“The Ten-Year Drift” Ten years buried, Like a cabin under frozen snow. Surface: A sudden knock at the door. A return of ten years. Suspension of consciousness I am relieved. Twist of fate; An icy chill on a white blanket slate, fresh skin; a new life. As the sound of snow sonic, pillows over the cabin. There sits our picture. Fades to old blue. Once a shared shadow. Becomes an instant replay. We sat looking out of the window Sharing an age-old...

What if I just let go? An Architect of Ruins: built upon an unpredictable, Sandstorm. With full knowledge of its consequences. The contractor's role in assisting with the outcome. Was the price to pay for the tools used to construct the anchor that is already sinking? This is the familiar toxicity of a well-known friend. While displaying their fully furnished turnkey. Craving stability, but chose the sandstorm. Like cutting off body parts, then...

Happiness vs Joy Ps 30:5 For His anger is but for a moment, but His favor is for A lifetime, or in His favor, is life. Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning. 2 Cor 4:17 For our light, momentary affliction (this slight distress of passing hour) is ever more and more abundantly preparing and producing and achieving for us everlasting weight of glory (beyond all measure, excessively surpassing all comparisons and all...

Memories of Darkness A judgment of the past: where we’ve locked our dark halves. Between grief and grace. The choice we made along the way. Yet fixated on latent fears of losing face. These thoughts weigh heavily, lounging with those inner chat voices. No one hears me, even if they are standing in proximity. It was the day the sun refused to shine, under a pale moonlight. Playing broken mind games: in an apocalyptic futurist survival mood...

What if it doesn’t matter? Still, we move slightly forward. On what seems to be a floating icebound. Lock and key; almost there. Close to you. But what have we become? Nothing more than a ghost loop. All these thoughts. That shapes our days; they are only words that wither away. Broken hearts, sounds of murmuring regrets. With empty pockets, asking what it was all for? It's cold now, somehow we knew. Those missing links behind the pain, no...

One after Another They came for your head. Aching, filled with dread. Without hesitation, terror; Breed, anticipation. Their eyes were burning. Cloaked in disobedience. In a source ritual. I can’t explain the sorts. Burden with disillusionment. Drunk in confusion. Tipping and double-dipping, In nightmares. Whose reality has come chasing? For what they didn’t ask for. Now that the past is knocking On your back door. Wild and braggadocious. From...

Bus Pass was champing at the bit, and couldn’t understand why Bus Pass Lady (BPL to those in the know) wasn’t writing about their recent triumphant trip to Edinburgh for BIBA, Ballet and Books. (BPL justified the books as there was a tenner token on her Waterstone’s card which Blackwell’s accepts (in-store only)). God bless Blackwell’s, for what finishes off a lovely day better than a new book? Well, chocolate cake and a nice cup of tea, which...

It’s okay! Feeling peachy, Come out and play. The sun is welcoming. Her new day, reborn. Take a stroll. And release your woes. Grab a friend and hit the trail. Then rest, digest, and digress. We’ll wind down. Over a game of chess. Realize who’s the best? And how much we’re blessed, The lessons we go through. Some honest mistake. Leave you wondering? Can you get an even break? It’s okay! Some things don’t matter! When you recognize it. As a lot...

Filed by Fletcher Moody — Literary Correspondent I went up to the Bronx to give Dorothy Parker the last word, and could not find a place to leave it. I make a practice of the last word. It is the one advantage the living hold over the famous dead, and I have collected it my whole career, standing at this grave and that one with something prepared, saying over a stone the thing the person never let me say to their face. Parker never let anyone...

I’ve not been well. Was away to see family last week, went around some big shops, obv., came back with what I suspect is some crony of covid, maybe Cicada, as those were the symptoms. Have been in bed sleeping or drinking loads of water to try to make the sore throat go away. I don’t want to be one of those people who say ‘I’m sixty-five you know’, but just this once, I’m sixty-five you know. One of the many things this means is that when you’re...