I often think of life as a mountain lake that’s Nestle just over the next rise. Our memories like that of it’s ripples lapping along the edge. The wooded trails adventures, some trod well while others are untouched. As I lie in bed at night I think what a week earthly tether my spindly arms would be to hold such an angel upon eiderdown feathered pillows. Times waxing Candle would be a mean wain between flickering sleep and the coming morn. O much a boil of life, that warbler call will bring it forth, the sun breaching through and break that tranquil rest. The spell lifted with soft stretches and a rub of the eye.
JON R.T.
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Cranial Origami
poetry short stories NFTS
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Old Flake Road
Estranged dreams left somewhere down old logging roads under a humid sun where burn lines run through the pines. To week and distant never making it past the youth who dreamt them. It’s where I left them with rattle snakes and old vodka bottles half buried in the dirt almost boiling in August. As thin as the heat that rises from tar pebble roads laid by men under the Eisenhower highway act of 1956. I out grew them or they died when I stopped believing in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. Fond memories of a twinty two and squirrels, catching cat fish at pond that said no fishing. Momma is calling time to go home.
By Cranial Origami4 years ago in Poets
Getting Serious About Comedy (Part I)
If I were asked to remark on my life and the childhood that paved some road leading me to this point, I would have to say something about all the funny people who surrounded me for the last 26,872 days (and counting). Somewhere along that road, I became a big fan of laughter and the comedy that spawns it – and, I mean not only my own laughter, but the laughter of others, some of which I have actually been responsible for inducing.
By John Oliver Smith7 days ago in Humor
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