tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41678758334138202322011-07-08T02:12:58.994-04:00justinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07938419352942526860noreply@blogger.comBlogger2791100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-69507360511109030602011-04-29T00:01:00.002-04:002011-04-29T00:01:01.926-04:00

Ingredients: 1 Wood panel board Oil Paints Pure Beeswax, tempered with 10% harder wax, like Carnauba or Damar Resin. (The surface would be too soft without this tempering that lends a surface.) Brushes Pottery tools for scraping and engraving And also, heat is needed, the fire, the crucible. The palette, an electric griddle, stolen from the kitchen. It holds at a low temperature. Wait. It will

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-39151266640236585022011-04-26T00:15:00.001-04:002011-04-26T00:15:00.476-04:00

I’m ready for some unorganized religion Any day of the week, prepared for anything I bring a guitar and you a poem Together we make a song He brings a thought She, an open mind Together they share an idea Jesus is there He’s listening as he sits On the arm of the sofa Now lingering with us in the kitchen Drinking the last cup of coffee And not making more So now we need a rule that if you Drink

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-57771512843375465622011-04-22T00:08:00.001-04:002011-04-22T00:08:00.885-04:00

“Totally give yourself over to the One who gave Himself totally for love of you.”—St. Francis to St. Clare A city set on a hill, I thought, looking at Assisi for the first time. The train had carried us through miles of open countryside, leaving us at the base of the mound on which Assisi sits like a fortress. We caught a bus and rode to the hilltop. A breeze met us in the center of the city,

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-70687239489785646932011-04-19T22:27:00.001-04:002011-04-20T22:29:26.429-04:00

My father hates money spent, left unused I hate time passed without you We are missing too much We wait for you Each week gain and lose Unnatural rhythm, but you jump right in How do we find security in a dynamic climate, Smooth the lines that leave such an impression?

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-34491901145172340892011-04-15T00:15:00.006-04:002011-04-15T01:41:41.280-04:00

Note: This piece is a form that a friend-of-a-friend of mine invented called a tri-ku: three haikus connected by enjambment of the last line of one haiku and first line of the next. O, pinions connect tendons to feathers aloft and aloof. Such a thin security, veiled vulnerability. O, pinions! Clip them and watch the birds drop. How impossible: grace was the air and the ground.

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-79369024517395201042011-04-12T01:30:00.001-04:002011-04-14T01:33:02.813-04:00

Sunk into the sweat-soaked spread of carpet on the floor, When it’s good, I’m still left here mourning for more, for more. And how do I explain—it’s the wine, it never tastes quite fine, And the books don’t seem to hold any interest. And the people don’t seem to hold any interest. And the games don’t seem to hold any interest. And the black dog saunters up again to bite the Hand that feeds, He

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-45536785614714387842011-04-08T00:41:00.002-04:002011-04-08T00:41:00.574-04:00

I've traveled far and wide from places you can only imagine of all places for me to choose i have chosen here to rest this metal woven wall is my home for the time being in a moment i could be gone not knowing where i'm headed at least you were here to catch my story

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-32860591785413292192011-04-05T00:38:00.001-04:002011-04-05T00:39:00.597-04:00

You have to be careful where you touch the children. No... let me start earlier than that and give a backgroundal anecdote. My first adult experience was somewhere in New Jersey. I was 20 at the time, and a small gaggle of high school seniors and myself were on our way to a friend’s parents’ beach house for the weekend. It was dark, but not late, when we pulled into the parking lot about an hour

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-15079186966020178822011-03-25T00:38:00.000-04:002011-03-25T00:38:35.229-04:00

I’m living to be invisible, waking to disappear. Hoping to be a cloud a blade of grass wanting to be lost or anything but noticed. Attention means only pain or pity. What invisible really is —a kind of suicide— No one ever says it out loud. They’re happy to tolerate. Just as long as I keep quiet and vacuum my footprints from the carpet. I was never here.

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-6488203901226163582011-03-22T00:22:00.002-04:002011-03-22T00:22:00.586-04:00

Lay your head back my beauty Let the sun bake if only for One poisonous moment You won’t feel this angle of Solar ray much longer for In only four days, no three now We go back, all the way back (And we do not know at This sunny juncture What awaits us, A nor’easter and a crowded Newark Airport with people Acting badly toward other people Who happen to have wings on their Lapels but not on their

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-56256085384741827522011-03-18T00:02:00.002-04:002011-03-18T00:07:40.829-04:00

The train chugged away, taking the backdrop of the twenty-first century with it. Siena stretched ahead of us, small and lovely, contentedly seven hundred years old. Once a rival to Florence, the little city of Siena was arrested by the plague, cut off before its growth boom could flourish and give it the power Florence later attained. Its architecture survives from the Middle Ages, its modern

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-64561389740546067302011-03-15T00:59:00.004-04:002011-03-15T00:59:00.254-04:00

I bled that night. Blood makes us remember we are not invincible, we do not last forever, and hurt when cut. It is our downfall—forgetting. Push it out of the mind and stay alive—survive. But all that life, warm and red, was spilled and left to dry. A child is a gift, a joy to our tired and broken lives. Their simple need and perfect trust weakens our defenses, opening up doors for love to flood

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-13990856055836494542011-03-11T01:00:00.002-05:002011-03-11T01:00:06.196-05:00

I was walking somewhere else, to some deadened destination. Blackened, bloodied feet on gravel; blindfolded, I sauntered onward in the night. Then, with the sun, came redirection from darkened paths to sunlit streets. I was walking in the light. I was sleeping, dead at home, far from the knock at my door. In the kingdom of the bed, my throne was like a coffin, and I the jolly corpse, fattened on

