The Fiddle Player And The Dancer

This poem was originally written two years ago. I have re-written it but I’m not sure if I like it this way or not. As he packed up to leave, an old women approached. “Can you play that thing?” she asked, motioning toward the fiddle. “I can, but I can’t make any money here,” he…

The Sword Of Freedom

Originally posted on The Window:
As hands are brushed together, dead bodies fall like dust and a girl in a dress called freedom whirls and twirls but makes no sound but the sound of a mothers cry. With the constitution in one hand and a bible in the other, flames suddenly leap and turn them…

Blue Moon

After sending her 2.3 children to play with the neighbors down the street, the housewife, in her new, crisp, pink pastel dress, serves her husband ice tea on a sunny, suburban, Sunday afternoon. When yellow foam mixed with blood ejects from his mouth, wetting his gray trousers, and he falls from his lawn chair in…

My Irish and Scottish Heritage

Saint Patrick’s day is coming once again, on Saturday, March 17th. In honor of himself, I thought I would talk about my Irish heritage. I’ve been spending a lot of time researching my family genealogy, taking DNA tests and planning trips to Scotland and Ireland. It’s been great fun discovering my ancient ancestors. Armstrong is…

The Process Of Writing

I probably should have titled this, “My” process of writing because I’m sure that for as many writers as there are in the world, there are as many processes. My process is unique to me although many may be similar. Today, I am inspired to write. That’s how it begins. As with a musician, (something…

Northfield, Minnesota

From 1998 until 2017 my wife Ann and I lived in the Faribault, Minnesota area, the last six years of which were spent in an old farm house on a lake surrounded by corn fields. In November 2016, Ann got sick and in December we found out she had Endometrial Metastatic Cancer. She died in…

A Tip O’ The Hat

Madman on the street, recounting His days with the queen. “She was just a wee lass ye know. Won’t ye give us a kiss on the cheek?” “The dogs, they howl so mournfully In the garden, for they have but a scrap to eat.” Chewing at his fingernail, he bends His head to the cobblestones.…

I Will See You In My Dreams

My days are longer now, because you’re not there. They are lonelier now, without you to talk to. My hands are more idle, without yours to hold. My thoughts have less meaning, without you to tell them to. I have no direction now, without you to come home to. But I will see you again.…

Six Haiku

These can be read alone or together as a story. red cardinal against a backdrop of snow sweet morning music his fluttering wings spread snow crystals through the air the sound of warming cardinals gather on a branch to talk and sing the air is music fluffing their red wings the color contrast of snow…

I Am

I am the son of a man with calloused hands, who had dirt and grease permanently pressed into the lines of his knuckles. I am the son of a women who worked hard all her life, raising me and my brother. She worked a switchboard and helped college students find their way. I am the…

Watching Life

I cut my finger on the dulled and stained edge on the blade of my pocket knife. The blood runs quickly, bright red as gravity pulls it to the white sheet of paper that lies on the table, dark, almost black as it is absorbed into the carpet beneath my feet. Thickly flowing from my…

Today

Today the day THE day like any other, you suppose. It should be memorable it should be… You stand in line at the grocery store waiting. In front of you, a person whose card won’t work. The manager is called. Behind you, impatient people. Your car had ice on the windows. You scraped until your…

We Were Good, We Were Right

Music, jagged edges, shredding sleep. Visceral emotion, dredged up, thrown open like a fresh wound flesh wound. The dream, so real, slowly bleeding away replaced with morning light, and realization of the dream. Scratching, stretching, remembering. She’s still dead. In the dream I could touch her. Hold her. She sang. Her voice warm, and beautiful…

My Dog, Insomnia

A large orange moon hangs above the horizon, like nothing else does. At 1 o’clock in the morning I walk my dog, insomnia. Thoughts swirl, ebb and flow as if my mind is a great ocean and I on a small raft, float upon the surface at it’s discretion. My dog sees something behind us…