On Turning Fifty-Six

R.A.D. Stainforth's excellent read

It's the sum
of the first six

triangular numbers,

some kind of

Stonehenge black magic,

being born in '56,

then turning it.

Somebody said,

"Watch your back,

both Abe and Adolf

were shot in the head

at fifty-six ―

both the good and bad

could be targeted."

My Alice was good,

leader of a certain world,

hers no less tragic,

dead at the same age.

But I should be okay ―

my name doesn't begin

with the pyramid A,

I'll avoid theaters,

packing,

and most of all,

politics.

tk, October 2012

Join The Mag creative writing group.

me, October, 2012 

Ankle Deep

celebrating my second birthday
October 20, 1958, Brown County, Indiana

October is my favorite month.  It also happens to be the month of my birth, and maybe that is why
I consider autumn to be my personal spring, my genesis.  The bite of fresh air, vibrant color, the delicious crunch of leaves, breathe life into my stagnate summer spirit.  And isn't it curious, that autumn is a glorious burst of joy and sorrow, just as I happen to be a quirky mix of funny and melancholy?

The summer chapter of my life is winding down, and with the first small steps into autumn, it should be no surprise, that I find myself quite at home here. I'm snuggling in, making myself comfortable, brewing coffee, expecting a season of great passion, creativity, and happiness.






Ankle Deep

Just beyond

the summer kitchen

down the hall

and to the right

past the prints

of children and roses

is a darker, quiet room

ripe with passion

and woodsmoke

where I bloom 

brighter than fire

in wool socks knit

loose from other years

ankle deep in October 

tk/October 2011