Author Archives: Ken Greenman

An early Easter-Sunday-Mornings soft breath ruffles the mirrored-surface of Lake Junaluska. On the shoreline, weeping willow branches shimmer in the breeze. A solitary leaf falls to the water, floats there, alone, precisely where Providence placed it. From there to surf … Continue reading →

A guy and his wife walk into Calaveri’s Travel Agency in Lower Manhattan. Mr. Calaveri greets them at the door and asks what he can do for the gentleman and his lovely lady? The guy says he’s promised his wife … Continue reading →

What can the quarterback, when he can no longer zing a frozen rope , 64 yards, into the waiting hands of a sprinting wide-receiver while his cheerleading, worshipful, wonderful wife performs backflips and splits in the owners box, do? Brag … Continue reading →

My wife and I are newly apprenticed to learn the hum of my electric current, to learn to restore the fraying wire running from my ever-ready mind down to my disconnected dick, lusting to rise, but, in need of the … Continue reading →

Who will be the next Countee Cullen? Jean Toomer? Langston Hughes? Who will give their own answer to the question of a dream deferred? Amanda Gorman? Who will know how to brave the current of the current deep river? Who … Continue reading →

I am caught between distain and admiration for non-Black Rappers. If they are white. do they have the right to write Rap? Sure, they own a good control of the elements, but are they missing the soul without the bloody … Continue reading →

Do you think we’ll poop in paradise? And will it smell? Or does it only stink in hell? And what about pee? Will there be enough of what used to be me to frequently, “Have to go right now!!” Even … Continue reading →

I never have to sit too long for something to happen between the tree line of our wood lot and the dozen bird feeders hanging from shepherd crooks in the back of our back yard. Today, I scrubbed out a … Continue reading →

My mind is an old, oaken, roll-top-desk. A real antique. Not some clap-board reproduction. With pigeon holes, little sliding drawers and a long, narrow, junk-drawer, the catch-all for everything else that fits, and a locked safe and a file box … Continue reading →

I’d like my legs to be a bit more spry and my ears to hear soft sighs. But I’ll take whatever I can get until the day I die.