Author Archives: Ken Greenman

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 →

When you go, there will be crying by those who hear of it. But you, already winged will whisper in each mourners ear, “Why are you standing there in tears? Go on and do what you are meant to! I … Continue reading →

Driving, the Shawangunks ahead, the Hudson behind. A quiet summer morning drive on a tar paved road, black and cracked, edged by Her paint brush strokes, a long stretch of chicory, buttercup, lupine and Queen Annes lace keeps me on … Continue reading →

The ox fell into the well. What it was doing dancing on the stone walls of the oasis is no concern to me. That he might not have is no concern to me. But the possibility is essential because it … Continue reading →

Sometimes it’s chiseling chips and dust and sand from stone with the point of your pen for ink and nailing her onto the page so she won’t blow off and sometimes it’s lying on the silk cover of a soft … Continue reading →

Really, I do not want to live in what my grand daughter, Juliette, calls, “… a white bread world.” I would love for Jose’, our gardener, who so skillfully trims our hedges and cleans our gutters in the spring, such … Continue reading →

What do the friends of little Freddie the flounder wonder when they see him feeding in the sand, then, for no apparent reason, pop from his camouflaged spot to begin a spastic assent to somewhere, flashing his white belly and … Continue reading →