Monday, October 9, 2017

Silent Vigil...                                       

I can still hear people running through the streets.

There's nowhere to run but it doesn’t seem to matter.

I don't know why but someone pushed me through this doorway before I

was trampled by the crowds. An unselfish act in a time of desperation.

I can make out about seven of us down here.

It’s hard to know for sure.

Fear and hunger have driven some into the damp corners

where the light falls off suddenly and all that’s left is a stench.

We are all just waiting.

My hair sticks to the concrete wall I’m huddled against.

I’m not sure if it’s just dirty or if it’s sticky from the blood.

Either way every time I move my head I pull a few more strands out

adding to the growing number left on the wall behind me.

Most of us have gathered toward the side of the room nearest a small

narrow window.

The corners are too dangerous.

The young man with the glasses was curled up in one of the corners

when he was attacked by a rat that was gnawing at the blood-soaked

towel around his leg.

I think we are in the basement of a small grocery store. We found some

boxes of stale crackers that had been left behind but they were gone after

the first few days.

There are some cans of something. The ends are bulging but there is

nothing to open them with anyway.

The water ran out a few days ago.

I don’t recognize anyone down here but looks can be deceiving in the


There is an old couple across from me.

The woman couldn’t stop crying she just sobbed and clutched a

photograph to her chest, her husband said it was their son.

He tried to comfort her but after two days he stopped. After that she

cried all the harder.

Yesterday she stopped. She’s been silent ever since.

The blond girl at the end of the room talked to me the first couple of


Now she just sits in silence, her eyes staring blankly like some of the


Today I’ve tried to talk to any of them but there has been no response.

None of them will talk to me.

My brain feels sluggish and I just want to sleep. I don’t feel the hunger

anymore but I’m very thirsty.

I mention this to the old couple across from me, there is no reply.

I’ve begun to crave the sound of another human voice more than that of

water to quench my thirst.

If someone doesn’t speak to me, I’m sure I will go mad.

My eyes feel heavy.

Maybe it would be alright to sleep just for a minute.

When I wake up maybe someone will talk to me.

I’m sure one of them will have something to say soon…

Sunday, April 9, 2017

Beads and things...

They hang on my wall collecting dust and memories.

I have never worn them, not once.

These aren't the only ones.

There are the big silver beads on leather that I brought back from India and gave to a woman named Mary.

When she passed away her grand daughter sent them back to me with a beautiful note saying how much she had loved them. And that she wanted me to keep them for her.

There are the cherry amber beads on twine given to me by the chief of a Zambian village as a gift of thanks for my visit to do an art project with the children there.

There are the antique ivory beads, that I would never wear but they are beautiful even though they represent the senseless slaughter of endangered species.

There are the ones that where purchased in Tanzania from a woman who needed to feed her children...

Will I ever wear any of them?

I do not know.

But each strand has the ability to take me right back to the moment and the place.

The people, the sensations and the colors that permeate the air of the place I happen to be at the time.

Hold on to the moment I tell myself every single time I find myself in a new place, a new situation.

These moments are precious.

Respect and cherish them...

And be grateful for the opportunity to be here to experience them.

Wednesday, February 22, 2017

a writers folly...

I bought it on a trip to Paris.

I was blocked. Staring at blank paper day after day, week after week.

What better inspiration to write stories and poems than with an extraordinary pen purchased in this
city, home to so many great writers.

Victor Hugo
Jules Verne
Simone de Beauvoir
Ernest Hemingway
and Gertrude Stein to name but a few.

And so I bought the pen.

I'd seen it in the window of a stationary store on my walks to and from the café every morning.

It beckoned me toward the window with it's intricate silver design.

I'd managed to admire it in passing for days, but now it was becoming an obsession.

I broke down and bought the pen.

It was extravagant and expensive but with a pen like this one could, no, one must write wonderful stories.

It is seven years later;

I was cleaning out a drawer and there was the pen.

Still in it's box.

Upon my arrival back home all those years ago, I had tried to use the pen but it was too heavy and
bulky. Too difficult to write with easily.

And so it was retired to the drawer.

Never used to write the masterpiece it was meant to write.

Maybe I'll try it again, who knows...