Archive for January, 2015

January 25, 2015

Silent Underwood

Art: Old Typewriter, Dan Butler

Art: Old Typewriter, Dan Butler



Silent Underwood tell me your writer’s secrets –

Solid frame that you embraced silently in 1942,

Chassis as black as the night you kissed him before he left,

Your clandestine emotions as impenetrable as your metal frame.


Whispering keys,

Touched by fingers,

Typed letter after letter,



Sentiments that bound you both together from worlds apart.


Your carriage advanced your affairs to the end of a line,

Anticipating a manual return to avoid losing a thought,

A hopeful return,

A sacred agreement.


But when the bell sounded,

The thought was lost.

The sentence paused without a period.


And in the chrome of the carriage,

Was the partial expression

Of someone no longer there,

Whose fingers stopped silently.


Underwood saved from the shed of a dead writer,

Where did your letters go?

Under your dust,

Would defeated fingerprints still linger on keys

As the only remaining proof of your secrets

For me to gather from paperless silence?


January 18, 2015

Until the Red Light Changes

Photo: Creative Commons BY-SA 3.0, Traffic Light

Photo: Creative Commons BY-SA 3.0, Traffic Light


stopped at a red light

I navigate random thoughts

such as the politics of things uncertain





when the red light changes

an occupation will come and one will go


a life will gain new meaning worth waiting for

while inattentive commuters continue to wait


a heart burdened will sigh and breathe for the first time

a heart will stop

a heart will fall in love


at the red light vaporous thoughts linger

in the glow of brake lights


I suppose all drivers eventually stop

and pause – to think

about prolonged uncertainties

and momentary certainties

until the red light changes



January 11, 2015

body at momentary rest

Photo: Creative Commons

Photo: Creative Commons


on a warm beach winds blow from the East

in a new direction inspired by expectations unmet

touching my other side unfamiliar with its force

combing through my hair


the tides that lap have traveled

a thousand miles across the Atlantic


washing my feet from the residue of experience


and sand free from gravity

meets me in salt air

as if to exfoliate sun-aged skin

and reduce me to simplicity again



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