Poems&Prose

home

Gramma at the nursing home is querulous. Spits like a cat and slaps demanding to go home where Grandpa, ten years dead and her children grown with families of their own wait for her. I too will cry in my foriegn rooms to a bored nurse. Home is a time; A hot summer’s day, Nineteen… Continue reading home

Poems&Prose

Islands

“No man is an island,” so says the preacher. Though, he may live on one. Where he departs to the mainland by boat or bridge he remembers the waves and the breeze off the channel, the wild, high island sounds. All men die islands, then he returns to these shores of solitude.