Author Archives: Ken Greenman

Whenever I see a row of sparrows, perching, an aviary congregation on a power line, I think to go to church, to kneel, wings folded, feathers to feathers with fellow believers, feeling the sacred current humming within us, hearing the … Continue reading →

Mother has ought to do but wait, To breathe softly, inhale, exhale, inhale, until the great, great, great-grand daughters of the centuries old sequoias growing now are themselves, centuries old and layers on layers of needles and soil and bark … Continue reading →

The old flag flying from our court house roof is getting a little ragged. It’s torn and tattered by the storms its faced and probably needs to be replaced. But the citizens here are a stubborn race. We hold tight … Continue reading →

Russets and golds of Autumn have startled me again. Why have they caught me off guard? This is my 67th Fall, (counting womb time). You’d think, by now, I’d be aware enough to sense Summer sneaking south under cover of … Continue reading →

Yes, of course, “Just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get me”. But beyond those pursued paranoids, whence cometh this societal cancer, this belief that there are, behinds events, machinations, that unseen manipulation is the camouflaged cause … Continue reading →

Heaven is the home of the Holy. Take note, please, I did not say the house of the Holy. House brings to mind 2×4’s, doors, a pantry, a toilet, solidity with a roof. Holy needs no place. I’ve a new … Continue reading →

Someday, as far as I can tell, all of us are going to die. Though not before our time. No one dies before their time. But, for most, before we want to. Of course, there are those, who, for sickness … Continue reading →

Before the saintly become Saints, they first must struggle, for Holiness demands the fight to stretch beyond soil, wind, water, all that confining stuff, to explore the mysterious uncharted wilderness of the Holy, with native angel guides and Gods voice … Continue reading →

Everything the newborn sees, hears, tastes, touches, smells, is bathed in the misty sheen of magic: mothers milk, mothers hum, her breast, the warm bath, air, each, a miracle. But as the baby becomes the boy, the mist is shaved … Continue reading →

I lost a poem last night. I thought of it in bed and wrote it in my head. But sleeping curled in spoons around my loving lady is not the way to recall unwritten poetry. So, by morning, the poem … Continue reading →