Author Archives: Ken Greenman

DAMN! I just spilled blueberry juice on my white henley at breakfast. That’s it! The shirt is ruined. Never gonna get that stain out. It’s doomed to be a “work ‘n sweat-shirt” for the rest of its life. But then … Continue reading →

“Ho-Hum. Ho-Hum, twiddle Our thumbs… How boring is perfection. How tedious the monotony of eternity…” Sure, it was a crap-shoot. But They were getting fidgety! After They were done, They said, “It is good – enough for now. But not … Continue reading →

I do not know where Mother is, nor Father, (given him)! I do not know where three boys I taught in school before they went to war to die – are. Nor do I know where PJ is, that promising … Continue reading →

No gossemer dream is too rickety, too fragile, too frayed, to shreded-a-spider-web wafting in a wind-going-down. Until it comes true. Only then, when it becomes a thing we can clutch, as we can grasp the twig tossed in the tempest … Continue reading →

All a feather needs to believe: the Wind which blows knows where it goes.

Lancelot could have come a lot in Camelot had he wished to, but that virgin paladin made himself live up to some pristine illusion created by his delusion, thus leaving Guenievere salivating over him and never giving Arthur the chance … Continue reading →

I got bones in my fingers. I got bones in the back of my hands! I got tunes in my toes. And my eyesight’s not to bad! I can stroll down the street keeping to my happy beat. And when … Continue reading →

Last spring we planted a rainbow of coleus in blue ceramic pots across our front porch. The runt of the seedlings, we buried haphazardly in a small-plastic-faux-clay-planter. It is early Autumn now and runt has grown enormuser than all the … Continue reading →

I need to crawl out from under the warm, seductive, blanket of misconstrued faith, and break my habit of shaky hope. I need to be crushed by the weight of a wave, and drown in the pull of a rip … Continue reading →

My darling grand-daughter Clementine (yes, Clementine) at four years old cherishes a strange pleasure, the seed of which, I suspect, comes from reading. Yes, at four years old, Clementine can read, thanks, I believe, to the honed expertise of her … Continue reading →