket. For the Robin, it’s a matter of death. What’s to do when instinct was wrong, when it would … Continue reading →

I see the old roads shadow, deep ruts dug by wagons, bordered by stone walls collapsed by frost or deer or ghosts, Passing through second growth woods where,once, corn fields flourished, families farmed. overgrown by saplings, briars, weeds, old roads … Continue reading →