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-70054427653416631852011-03-08T00:02:00.002-05:002011-03-08T01:04:52.385-05:00

He hangs on an emaciated frame, Spreads His arms to take the blame, Opens His mouth and screams in Whispered tones and it is fin. After that, nothing was the same. And I, I am on my knees. And I have nothing in my lungs, And His empty eyes are staring through me. Does it have to end like this? I know the cost outweighs the prize. And even Heaven brings down darkness Upon the isles. My head is

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-6212731248608334852011-03-04T01:00:00.001-05:002011-03-04T01:00:05.565-05:00

tossed upon the ground like garbage you lay there for days on end waiting for your prince charming to come swoop you up into his arms isn’t that what every woman wants, to be safe yet this one must lay here severed and broken to pieces hoping and praying that her day will come she lays there mindless afraid of being hurt again she's taken too much of a beating as it is stripped

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-18901491310408149902011-03-01T00:15:00.001-05:002011-03-01T00:15:00.400-05:00

A few ground rules: Four relatively short lines AABB rhyme structure Feel is neo-whimsical, satirical maybe, possibly making some of that non-sense up, with a touch of “Do you mean that or are you just trying to be clever?”; compiled in a sitting with no long pondering or musing. All revivals have something new; the “biographical subjects” here are then to be somewhat personified entities though

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-48239144774676053322011-02-25T01:00:00.006-05:002011-02-25T13:44:17.173-05:00

Exclamation Point is a cheat—forcing emotion into words without conviction. Question Mark is a fake—most of the time, it’s not really a question anymore. The Comma, filling pauses, filing drama, promiscuous as dandelion seed, scattered by whatever breeze it is that drives the inner voice. Apostrophe—a shortcut for those who can’t afford to wait for the “no”. But O! Ampersand—herald of

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-46557948510821559382011-02-22T01:00:00.003-05:002011-02-22T01:00:02.315-05:00

“Shovel,” I say as we Make our way Throwing aside White refuse That will melt If shoveled Or not “Shovel, among tools You’re plain, simple Ancient in origin Never changing Just handle and blade My sweat the Power “Shovel, unaltered You’re a changer All that you touch Earth, manure, snow Your purpose set By changing Seasons “Shovel, in Spring We dig the dirt For bulbs and seeds In Fall we dig

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-40892331994557832892011-02-18T12:49:00.002-05:002011-02-18T12:54:38.398-05:00

Can I write?Can I write?Please let me write!It's what I need in my life,to write, write, write.I'll write a book if you'd let me.I'd write poems especially.I can't write right now, it's depressing.(Part 2: The next day)I need to write a poem to say something.I need to make my poetry right.Write like American Poetry.Write like Foreign Poetry.I can write poetry.Writing my poetry gives me delight.I

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-85478986368073087372011-02-17T23:15:00.005-05:002011-02-18T01:22:26.541-05:00

A vast aggregate of humanity thronged the city, more varied than I'd ever seen anywhere: casual Americans like myself, svelte Italians, African nuns in simple white habits, flocks of Asians, Latin-praying French traditionalists, perky Germans, an enormous class of Chilean students in matching suits of dark blue, Hungarians in bright uniforms, the Swiss National Guard in even brighter ones. People

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-18425256050831403132011-02-15T00:01:00.002-05:002011-02-15T00:03:15.407-05:00

Deep below the groundRock turned hot, swims and stirsIt moves, and so do IA row of roses, planted, wateredFed by what once was,Uprooted, forgotten, waiting for the outcomeNo water, no soil—neglectedPicked back up, not yet deadSet down in new earthWatered, but the shock takes timeWatered and still waitingGreen appears and soon a bud,The flower blooms, a roseIt is our storyPlanted in good

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-90055553555656731762011-02-11T01:00:00.001-05:002011-02-13T01:53:43.751-05:00

My grandpa lived in a one-story house on a quiet street in Florissant, Missouri—part of North County, St. Louis, and closer to the city than where I grew up. Still, his house, his street were just that: quiet. I think my Grandpa Block, my mom’s dad, prefers to keep things that way. He tries not to impose. We didn’t visit him at his house too often—not as often as Grandma and Grandpa Alagna (Mom’s

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-75250674428827588442011-02-08T01:44:00.002-05:002011-02-08T01:46:21.776-05:00

Someday, the sun will start to go downAnd then another winter will begin to set in;And the Autumn leaves will fall down assistedBy the smell of lightning as the dawn grows dim.In that day, I will look down at your shoes,As you look across and rest your knowing stare on mine,Knowing that the rain of last fall is growing older,Of course, with time, the memories are growing colder.A part inside of

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-3385205393190948902011-02-04T01:00:00.000-05:002011-02-04T01:00:02.406-05:00

If childhood had a voice she would screamscreaming so loud that she was silent to the ones nearbyhidden by the walls of this hell hole of a homewhere the walls crumble and the windows shatterbecause of all the hatred buried in the plasterand fake facial expressions stained within the glassa childhood so heartless,wandering in circles trying to find something you're blind to is impossiblefeet

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-42809457085012127442011-02-01T01:00:00.004-05:002011-02-01T18:54:47.445-05:00

6am. Morning coffee. Apple butter on rye toast.Rex pulls back the canvas from the door frame and heads out ahead of the others. Pete turns off the kerosene heater and prepares the pull-wagon while Tom gathers the tools.6 foot ladder, measuring rope. Gasoline. Wooden matches. Shovels and a pickax.The sun is up but hasn’t crested over the mountains yet. The valley is still and radiant with the

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-16885918873608572812010-06-25T12:11:00.005-04:002011-01-31T13:47:43.607-05:00

