Rediscovered Ditty

Just when I began to believe

there was nothing left in the tank,

That the rhymes were bland,

chord progressions uninspired,

As if ever more than a layman’s effort,

Like a self-proclaimed bricklayer,

who only builds with cinderblock,

In a picture file I stumble upon a forgotten recording,

(No wonder it was forgotten, not a voice memo,

it was a video shot from an end table

capturing the inside of a lamp shade)

Nothing complete, and really nothing special,

Just different, deeper, soulful, with potential,

Something to ponder, something to mold,

something to sculpt, something new – not old

Build a fire, pick up the chisel,

let down your guard, mix paint on the easel,

It’s time for inside work,

But to make it happen,

It has to be released

From inside the imagination.

A stranger, in first person,

A meeting, a thought, a line,

an offer, two pairs of lips combined,

Well-defended yet unavoidable,

Tantalizingly irresistible,

Destructive self-foreshadowing,

At heaven he looks up toward:

“Another sin I can’t afford.”


© 2016




Canaan Valley Trip 019.jpgA leaf, bright crimson, doing all he could muster,

To cling to the tree, from which he had sprung.

He looked to the gray sky, now unsure of his setting,

Longing for the comforting blue that made him soar

Like the hawk that landed close by.

He shuddered in the cold rain which soaked him,

Making him heavy, and testing his resolve.

Just yesterday and throughout his life,

He danced lightly in sunshine, and,

He laughed contentedly in the warmth in which he lived.

Now the wind pushed him to the brink of death,

As if watching his friends and family perish wasn’t bad enough.

He found it confusing and he grew weary,

His grip now but a few tiny fingers on a branch that betrayed him,

As had the world which he knew.

He prayed for a break in the clouds and a respite from the wind,

But his hope of hanging on lessoned with each fading breath…



Anywhere, U.S.A.

Vorpe Road barn

Author’s note: As told by a friend of a friend to a friend… remembering what a great country we live in. Thanks for reading, A.S.

Times were such for the man and woman that living paycheck to paycheck was becoming an exercise in creativity both in the kitchen and with the checkbook. With payday still three days away he inventoried his cabinets then took his last few dollars in the world and a pocketful of quarters to the market. He came back home and with much love for his family prepared a dozen and a half delicious and filling meatballs with sauce. After the meal that evening, which subtracted only six, a call came from a family friend looking to do a charitable deed for her own immediate family, whose mother was in the hospital. She turned to the man and woman because in the past they had supplied her with restaurant-quality food for her family vacations, for which she paid. The man said that there wasn’t time for that but he’d just made a lovely batch of meatballs and sauce he could part with if that would be satisfactory. He boxed them up in throwaway containers to await the woman’s arrival the next morning. She showed with much cheer and appreciation and in exchange for the meals brought a bag of homemade chocolates. They said their good-byes. The man took his youngest, picked up her classmate, their daily routine, and drove them to school. On his way home he thought, this was certainly not the first time his wife and he had given away their last meal, or their last hundred dollars, to someone in need. She especially was so thoughtful, so giving. Once again home, he went to the kitchen and stared in the cabinets. There was something in the freezer. All would be well. They were so blessed.