Author Archives: Ken Greenman

I use’d ta be able ta’ do lots ‘a what I ain’t able no more ta’ do! But I still cn’ do som’ a’ what I use’ ta do wid’ a modicum of success! So’s, I does.

It starts with a choice, planted, mixed with a mustard seed: choose to believe in something else, something other, possessing – -INTENT – and then to give IT the power to implement -INTENT- and then to taste and see whether … Continue reading →

770 POEMS ARE BEING SORTED INTO A DOZEN SELF-PUBLISHED, THEMATICALLY TITLED BOOKLETS WHICH WILL BE SOLD AT A FEW STORES AND ART SHOPS AROUND SOUTHPORT, NC, (MAYBE)… AND TODAY, FOR NO SPECIFIC REASON, THIS BLOG BEGINS AGAIN WITH # 1. … Continue reading →

Why did anxiety wake me this morning? Is it a dearth of faith I believe in? Is it twists in my gut I’ve grown fond of? Have I let go of the Love that has lead me? Have I turned … Continue reading →

Writing junk takes its toll not just on aspirations, but on my soul. If I can’t offer a cup of pristine water to my reader, it is no better barter to construct a Versailles fountain fed by – slightly – … Continue reading →

Higginson, instead of the seer he should have been, was, for her, mere tradesmen, buyer and seller of slate and shale for the rooftops of New England. So, when his moment arrived, he did not recognize that diamond in the … Continue reading →

Whenever I feel the need to be beaten, at chess, I call my neighbor for a tournament. We’ll play two games, a third if we need to break the tie, though usually, we don’t. He always wins. I learn some … Continue reading →

(This is a short story, not a poem. It is long. If you are looking for poems, work back or forward in the blog and skip this. This story is in my poetry blog because I couldn’t figure out how … Continue reading →

Just for the fun of it: Realism: Everything is broken and it works. Idealism: Everything works as it was ideally meant to, even if it’s broken. Pragmatism: Most of it is broken, but it’s all we have. Optimism: The cup … Continue reading →

My wife’s warm mouth is oven for my lust. With pressing need heeded, kneaded rare enough to be succulent, I am slid in to her heat. OH! Ah! for the times when gentle nibbles suffice to send the juices………..shooting. Then, … Continue reading →