Drawing them
An art that sure don’t care
An intellect? An artist?
Mess-maker? Long-jumper?
Languish in the mire, undecided

Feeling them
Hold an evanescent breath
Continue to stand and applaud
Hoping to prompt an encore
From a stage that’s gone dark

Wisdom Kingdom

To turn the mourning to a song
To claim the weather was your choice
And all the ache a beckoned friend

To want no more than what is now
To plant the flowers among pests
And seeds of doubt in yesteryear

So then, with wisdom, kingdom come

Shane Instead

Four rhythmic beats
Two words in West Indies timbre
And I was taken aback

Back, when I was something then

Then again, back when I thought to dance
Those steps
Found me, easily

Those songs, those singers
Left me, heartily
Dancing alone, unknown
To me


You, Pontiac boy
Ever-beaconing muscle-car radio
Oldies songs all the way
Turned up

I, Chevy girl
Ever-grasping the volume knob
Ripped it off, tossed it out
My window

Pictured us
Forever grooving, reminiscing
Life-long love song
We’d drive


“Believe,” he admonished, five times again and again, from on high, living on bugs and breadcrumbs, singing some other language to me.

And speaking of crumbs, of fallen-food not given, I knew I’d better believe in something, since such was my fate.

He stopped then -they always do- and took away his scraps and sweetly sung psalms -they always will.

So she, a magical historian of a thing, in sweet song too, recounted, “Disappear. Disappear. Disappear.”

Photo Credit: Tiger R., age 9