Author Archives: Ken Greenman

How fortunate for lovers the moon moves as she does. How futile to spoon by the dark side of the moon. Its amazing, exact revolution and rotation provides lovers with a guarantee of a silvery moon and a hand on … Continue reading →

The morning I was born, so they tell me, I nearly died. But birth made a murderer of me. I killed whatever it was tried to kill me. There have been many close calls, but I’ve been killing in self … Continue reading →

The fat,round, Red Robin relaxed, splashed around in my back yard bird bath with Reclining Buddha bathing in the middle. The Robin hoped on the Buddhas head, drying his wings, relaxing like a feathered twin, chubby, cool, content. The Flicker … Continue reading →

The future is not unknowable darkness. It is a question mark, curving back to now, to us, to me, to prayers prayed, decisions decided, moves made, on life’s inscrutable chess board. Then the curve of the question mark bends back … Continue reading →

Latino migrant workers mow the lanes between the trees, the blossoms are past, apples just beginning to appear. An early morning yellow school bus rolls down the orchard road, carrying the kids to another day. I drive the old route, … Continue reading →

A lawn of lions, yellow, with teeth, devouring what little grass is left. I like them. If my lawn wasn’t yellow, it would be scrub and brown dirt. The yellow will, eventually, morph to jagged green leaves. Let ’em. A … Continue reading →

Shabboth Shalom, a calm soul, the still, soft voice whispers in my heart. A sense of liquid holiness. A baptism into eons to come. Today, of all days, a glimpse of eternity, a gift from the heart of Divinity.

Consider the flea, the honey bee, the black capped chickadee, or, sadly, the Booby. Each has no more priority to Thee than aging, balding me.

He is a crayola crayon kid in a black ink Bic Pen world. What fun it was to print the long, colored sentence, “I HAVE TO PEE EEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!” in wonderful shades of sunflower, darkening to canary! His welder, bow hunter … Continue reading →

Pastor Wil’s wife, Mary, wandered off on a Wednesday through that veil between here and there. She was 90 and ready. He is 92 and not, While I sat with him at her wake that day, he sighed, smiled, wiped … Continue reading →