A Burial of Memories: Prologue In a large, conical classroom, a teacher discussed strategics with his students. They were all a part of the Gannean military, though many of them would never fight in a battle. Yet still they sat, listening to the lecture with swords and lances and bows beside them. They all had been trained to use them, but some of them would never wish to. One of the students near the back drooped his head down and snored lightly, succumbing to sleep. A sharp jab hit him between his ribs. With a sudden inhale, Seth's snoring stopped, and his head popped up. The teacher continued his lecture as Seth looked over at Ruth, the student next to him. She mouthed the words "stay awake" to him, back to writing down notes. Seth picked up his own pen and tried to continue his own notes. There was a row of large scribbles from when he had fallen asleep, and beneath them, barely legible writing. He wondered what he had missed during his nap. Zachary Slone, the teacher, w
Steak SandwichA taste of red leaps and bounds all over the place, flashes of gold splash around.The waitress's words feel soft as wool as she asks,"Does everything taste all right?"It does, but it's not that simple.Beef gets torn apart with every bite,Chewed through, crunched throughThe fried onions are spiky, and jab at my tongue while making crackling sounds under the pressure of teeth.The bread is rough and tough, all of the softness toasted out of it.There's too much else going on here for one to just taste their food.
A Season of Winter1. and so it begins. . .leaves whisperingtheir death poems to me2. senses awaken. . .gray morningI open a melon,its green perfume3 . across a field. . .winter brilliance—the Milky Waycasts a farmer's shadow4. welcome. . .windowsshutting out the chill,moonlight spills in5. daydreams. . .choppingwinter vegetables for stew,thoughts of summer plums6. snow angels. . .reminiscing,the imprints you and Ileft behind, fill with snow7. comet-trysting. . .new moon phase—winter anointed with sapphiresfrom a nightly caller8. solstice. . .the same moonyou and Ithe same moon9. a homecoming. . .milky way in deep winter—his son's voiceno longer a child's10. crystallized. . .early morninghalf dressed by a window—frost on the cars11. cold morning, hot tea. . .he sips a steaming cupwatching from its edgeas I cut pears in two12. a harbinger. . .snow melting
criertrill of a songbirdspring's music on wintry dayforetelling cold's end
ThornsIn order for a Flower to flourish it mustHave the thorns cut off
Pond WaterI smell pond waterFreshly evaporatedJust before spring startsOne of the few things I loveAbout the coming sunshine
cold. winter wakes to caw –reverberates in slip-stepsa little world frozen grey.
Morning Lullabysongbirds whistlea morning lullaby;sun envelops the horizon
The beating of wingsev'ry breath of airalters my path, but ohthe creatures of the air
PilgrimageI go to the mountainbathed in birdsongrecharging my faith
The Greygraceful bodiescover the greyalong with the clouds
British PetroleumWaves turn sand to mudOil washed away like darknessThat sad, long lost mess