Author Archives: Ken Greenman

do not crave anything but to achieve serenity. but do not crave even serenity. so achieve serenity, by craving nothing, not even serenity.

On those dark nights when mammon, loss and lifely pressures drag my mind to the wooden coffin they call, “the house of the lord”, “the mansion” he said he would,”go to prepare,” in those times I see it as the … Continue reading →

It’s such an easy task to hang three crystals the shape and size of ping-pong balls on the east facing windows of our cabin on the lake and watch the room wake, alive with glowing rainbow fairies, dancing, spinning on … Continue reading →

catch the cotton fish swimming in a sea-blue summer sky. wish for the circus-come-to-town day you hear your lover say, “Sugar! I love you more today than yesterday, I did!” Sigh back to your lover, “…and I you!”, lay you … Continue reading →

Cotton fish swimming in a sea-blue summer sky. The old Jew, black hat, gray beard, white shirt, black suspenders tugging up black trousers, strolls with his black dressed, violet shawled, red kerchiefed old wife, hand in hand, looking up, they … Continue reading →

We sit at our dressing table. We lean against our sinks. We peer into our mirrors to stare at the line in our forehead that wasn’t there yesterday. We see the gray encroaching as the blonde, the black, the brunette … Continue reading →

If you own the technology and are willing to risk resisting arrest, or, if you have the imagination, go stand in the middle of Wall Street, maybe near the Bull. Dig a Mitchnerian shaft straight down to discover, layer over … Continue reading →

We’ve migrated South, now. Our new home is unpacked and placed. 100 some bins and boxes filled with paintings, books, pottery, kitchenware, winter fleece, summer linen, photos, tools, kites, journals… all the accumulated stuff of living 70 years in an … Continue reading →

Lately, in dreamland, I’m living in a rich dowagers wisteria vine and spanish moss draped live-oak shaded mansion, dilapidating down through three centuries of mist and mold. Her husband? All that’s left of him is the scent of his cigars … Continue reading →

I felt light would never come. Then came morning with the Son.