You name me. Chocolate and limes, bitterand bitter, two kinds and two rhymes.I need to know: how is the bitter made sweet?Is it dancing along a Venetian street?Floating on cushions just at water level?Roses and oceans of wine and unwind a little?Barren as desert compared to these hillsChildless and broken,nameless and homeless,void and waiting on crucible change.chocolate and limesand me...a

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-77543877994562898162010-06-25T12:10:00.000-04:002010-06-25T14:18:23.574-04:00

You had to wear black, didn’t you?With your soft, high palettesWith your white hot pitchWith your buttery dissonanceWith your bright eyes and smooth skinWith your hammock of sound strung so tight that your notes bouncedoff and hit the beams and broke my heartYou sang at my funeralYou sang at your funeralYou had to wear black

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-53851181790468920982010-06-22T08:45:00.005-04:002010-06-22T08:55:33.305-04:00

I am so wearyOf this game of hide and seek.I can't find You here.My daughter, consider the lilies.Can You see me here?Can You hear my anxious pleas?Are You listening?My daughter, consider the lilies.That's it, I'm finishedI'm tired and I'm done with thisGame You are playing.My daughter, consider the lilies.I wish that You wouldGive up on me in the ways I give up on You.My daughter, consider the

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-19907812352615220592010-06-22T08:38:00.006-04:002010-06-22T08:45:10.824-04:00

The following are excerpts from a larger piece on my relationship with winter.Early 1990sI sit straddling a giant snow ball, which has obliged my imagination and is now actually a giant caterpillar, upon whose back I ride through the air in a never ending story of my own.Since it is dark out I think it is very late. I think it might be nine o'clock.November 19, 1996We are lining up for hot lunch

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-3063134228369067452010-06-18T18:27:00.003-04:002010-06-18T18:29:32.435-04:00

The Battle InsideThe battle is certainIn every decision, reactionI fight inside and outThere are those who want to mare and hurtThey want their way, and want me outThey spit their venom and watch it workIt is my strength, it is my weakness--I am not immune to aggressionMy opinion is oneA friend claims anotherYet together we fight, and still we fight each otherOpposing positions, practices, and

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-90437587963429008682010-06-18T07:45:00.000-04:002010-06-18T07:46:33.208-04:00

“It’s sacrilegious, I tell you, feeding the precious flesh of Christ to ducks. We’re probably bringing curses upon our parish because of it, you know.”Henry always listened to my Monday morning rants while catching up on his Sunday paper. He took his coffee black–I knew this–but for 35 years I made it with a half teaspoon of sugar–he knew this. Black coffee connotates something strong, which

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-40968513136401487552010-06-15T02:46:00.000-04:002010-06-15T02:46:00.140-04:00

She is fighting so hardWhy not let go?It just seems too easyPlease! Damn it! Choose peace!!Torment and tortureTears of frustrationShe wakes to look through meA deep chill in my soulI just want to miss youThe hustle is overYour place is preparedHe’s calling you homeAlone in the darknessTears warming your grey handsPrayers for an ending are raised just for youI have to go home nowMy kids need

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-23943907859671844762010-06-15T02:45:00.000-04:002010-06-15T02:45:00.121-04:00

It's a dark evening in the middle of an inner city neighborhood. There's a mystery afoot and my friend Heather (or someone who feels like Heather) and I have decided to follow a man that we believe to be involved. We don't feel any danger and we walk along leisurely, chatting and laughing as we follow this unknown guy. Little "I'm-gonna-be-four" Liam is with us, running ahead and then back again,

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-26088121186680435562010-06-15T02:44:00.000-04:002010-06-15T02:44:00.296-04:00

I’m tired of writing about tears.I don’t mind experiencing them, But making them public--Enough for now. Instead I will write about the robinI sawHopping on the roofIn the sunshineThe echo of child laughter I heardLingeringOn city streetsThe sound of cello musicThe taste of little donutsPeace, loveThe smell of paintOn canvasThe sight of a smile onHis faceHer faceYour faceThat I will see in

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-83842758473360549132010-06-11T02:46:00.000-04:002010-06-11T02:46:00.174-04:00

You take me toThe update barAnd leave me thereA little farFrom whereI was a while agoBut closer not toWhere?You goBut I wait upon the nightTrash cans guardBeneath pole lightsSlinking shapes.Is that Bob?In the dark landscapeHe calls to no oneAnd they replySometimes I wonder if my sole traitIs to bend what you’ve made straight

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-11015559734119916032010-06-10T17:17:00.003-04:002010-06-10T17:20:11.074-04:00

He moved slowly, edging his way to the left, seeking to gain an advantage over the longer reach of his adversary. Rimmed by fellow victims, he imagined himself to be a tiger leaping at its prey. He moved in quick and hard, hoping to land a quick body blow to the lower ribs followed by a straight jab to the nose, just like Dad had told him. With guard raised, the initial execution of his plan

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-49321339680864821732010-06-08T08:21:00.005-04:002010-06-08T08:26:26.180-04:00

I tracked mud in on purpose because.I tracked mud in on purpose because I.I tracked mud in on purpose because I missed you.You’re all grown up now. You live in your own house and you visit us on our birthdays and most holidays.I just heard this song playing in the background and it made me think of you so I went out to the backyard, right in the middle of the biggest rain storm you’d ever seen,

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-31689732737025241732010-06-04T02:45:00.002-04:002010-06-04T02:45:00.743-04:00

My mom doesn’t come to pick Sarah and me up. As we’re sitting on the porch of the lodge with our suitcases, Jared’s car pulls into the parking lot. I’m kinda bummed when I see it. The air-conditioning in his car sucks. I grab my bag and throw its strap over my shoulder. I see Jared’s door open. He steps out of the driver’s seat. The passenger door opens and his friend Charlie steps out. It seems

