Grief rides in on unwanted information. It doesn’t matter how many grieving I have been experienced before, it always arrives as fresh and readily identifiable as the first bite of a ripe peach off the tree on a hot summer’s day, dripping with distinctive flavor.
Westlawn Institute of Marine Technology says that yacht “connotes elegance and expense.” I’m wiping tears of hilarity from my cheeks.
. . . fortunately, there was room enough for both of us. And, believe me, had we noticed . . .
SHOULD HAVE SEEN ALL THOSE STARS
SQUIRMING HARD IN THE SKY,
BEING WARNED TO REPENT FROM THEIR SIN.
Pirahas hum, sing, whistle, yell, and speak their language. Oh yes, the men whistle conversation when they hunt in the jungle. Go ahead gentlemen, whistle the words to a Robert Frost poem.
And for grammar snobs — no past or future tense, no recursion; that is, no relative clauses, ever. You will not find a phrase within a phrase. Sorry, Chomsky, nope. Now, concerning the words for Enemy and Friend.
Picture it. Slung over my left shoulder was my big purse, an open tote bag with dog blankets, a few forgotten food items, and in my left hand a hanger holding a tablecloth. Dog leash, my house key, and a coffee mug in my right hand. Ready to leave the apartment, I was. But . . .
Friday, July 12, 2019, in near perfect mid-morning cruising conditions. True. The weather was perfect, but. . .
“Oh,” I said, when I came across the shell, “Sorry.” But why be sorry for a vicious predator?
“Nothing is more dangerous than an idea when it is the only one you have.”
someday, this compared-to-us giant will burn down its hydrogen, convert to using its short source of helium, expand enough to consume Mercury, Venus, and Earth, then, having made a mess of life as we know it, Ka-boom!
At some point necessary to earth’s rotating rules, while the side I live on remained a few hours short of light, I should have been sleeping. I wasn’t.
It’s a celebration day—this June 7th.
It’s a cold day, however.
Oh, not weather cold but rather, my husband and I each have one—a cold, that is. One of those shared things. His arrived several days ago and only yesterday did it jump the barrier of resistance and land in my throat.
Our window was lifted, not flung. So, before approaching the Thought that drew me from the bed an hour earlier than usual, I’m following a distraction: an image. A window. Flung.
Normally, swear words are rare between us. As Dave ran the distance, his ever alert wife leaned from the sofa, opened the rear starboard salon window, reached to the narrow deck walkway where the tank filling hole is, and pulled the spewing hose free.
Look, I’m not complaining (spin), it’s just that since we moved to this small apartment and I rid myself of probably half my books, there are occasions when—like this morning—I need a particular book
