Today I am Writing: On the Lightning

It is Friday night and the writing deadline has me lassoed to my desk, staring out into the black black night. I hear rumbles, far off. And then, the sky cracks in half, a streak of light claiming bottom dark from top.

I have been thinking about darkness of late, the realities of sun set and the tomb of night before the coming dawn. I've been watching my senses adjust, my night-time eyes learning to listen to nerve-endings flashing with insight, direction.

The rain is dumping down now, and the thunder shakes my seat.
I am unsettled and afraid.

The lightning though; in darkest night the wild light prevails.

From Friday to Friday, 52

[When whatever ends up on my phone, ends up here.]

From Friday to Friday, 51

[When whatever ends up on my phone, ends up here.]

Today I am Writing: On Singing

I was sitting on the bench,
minding my own business
and the business of the Shakespeare actors too,
calling "line!" "line!"

He approached, slid in as if the seat were waiting for him.

"You have a face of insatiable curiosity," he said,
and I listened, because
no one had ever spoken like this,
to me, before.

The air was warm like the first day of the year
when we all have been longing for the first day of spring
and the people emerge from the places they stay
to smell the trees, still dead to the eye but
not dying, and the Shakespeare actors walk
among them listening to their voices pushing
back against the branches.

Can you hear it?
All the earth is singing.

From Friday to Friday, 50

[When whatever ends up on my phone, ends up here.]