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-9225656480730820912010-06-02T21:20:00.005-04:002010-06-02T21:29:43.473-04:00

I had a vision of an invisible baby—formless, empty. An ideaof a blinkin the eye of a ghost.Unseen, forgotten by some,but not all forgotten, not forgotten by all.There are so many, I thought.I cried out to You for the invisible babies!You give them form!You fill them up! I knowthat You, of all, have notforgottenthem! You have not forgottenme…(My frame was not hidden from You,when I was being

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-2725739397757514672010-06-01T08:31:00.005-04:002010-06-01T08:38:23.995-04:00

I remember this feeling. Oh this familiar feeling. I remember it well. Though it’s been long since I last felt it.That feeling of quick release after being so stuck. Still stuck. But that moment of quick and quiet release.It happened in Africa.Stuck in Rwanda. Hard questions. Hard sights. No answers. Stuck. We were stuck there.Dead bodies. Curious children. Crying babies. Machetes hacking.

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-22646128371648262602010-05-28T02:45:00.000-04:002010-05-28T02:45:00.363-04:00

I haven’t written much poetryBut it’s all been pretty darkMostly death of people and dreamsParanoid, I stopped and thought about itTo check my own pulseYup, still aliveA life full of family and love and ideasOf surprise endings and setbacks and shortcutsOf bandaged knees and battered booksOf make-believe and beef stroganoffOf coaching, correcting, and collectingOf really weak push-ups and

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-53572354180685576772010-05-28T02:44:00.002-04:002010-05-28T08:16:30.524-04:00

It’s only when I start singing a song word-for-word from a movie I watched when I was young, or recall a commercial I saw as a child that I realize now and then just how much pop culture has impacted my thinking. I don’t regret these influences, for the most part; I think the redeeming beauty of artistic endeavor has in many ways been a huge part of my own salvation walk. Now it seems that “taste

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-2019652904689633382010-05-25T08:40:00.003-04:002010-05-25T08:42:25.639-04:00

Creation...Man, womanEnjoying life togetherHearts beating as onePureExposure...Raw, vulnerableSoul peels inwardEngulfed in quick sandShameNaked...Not ashamedGrace being receivedTears mingled with beautyFree

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-88499806311005720322010-05-25T08:35:00.002-04:002010-05-25T08:39:37.808-04:00

It is the count betweenmeasures of sun: againcrescendo, again hush,expecting the repeat. It is the tomb, still sodand soil, uninformedof flesh and coffincoming with a shovel.Or silence who, mindlessof thunder’s clap, startlesat the sudden knock fromsound, the slow traveler.It is the monk, patient,gardening curséd earth,though reaping fruit heavyon branches in Eden. Or the wedding: the groomand

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-53449565217707408542010-05-21T02:46:00.000-04:002010-05-21T02:46:00.698-04:00

Note: the following is written to a fictional person. Any resemblance it bears to the reader is unintended. Many people close to me have struggled with depression, and my response has not always been healthy, helpful, or compassionate. I hope you’ll forgive some of the cluelessness expressed in this piece, and see it as honest processing from a friend struggling in the dark.a letter:I know you’re

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-70356139411341439942010-05-21T02:45:00.000-04:002010-05-21T16:39:50.543-04:00

Titillating.French cut, pleather leotard.Perched upon your Alexander McQueens—campy canary. The design is there:Moist skin,tucked and pushed in all the right places. Crimson lips,with the texture of warm, dripping honey.But the design is inverted.Its not alluring, it hurts.It stings.And instead of adjusting to the sting, shockingly I’m cut deeper.Pulled deeper.By the edgy mix of flesh and art.The

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-65224853174883733652010-05-21T02:44:00.000-04:002010-05-23T19:52:07.181-04:00

Break down the door to my nostalgiaLet all creations of my mind run freeIn the hopes that some may partAnd cease their endless banterI am the maker of these misfortunesA tight fist, stubborn will, and muted interludeChanged the course and blocked the chance To return and be redeemedI want your hills, I want your greenI want your voice not unseenBut I must wait, delight and patientFor the plan

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-42797501283225392282010-05-18T02:46:00.000-04:002010-05-18T02:46:00.032-04:00

Bringing forth new lifeA heart beatIts own drumThe dance of a new dayThat smile in your eyeWind bringing changesPromises fadingLast dance with young loveWe cling to our mindsThe light fading slowlyDrum beat grows distantIt just can’t be overThere’s still stars in my eyes

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-41936886243020502532010-05-18T02:45:00.000-04:002010-05-18T02:45:00.838-04:00

My Son, I'm at a loss and I feel like a failure. Today was the epitome of our relationship, I feel. It started off great. We hung out together and had great conversations and enjoyed each other. Then you yelled at and hit Emma and I yelled at you. You made her cry and I told you to get out. I hate saying that. I don't want to banish you from my presence. I don't even want to not deal with you. I

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-52363117527294399652010-05-14T02:46:00.001-04:002010-05-14T08:14:31.798-04:00

Across the Country Road(Christmas Eve 1997, Cumminstown PA)Across the country roadTo the country churchNot too far to goTo a Christmas Eve funeralRopes of pine boughsTied with ribbon, snakeAlong the oak trim thatGram dusted, polishedShe lies there nowAn oaken box her pewDoes her soul wishTo polish that wood too?Glory to GodIn the graveyardThere is a holeAbout the place where Dick kicked the

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-13508357414337290962010-05-14T02:45:00.000-04:002010-05-14T02:45:00.518-04:00

Big, billowing, whipping, towering,Flying, flowing, caressing, covering.Soft, black textile weaving its wayThrough petals of crimson and plum.Fabric and flower meet in dance.Pain, comfort, confusion, peace,Loneliness, freedom, fear, trust.Steadying presence surrounding me,Filling every crack, each hole.My emptiness isn’t really empty with You forYou are here.You do hear.You do heal.You do

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-54790924007487317752010-05-11T09:04:00.004-04:002010-05-13T16:53:31.733-04:00

ListenWhat does it mean to listen to others, to listen to myself? What does it mean to listen to God?--------Jess and I stop walking halfway across the bridge. The painted yellow steel beams rise straight up next to us, looking like strips of candy buttons I might have bought at the neighborhood pool years ago. “Maybe it doesn’t matter if Jesus was a historical figure or not,” she ventures.

