I wanted him to live to be one hundred even though his readings had stopped years ago. Who am I to judge how long a man should live? Or how his living, his writing, his teaching helped my life. I was just a woman in his workshop at Centrum learning as much as I could.
He would take his class on writing walks. One day on a beach hike, we stood together and watched a fish die in the sand. Another day, we sat with an old stump that had once held up something magnificent. We translated Francis Ponge, “the poet of things”, and looked deeply into an orange.
seasons come and go
left alone to find my way
sad hearing the rain
dVerse prompt to write a haibun on something or someone to be thankful for
dVerse prompt to write a concrete poem (missed the deadline so going with the next prompt of a conceit.). This is a new stanza to my spoken word poem of the same title which the metaphor of the gun is expanded to meaning many things.
Night of the Living Dead was a scary movie I saw when I was a teenager. It was even scarier driving past a cemetery on my way home that night. The plot line resembles Walking Dead— cannibalistic zombies walking around attacking and eating people. Walking Dead is in the eleventh and final season of guts flying and spilt brains and many ways to slow down, trap, and kill a zombie, not to mention the unraveling of society and its attempt at restructuring.
taking from the past
brings unimagined seasons
fuels a greater fear
dVerse prompt on a fear that was experienced— my experience with zombies has only been in movies