https://youtu.be/c5_CRotLsBA Once again the wide river recalled. A story, a songAn artery of memory.Coffee-colored from summer floods.Meandering west, as I did long ago.I hear waves lapping from a barge passing.I hear that sucking soundIn the shallows, in the shoals.I hear Granddaddy plucking an old MartinOn Birmingham radio, his high tenor warblingInside the wax of a... Continue Reading →
https://youtu.be/7jnkdeQLos0 There on the map but vague in my mind.Blurred through the window As we touch down in rain.Rain like some shroud to be lifted.A rain ancestral And singing of pity.This is the dream that will happen.This is how it will all play out.There will be seagulls And pints of stout and my faceAround every corner.There will be... Continue Reading →
about this piece Street Heart2018Mixed media on canvas36" x 36" See More in Art...
She dreams of me in mattenow that I've tasted bloodthis wine is too thin. Read More in Poetry
Only disconnect.Slow down aggressively.Do nothing and rest afterwards.Sit, stare, and move the wall.You have the right to remain silent.Nothing-happening is not a threat.Revel in redundancy.Put all your goals in a box and burn that box.Love to do what’s now.Quiet your mind, hear your soul.Embrace the lean elegance of choice.Trick yourself into happiness.Cultivate primordial confidence.Revel in... Continue Reading →
about this piece Floral Interpretation of Antelope Canyon2019Digital photography See More in Art
He left one day without saying goodbye.I cherished the moments that we shared.He must have known my heart would wail and cry.I wonder at the end if he was scared.I wish I could take back that canceled lunch,I mourn for those who missed time with him too.Instead I told him something else came up.He did... Continue Reading →
My grandad’s father John Speed Stephens Jr. was the son of an Irish immigrant, and as a fourteen-year-old, he became the pioneer who planted the Stephens in Indian territory, pre-Oklahoma. This is his story, passed on by my father, born in Palmer, Oklahoma. Many of the details were told to...
Margaret Hagerman spent years in the wilds of privileged white America, talking with kids, going to their soccer games, etc. in order to produce White Kids: Growing Up With Privilege in a Racially Divided America. Working in the Midwestern burg of “Peterfield” (one suspects Minneapolis or Milwaukee), she focuses on...
My daughter has my hurt in her. She lives with it better than I have. I hid it, softened it, made it acceptable, and then called my compromise a success. An achievement of normal. She faces it, endures it, mocks it by parody, dismissal, lightness. No big deal. It is...