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-8700068760214687932010-05-11T08:56:00.005-04:002010-05-13T16:37:54.129-04:00

I bought this old bakery 2 years ago today. I'll never forget that day. More over, I'll never forget the few days before that. You have to understand, this is hard for me. I've never talked about this until now. I'm not sure this small town would be ready for a story like mine. It was two years and 3 days ago today that the stranger walked into my life for the first time. Actually, he walked

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-52667161188895386902010-05-08T21:48:00.006-04:002010-05-13T16:53:22.940-04:00

(adapted from War of the Worlds by Orson Welles and the Mercury Theatre)30 October 1938: a cataclysmic event took place in the minds and imaginations of Americans. Civilization ended, humanity fell from the precipice upon which it had perched itself. The terror felt in the hearts and minds of Americans on this day was one imagined and set upon them by what should have been illogical and

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-42314383706838449922010-05-07T09:16:00.000-04:002010-05-13T16:53:08.581-04:00

Wind chimes and train whistles danceoutside our new home. Morningsun peers over the old, worn steelfactory to the East, light returns from the West as itjumps off the red brick across the street. Illuminationfills our entryway – warm, notpiercing. The wandering lightextends the aura of dawnpast outsiders awareness.The newly veiled stairs creek asfeet visit lightly. The houseis nearing a century,

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-13902134631156791412010-05-07T02:45:00.008-04:002010-05-13T16:52:53.638-04:00

“Those guys are jerks. Just ignore them.”Alex tried to ignore them. He nodded. “I know.”“Seriously,” his friend Sara tried again. “They’re jackasses.”Alex smiled. “Jackasses,” he muttered. He told himself he was strong enough to take it. It wasn’t the first time jackasses had called him that name. It probably wouldn’t be the last time. He looked over his shoulder at the huddle of frat boys. Two

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-40439447527477103172010-05-04T02:46:00.001-04:002010-05-13T16:52:42.482-04:00

Memory is not fully itself when it reaches only into the past. A memory that is not alive to the present does not 'remember' the here and now, does not 'remember' its true identity, is not a memory at all. He who remembers nothing but facts and past events, and is never brought back into the present, is a victim of amnesia.- New Seeds of Contemplation, Thomas Merton* * *I’m not sure of the exact

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-36451495345486527212010-05-04T02:45:00.000-04:002010-05-13T16:52:26.514-04:00

I distinctly rememberDriving to grandma’s and writing on my magnetic etch-a-sketch. I proudly showed off the intervention that I had devised for my grandparents. Stop Smoking. It will killyou. You should stop. I love you.When I showed my mom she yelled at me and I didn’t understand why. I had worked really hard on that message and besides, mom was the authority on the perils of smoking.

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-88907121705174059322010-04-30T09:29:00.002-04:002010-05-13T16:52:14.006-04:00

“Pay Attention” they command,and the experience of generationsinsists that I submit and disciplineand practice solitude and silence.Like piano scales the minutes rattle by,jarring empty space a song could fill.This silent train wandersloud as the whisper of my own heartbeat,And I wander inside, looking for the quiet room with the window.I don’t know what I’m looking for,perhaps the focus of a

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-62644901238533422892010-04-30T09:26:00.004-04:002010-05-13T16:52:01.579-04:00

I caught your grief like the fluBut I’m just a poser‘Cause tomorrow I will taste again.I’ll run the dishwasher without sinking to the floor and staring.I’ll laugh without remorse.I’ll look the cashier straight in the eye.I caught your grief like the fluAnd the symptoms came on suddenly.The smell of Stargazers, a punch to the gutThose damned sentries flanking a little white coffin.Smelling of

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-20311450936385223322010-04-27T02:46:00.000-04:002010-05-13T16:51:28.875-04:00

I've always dreamt of being married.~Gum Drop Wishes~"One fish, two fish, red fish, blue..." I heard the door snap shut. I dropped my book to the floor, scrambled off my bed, and ran straight into the living room. I stopped at the glass door. Tears began streaming down my face as I stared at the empty parking space along the curb. The cloud of exhaust was quickly being carried away by the

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-72975868881836711452010-04-27T02:45:00.000-04:002010-05-13T16:51:15.342-04:00

The BeachThe goat bleating woke me up again—a most reliable alarm clock. But I was ten and on summer vacation; I had no need for such certainty. Eventually the goat would be silenced, simply disappear in the night, somewhere during the beating of drums. The goat was tied up on the witch doctor’s compound a few feet outside my window. A wall and hedge stood between indicated where my safe place

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-41019849572189374012010-04-23T07:43:00.003-04:002010-05-13T16:50:48.175-04:00

Cool water envelopes my naked toes as I sink my foot into the puddle on the cracked and slanted sidewalk square in front of my building. Shifting my weight onto one leg I slowly slide my foot vertically out of the puddle, watching the water change shape. The last drips drop off the tip of my big toe. Ripples rest, and the surface of the water is still again.Standing straight I look ahead. The

