Posts By This Author
My Imperfect Calligraphy
My strokes are halting, not like the imagined fluidity
of the monastic scribes, hunched, by candlelight,
over some ancient text, perhaps the Our Father,
being deftly rendered in the thin black liquid
of a gently dipped quill.
From their sublime to my ridiculous work
in colored calligraphy markers
purchased at the local drugstore.
But my text is the same, the Our Father;
except mine is printed on the inside jacket
of the pocket edition of a scriptural rosary book,
printed and published a mere forty years ago.
A Herd Of Pigs
There is no reason / for a white man to be here.
My Father's Hands
They used to prowl the house / like great brown bears ...
Lullaby, And Goodnight?
Being a parent is my vocation. I am not necessarily good at it, merely called to it.