The Art of Living

art-of-living

Summer’s rains, fall’s spice,

Far from the maddening crowd,

Every breath, worthwhile.

A Second Shot

Abandoned it once,

older, I reached out again,

seized this time. Good book.

Lost

Scores of old photos,

of us in each other’s arms

fixed smiles, missing love.

Silent, Suffering

silent-suffering

The block had hit hard.

Poised for the first word in days,

“Martyr,” her hand wrote.

The Ideal Devotee

morgan-freeman

Calls human holy,

worships hair strands and footprints,

nails sense to a wall.