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-18765261103343207072010-04-23T07:31:00.000-04:002010-05-13T16:40:03.484-04:00

On every other cornerA man with money pays a man with lessTo do his chore, his stressThe one with less might gain a littleBut he lost his home, his place of restWe build for glory and destroy because we canPower made secure by metal and stoneStructures built in a day, shake and fallAll our toil leads to rubbleBy our hands or the force of the claySurrounded by rubbleMust I journey or may I be

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-18968727903565771352010-04-20T02:46:00.000-04:002010-05-13T16:39:47.951-04:00

I stand in fearYou just don’t knowDon’t push that buttonIt raises the veilHis grace is sufficientIt protects you todayMy pain will be your pain if you don’t walk awayWarring undercurrent floods this occasionI no longer hear youI am fighting temptationI know I should hold onThe belt will go back onBlows tear open my soulYou should start running now.

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-72927086392005857942010-04-20T02:45:00.000-04:002010-05-13T16:39:14.258-04:00

My Dearest Baby Boy,I don't know what happened. I don't know what has changed. Your birth changed my entire heart. I never knew love like that existed before you. When I looked at you, I knew I was looking at my own heart. I wanted the rest of the world to disappear so that it would just be you and me. What happened? Why can't I stand you now? I know I still love you! I know you are still as

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-54227002497621455202010-04-16T02:46:00.003-04:002010-04-16T08:29:29.190-04:00

The FruitI look so fine in my shiny, supple skin.My color is hot, you will be taken.Come here, smell the scent of my green branches, Come!Into my world, my adventure, my flesh.Soft, juicy, slimy, seedy, handle with care!Be gentle when you break me off the vine.Hold me gently; softly press your lips on me.I am yours, your ripened fruit, flesh.The WomanLooking down at my hands, I stared at the

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-13295145375339209372010-04-16T02:46:00.002-04:002010-05-13T16:38:49.234-04:00

I turn over the first chocolate chunk of soil with my garden spade. It is beautiful, rich, and pungent, smooth and shiny on its underside. Later, when I plant the whole garden, early May, I’ll fetch the neighbor’s Roto-tiller, the neighbor who is too old to use his many machines but not too old to plant tomatoes. I’ll till his garden while I’m at it.But it’s only the shovel for my onion bed.

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-64300159034903399282010-04-13T02:46:00.001-04:002010-05-13T16:38:31.058-04:00

From inside my car, I could tell only that the night was black, not that it was also blustery. I parked, stepped outside, and knew the coolness. My car was just two blocks off the busy street, and I had come to this point in Mt. Washington from an English department reception full of friends and food. I wanted to be alone. I wanted quiet moments with God. And I wanted them not safely in my

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-21066344818498638962010-04-13T02:45:00.001-04:002010-05-13T16:37:46.072-04:00

The alarm clock next to my bed had been making that annoying beeping sound for at least 10 minutes when I finally decided to slap it to the off position. I didn't want to get out of bed but I had to. I yawned, stretched my arms, and brought my feet to cold floor, sliding into my soft slippers.I scratched the back of my head, looked around the room a little, and then I realized that you were

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-20714751065629094612010-04-09T09:31:00.018-04:002010-05-13T16:37:11.318-04:00

God moves in the city and speaks in the country. It’s a pretty common concept if you think of it from a story perspective. Moses was raised in high culture of Egypt, but did not hear God speak till alone in the wilderness somewhere. Jesus went to the cities to teach and interact, and retreated to the hills to hear from God. God made a garden for Adam and Eve, not a city. Paul spent three

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-33215899723484993142010-04-09T02:45:00.003-04:002010-04-09T10:48:38.595-04:00

I wonder if I’m a mutant. Maybe I was a born a mutant or maybe something happened to me that turned me into one. I don’t remember eating kryptonite, or being struck by lighting, or getting an MRI done and during it the room suddenly goes black and sparks fly from the giant machine into my head and doctors are screaming, “Get him out of there! What’s happening?”Nope, nothing strange ever happened

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-25458403964871021872010-04-06T02:46:00.003-04:002010-04-06T11:17:00.495-04:00

Lying under the last of summer skies, in the coolness of autumn’s approach, I gave up trying to explain myself.“I guess I just don’t know what I mean,” I concluded. Plus it was getting late.“That’s it,” she replied. “That’s the question.”I ceased breathing for a moment, as perplexed as ever by her response. “What?” I asked, and she just smiled.I sat up abruptly and turned to her as she remained

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-16065712233549292722010-04-06T02:45:00.002-04:002010-04-08T10:08:09.812-04:00

Listen . . . Do you hear it? Can you hear? As I sit the walls scream out to me. The perfectly painted walls, smart and glamorous, glorious crown molding proclaims. The charming matching curtains chime in. The neatly kept granite counters command. Together the chorus demands:Be perfect. Look good. Be wonderful. Hide your hurt, your worries, your uncertainty, and insecurity. There’s no room

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-19342463891294084792010-03-01T13:47:00.002-05:002010-03-01T13:50:20.147-05:00

It’s been a while since we’ve seen anything new here, but take heart! We’re making plans to roll out a new season of Silhouette Words starting in April. We already have a great group of writers committed for the new season including several who are brand new to the site. I’ll be editing the season, and am really excited about being a part of it. While I get things ready, you might stumble upon

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-59952218903732690072009-11-27T07:00:00.001-05:002009-11-27T07:00:05.724-05:00

