Yes, a poem about a utensil

Metal spoon

handle and scoop

tool of time

your uncertain content of tin and silver

was unhappy mixture, cool now

but such memory of white hot radiance

Undulant underside curve

upside down mirror

false sense of what is real

delicate set atop white wove linen

Down warped reflection

descend to brown broth

touch first, explore first

sibylline sense of what will come

Christmas is coming

Another great cover from Vladimir Chopine over at Geekatplay Studio. This time, Vladimir got his daughter, Tasha, involved, and I have her to thank for the tree and gifts on the right. This book is a collection of short stories I wrote over the last five years. My wife, Kris, suggested I write a Christmas short story for our neighbors way back then, and I have done it every year since. I will probably do it every year for the rest of my life if I can keep the stories fresh. It's a nice tradition.
This book is available at Amazon or Smashwords for purchase. My neighbors have loved these stories. I hope you will too.

For a friend

Invulnerable child.

Youthful body of health

and energy. You raced

through your long days

like all the year was Summer.

Your thin shoulders held such

strength. Your arms all but bone,

they could cut through the harshest misery.

I can feel them about my neck.

Even now.

Your pleasant outcry, the din

you made in our home,

I despair in its departure.

Photos hung in the hall will be hollow,

flat and without texture.

One Sunday

On her lap a quiet moment with a book of trains,

or cowboys and Indians, or a page of wild color,

exotic animals half hid by jungle brush,

or single letters that then stood for dog or cat or xylophone.

I do not remember.

There on her lap

she whispered in my ear the words of a story,

the beginning middle and end not at all important,

only her voice,

soothing tonic I must have cherished.