Writer’s Choice

There is something in the mirror

What is my voice when it has nothing to imitate? Whose beauty is this but not the beautiful ones it mimics?

There is a day I often think of in its surreality, annulment and modifications of posture. You have found the beautification of shame…

Why ‘play’ Tai-Chi? It is simply joyous to be able to move around and control the body and cycle the energies.

Running along the new brick road. The grout is still young and lovely. My shoes grinding dirt into the grout.

Old and young came together, embracing in their triumph, entangled in the throng’s euphoria.

Guilt-ridden Joshua wanted his father to understand. “I want to be a physicist. Politics are of no interest to me”.

I look back over these “poem a day” entries, I see my life reflected in four to sixteen-line purges.

I briefly had a crush on the doctor who administered my vaccine. It was the elixir of biceps and hope.

I was every fig on every fig tree. Those reckless writers warned the man and the woman not to eat me