Eliza Daley ~ Wordcraft & Musing on Home & Hope
Gary ate another palmful of antacids. Didn’t seem to matter what he ate for lunch these days. Or even if he ate. By mid-afternoon a bubble began to grow low in his gut and propagated up through his digestive tract until he felt like an iron fist was gripping his esophagus. On the long drive… Continue reading Wicker Man
the flow i and you in this dance flowing life from one to the other you give i receive green sustenance you create i unmake you, me to feed is death no breath without you no spark without me no me, no you without this arc my nourishment are you your nurture am i we… Continue reading Wednesday Word Poetry
i did not mean to say goodbye only… perhaps my boots did having some mystic yearning for autumnal perambulation and perturbation for resolution beyond words it is hard going being abandoned by quality footwear and i always was one for ruthless equinoctial cleaning putting the house in order sending spiders scurrying as the sun slides… Continue reading quenched
A Full Moon Tale for the Blueberry Moon I wrote this while contemplating the ebullient growth of green stuff in my garden. As a human, I tend to see this as "trying to take over the world". When really, it's more about "trying to be the world". The weeds and zucchini are just doing exactly… Continue reading A Word from Us
An informal letter of resignation which nobody will ever read. And a general polemical complaint which nobody will ever care about. I’m not a miracle worker. And they want a miracle. No. It’s worse than that. They need, we need, a miracle. We need a spontaneous and very specific genetic mutation. Now. Yesterday. Twenty years… Continue reading Corn Futures
It’s burning again. Look out across this river valley at the old volcano warts and there doesn’t seem to be enough to keep a churro fed, never mind an inferno. What’s it eating when there’s nothing but grit and gravel and black rock? I don’t go over that way enough to puzzle out that riddle.… Continue reading Desert Pyre: Winifred Mumbles
The wonderful thing about the future is that it does not exist. Yet. It is not given. It is certainly not certain. We can to some extent predict what might be, but we don't know that it will be. And given the oceans of unknowing that we know about and the near infinity that we… Continue reading Where to Begin…
Paul Bunyan statue in Bangor, Maine. (Wikipedia) It’s that special day in June again. No, not that solstice thing. No, forget graduation. No, not the wedding thing. It’s Paul Bunyan Day! A day to celebrate an absolute idiot who blundered through the north woods, wearing plaid flannel, leading a cow named Babe, and wielding an… Continue reading Paul Bunyan Day
Thomas Bloom was a professor. Business. He was not remarkable looking, talking, feeling, or thinking. The only remarkableness about Tom was an enormous lack of remarkableness. Bored freshmen amused themselves by pretending this apparent unremarkability constituted a cover for a secret identity of intrigue. Only for amusement. Could they have entered his mind, they would… Continue reading A Love Story for Bloomsday
A Full Moon Tale for the Strawberry Moon There’s a layer of ash visible high in the walls of the arroyo. It lenses in and out, thickening and thinning, breaking into eerie grey smiles in the upper bank face. It is not old. Bright plastic riddles the layers underneath this ash like malignant confetti and… Continue reading Arroyo Strawberries: Winifred Mumbles
By My Solitary Hearth 