Storm

Rain drops flashed like stars
through the lightning. Roads
glistened with the glow of
stoplights. Together, we traveled,
taking shelter in my car,
turning as fit, to better see
the storm.

Child's Play

He called to me, from his kingdom
as I rested next to mom. She urged
me forward to the colorful structure.
His little hand led me to the slide
where he shrunk me eighteen years.
Weightlessly, he crawled over my
shoulders and onto my lap, hands
reaching for my grasp.

I couldn't help but to admire his
youthful spirit, racing to the top.
Looking down at the mother, I
yearned for a family of my own.
A child to embrace, teach and
who will bare me the gift of
innocents.

Onion Cures

Onion filled jar resting on the window ledge.
Mom needs a butter knife to wedge the lid
loose. With the hiss of the seal, an aroma
floods the vastness of the space. Silver spoon
scoops the potent cure and delivers it to my
tongue. Between spice swirls, the sweet flavor
of sugar dances in my mouth. She always
knows ways to heal my ails, and soon my fever
drops.

How I yearn for her motherly touch and home
brewed remedies. Alas I left her care to travel
north. Gasping for air, I dream of sweet onions.

Passing Through

Don't cast me to shadows depth,
i am neither friend nor foe. Thoughts
travel the unrestrained streets of
Ghammorah, yet I rape no saints.
Judge me not for the fruit of my
feast, nor the ale of my leisure as
my sabbath is not your own. I dare
not flood your village, nor demand
allegiance. Only questions rest to
ponder in my wake, yours to ash.
May they least feed your fires, round
which your people gather.

Vices

I look past my vices as I do past
the crack in my windshield. At its
youth it plagued my mind with
concern. As it grew, it faded into
the background, expanding on
account of bitter nights as
expected. Perhaps it will soon
ripen, forcing me to replace it
with fresh glass.

Dishes

I hated to watch my grandma cook.
Her belief was that a splash of luke
warm water was enough to remove
the stale flour from the spoon, the
spoon she used to mix the batter
while making pierogi, just last week.
This spoon later stirred my cup of
tea, which rested in a coffee stained
cup.

I remember this as I pour hot water
over my raspberry tea bag. The cup
I just recently pulled from a sink full
of dishes. There was no dish soap in
the bottle so I let the water run for
a brief moment, and used that same
luke warm flush to drain out the old
stagnant, run off, water from inside.

One day my grandkids will ask me
for a cup of tea, while visiting, and
I will repeat this process. For the
full effect, I won't wipe the bread
crumbs from the corner of my mouth
until I'm finished with my sandwich.
Only then, and as though it was left
there for desert, will I wipe my mouth
a finger, only to stick the crumbs
back into my mouth.

Strawberries and Cream

What if a box of ice cream could demonstrate
the simplicity of consideration? A bowl of vanilla
cookies and cream, enjoyed on the buds in place
of a chunky strawberry bite. The difference is
small when compared to the delight in the
company. The choice of flavors can make the
difference, as some my cringe at the thought of
lumps, while others may only crave the bitter
sweet taste of a dark chocolate on the tongue.
Less alone, aim to fix the desires of your neighbor,
while balancing your own. Indifference may, in
this case, determine a smile from a frown. Meanwhile,
you can still hope that when served, you will stare
down a fresh strawberry field.