The flow of thought pauses, changes, skips back and forth between ideas, hesitant to settle on one for fear it will be anything less than the right one. The pen lifts, its scratching silent. The paper waits at ease.The pen touches the paper again. Dim in the twilight, words take their place in rows across the page. Occasionally one bears a line drawn through it; occasionally a cluster of tiny

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-13100750327077763262009-11-27T07:00:00.000-05:002009-11-27T07:00:04.876-05:00

God's dear son – Jesus – have you so – offended -As Man – so judgingly – hatefully pretended?People: all mocking, People: rejecting, you: in great anguish.Whence came this Anguish? And who was the Guilty?I – treasonous Wretch – you are dying for Me.Yes, it was I denied – crucified – you on Calvary, the shepherd.From this good shepherd who for sheep was offeredthe son who suffered for the slave

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-13960814296672536392009-11-24T07:00:00.003-05:002009-11-24T07:00:07.728-05:00

Everyday we deal with decisions of right and wrong Choice is the keyDo we actually choose to listen to what’s right?Not even what's right, but what God thinksBecause he knows what is right So what do we choose?What we think is best?Why not? After all, we are in control of our life, right?NoBecause if that’s trueWe wouldn’t ever live in truth So why would any one want to live a lie?Because it's

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-32121030429029245432009-11-24T07:00:00.001-05:002009-11-24T07:00:06.985-05:00

It's 5:36 AM. I am lying on an over-sized purple couch that has been faded by years of overnight guests, afternoon teas, hours of “four on a couch”, tear stained conversations, random parties, and countless Blockbuster nights. The city lights of an unfamiliar neighborhood stream in through the cracks in the mini blinds. I can already hear the tread of tires gripping the pavement. As my mind

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-85151581154651891992009-11-19T11:19:00.005-05:002009-11-19T11:26:39.004-05:00

“The soul lets go of everything, daughter, so that it may remain more completely in me. The soul itself no longer lives, but I.”I stilled myself.There I was.Staggering. Exhausted. Sweating. Tense. Muscles aching. Barely alive.I looked in my eyes. I looked at myself. I saw myself. Objectively. Sad. The bricks. So heavy. Cutting. Gouging my skin, blood gushing. Me – oblivious. Moving at a snail

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-6910784804982491472009-11-19T07:00:00.000-05:002009-11-23T14:00:33.222-05:00

I drove to that same building on a brisk fall evening. The mountains were glorious, standing high and proud against a sun-set sky. Oranges and reds decorated the grounds and underneath my feet were the crunching sounds of weak leaves. The air was clean and it was so quiet you could hear that strange sound that is really no sound at all; the ringing of silence. Every now and then, you could hear

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-91263277162604156142009-11-17T07:00:00.005-05:002009-11-30T11:22:10.053-05:00

"Is it true that I have seen all these things? That they are real incidents in my life's history? Did I see those brave and noble countrymen of mine laid low in death and weltering in their blood? Did I see our country laid waste and in ruins? Did I see soldiers marching, the earth trembling and jarring beneath their measured tread? Did I see the ruins of smouldering cities and deserted homes?

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-4305206922404959602009-11-17T07:00:00.002-05:002009-11-17T07:00:05.572-05:00

Pace around the fieldWaist to waist in silenceWatch the storm black the skyYou've razed the harborOf pretense from my breastYou're no mystery to me nowRun - your soul crushed callousThe wounds you don't nurseI leave my flowers funeral hazeAnd put my hope in the earthTurn my head awayThe screen oh fatherThere's nothing to sayWhy drink it any furtherYears of empty promiseTo the children it can't

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-21085996577137750962009-11-12T10:55:00.000-05:002009-11-12T10:56:48.384-05:00

What God has joinedin Her infinite wisdomof the who and the what we all needLet no man thinkhe's smart enoughor arrogant enoughor capable enoughto try to pull apart.As the drops of eastdilute with westtwo rivers truly are oneAs one body is madeof thousands of partsthis river is filled from streams.Where this water joinsto become part of the wholeand flows to fill that which wasit becomes one with

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-89814233870289735682009-11-10T11:14:00.003-05:002009-11-10T11:22:04.810-05:00

University Christian Living Covenant Contract Broken Friday, August 28, 10 p.m.Sally O’Reilly rooms with her best friend. They eat five meals together a week, take one class together on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. Sally’s best-friend-roommate has a boyfriend. Sally does not. On Friday nights, Sally, her best-friend-roommate and her boyfriend go to a house on Little Cricket Drive for a party.

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-25591205711143755382009-11-10T11:09:00.002-05:002009-11-10T11:11:37.577-05:00

I like the freedom of a blue skyAnd the cozy feel of a cloudy oneI want to sit by a fireBut hate it when my legs are coldI want to be with you foreverBut don't trust you like my friendsAny reasonable request is a YesAnd at times the unreasonable tooWhere did my confidence go? I don't want to make you sadLiving across the Western lineI did not throw out my heritageYou taught me to open my armsSo I

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-5619694124839397072009-11-05T11:01:00.001-05:002009-11-05T11:03:39.730-05:00

Stone is not deadMarble comes to life in human handsHe called it carne, meat to carveGod-fired-up with chisel and hammerForged and pounded, forged and pounded To strike and chip, to file and etchStone is not deadStone lives in his handsStone breathes in his loving careStone exalts in his ministryHe sculpted stone into lifeStone is not deadDavid was a damaged slabUntil a flat-nosed

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-48391237906617075982009-11-03T11:51:00.003-05:002009-11-03T11:55:58.162-05:00

We are all suspended in a state of waiting, and it’s hard not to notice the people around me:Two teenagers on their way to a rodeo. I had no idea you could buy a cowboy-hat shaped box for your cowboy hats. An elderly couple sits closest to the gate. He blows his nose and clears his throat intermittently—his wife ignores him, focusing her attentions on her Sudoku book. A group of men and women are

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-980441167560574932009-10-29T07:00:00.001-04:002009-11-03T11:49:20.756-05:00

I search for God. In rainy days with books,debates and prayersdirty looksand condescending stares.In the heart of intellect,the corners of the mind,all thoughtsand words defined.I search for God.In the heartbeat orhymn or chantor the embrace or tear.Aching to find Godeverywhereanywhere.what great fear;if found nowhere.I search for God.Wag my finger at the skysay“Make yourself real!”The heaven’s

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-42118944084275149392009-10-27T10:52:00.003-04:002009-10-27T11:08:27.717-04:00

Hope deferred makes the heart sick...Life is a constant succession of transitions. As I look back and ponder my life, there have been five pivotal points of transition – high school graduation; the summer after my freshman year of college; the semester I lived in France; graduate school; AND moving to Lebanon.Each transition carried with it a certain amount of joy, anticipation,

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-35794400477570417622009-10-27T07:00:00.000-04:002009-10-27T07:00:00.605-04:00

Sitting here, trying to pull something out of my heart,Wondering why it’s so hard to just writeBecause me and you both know that’s where I amI don’t want to make some unrealistic statement that sounds goodSo my words are accepted by my audience Because when my eyes open,I come to find myselfUp on an empty stage with the spotlight in my eyes, blinding meAnd only a couple pieces of scrap paper in

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-52078938627645387312009-10-22T07:00:00.003-04:002009-10-24T17:15:47.308-04:00

Look across the street from my home and you’ll see what made me want to write tonight: a little black girl and a little white boy face one another on the steeply slanting front lawn of a Pittsburgh home. She holds a dandelion, makes a wish: "I wish I had a dog". She blows on the tufts of white seed, and passes it on to the boy.Pan out just a little to the sidewalk with the Asian, Caucasian,

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-17795198955980123012009-10-22T07:00:00.001-04:002009-10-22T07:00:05.467-04:00

Some years ago, I heard a tale of a letter to Dear Abby--or some other such advice columnist--that came from a woman wondering rather desperately how to stop her husband snoring. It provoked several months of dialogue between readers and the columnist, until one woman wrote in with the following abrupt statement: "Snoring is the sweetest sound in the world. Ask any widow."I heard that story long,

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-34694078575390143742009-10-20T17:07:00.001-04:002009-10-20T17:09:17.503-04:00

I woke a strange place,my father was gone,he must have wandered somewhere.Mounted brown bassLargeSolid bodied;Careens from wall to balsam lureSooted with dust.Stacks of important work,Cabinets of stuffAnd the smell of coffeehe must have wandered somewhere.He cancelled the newsAlong with our talksAnd the Canadian vacation that went to pieces. The year of the big stormWhen growing up burned down.

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-8683279434294478102009-10-20T07:00:00.001-04:002009-10-20T07:00:05.166-04:00

Do you know what this is?" he asked one day, handing me a dead piece of wood no longer than my hand but twice the length of his, wide at one end and sharply, but evenly, tapered at the other."A stick?" I offered."No, Daddy, it's a gun – and this is the bullet," he corrected obviously, pointing next to a tiny speck of wood about the size and shape of a grain of instant rice."Can we cut a hole in

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-66924949623697111712009-10-15T10:53:00.002-04:002009-10-15T10:56:17.292-04:00

They weigh nearly nothingbut they carry the world:just five pennies,one dime -- the extravagance of his love."It's just one more gift;you can buy something nice,for yourself...or maybe someone special"His intense eyes searchfor the worth of my soulas they beg my approval"I know it's not quite what you wanted,but it's all I could find."I wonder at the simplicity of these small bits of

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-70163858667958238912009-10-13T13:58:00.002-04:002009-10-13T14:00:50.196-04:00

Truth jumps from my six story windowI am left to discernWhere did it go?Naked to my eyeI scan the ground and find its affectIn a bite of fruit and a smileThe watchman knows when they come and when they goBut the wealth behind his eyes goes unnoticedBelieving he is just the guy behind the gateChildren dark and dirty run andLaugh to forget what was lostWhen the coal burned their lungsBut kept them

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-69616182062148211122009-10-08T11:13:00.001-04:002009-10-08T11:15:25.855-04:00

Yesterday I wasAlmost done with an ode to DavidMarble giant marvel of Michelangelo. The most beautifulMan-made object I will ever see(Not hyperbole)But then there I wasAn hour laterDriving a back road by a Foggy autumn bogUnder a full moonA white christening gownShrouding a painted marshLeaves in vibrant arrayAwaiting last ritesEven as they are baptizedBy the fogAn October morning Will fade in

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-47610728638123852372009-10-06T07:00:00.001-04:002009-10-06T08:57:10.592-04:00

Nat exited the train and stood blinking on the platform, dazed and disoriented. Her current state of shock lasted for sixteen trains which arrived and left again before she began to move toward the turnstiles that would lead her to the marble staircase, the glass corridor, and the cold January sun. She carried a battered cardboard box in her arms and had a bandage on her hand. The heels of her

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4167875833413820232.post-43796376389533259812009-10-02T17:18:00.002-04:002009-10-02T17:22:32.536-04:00

Two hoursseems an interminable lengthto the husband, fatherwho stares into the eyesof his tiny daughter.Newly thrust intoa darkened roomin this darkened world.And wondersif he will have to go aboutthis enormous taskwithout her.Two hoursseems so longto the mommy, the wifewhisked upstairsto stare into the bright hooded lightsof a sterile room.And wondersif it is her dayto see the face of Jesus.And

silhouettenoreply@blogger.com6