They never mention the blinding, searing pain

of disintegrating skin

Falling away from ashen bone

The brief, but brutal mourning

for the life departing

The rebirth is a new spring

New hope painted onto clear skies

An empty canvas to be filled

With want and glory

Every time she rises once more

An ethereal form from the ashes

She is more beautiful

Filled with greater strength and purpose

Certain that this will be the last

The final form

The meticulously drafted version

of herself

At last she could be done

with the burning, and reviving

With the drowning flame

Searing and reforming her shape

Again. Again. Again.

But every new hope

Is seared at the edges

And each new beginning

Always circles back to itself

An ouroboros

An endless chasing of dreams

And no matter how she tries

To dance in water

To dream in dew and grass

The fire always find her again.

And she is lost and found

and lost again

to the flames.

I used to blow

out my birthday candles

like I played my flute -

blowing

down, not out

never getting them

to all go out at once

the flames flickering

teasing out a tempo

until one day

my grandmother

said:

Alice, BLOW

and I did

I turned those candles

into musical instruments

I made their silent song

my own

I sit Here

With my ginger tea

And my card

I'm writing to you

My sister

And my heart is full

My eyes overfull

Possibly dripping

And it hurts

That I know

What you are willing

To offer

And I've no idea

What I'm willing

To take

And it creates this friction

Between us

Which causes us each

To distance ourselves

In self preservation

And I miss you.

Snow falls into the waves. By the thousands, flakes unify with the water while I sip coffee and watch, separated from the chill by my sweater, the fire I lit upon waking, the tall pane of glass that overlooks Keuka Lake.

I dream of winter because the lake is for summers. It’s not cheap at any time of year to rent a house on a shore: if you’re spending the money, you do it when you can kayak or swim or fish, or at least read a novel in the shade of a tree without the upstate January driving you indoors. My wife and I married within sight of our lake in July 2008; since then, her parents have rented a house on Keuka for a week every summer for us to gather. Those seven days are a highlight of the year because they exist outside of man-made time, without external demands or appointment calendars. There is food; there is love; there is the water. Two million years ago, glacial ice scraped out the valleys that would fill. Since then, the lake has been. Lakes invite being.

We have a couple kayaks and a canoe in our garage where we ought to park a car. Between May and October, I’ll hoist the boats atop our vehicles, lash them down and drive fifteen minutes to the public beach, solo or with the family. We admire the various lake houses as we paddle. Our favorites are not the new constructions, whose thousands of square feet dwarf the family cottages they replaced. We prefer the homes that have been here for at least the fifteen years we have, the old favorites.

“I wish we could live in that one,” my daughter said once as our canoe glided by.

“We could have owned a lake house,” I answered. “I started college as a business major on a finance track. Fund managers make a lot more money than teachers.”

“Why did you become a teacher?” she asked.

“People in finance told me to expect 80-hour work weeks, and I knew I wanted a family. A house on a lake is no good if you don’t have time to be with your family. And I wanted to teach,” I added. “I believe in it.”

My own father passed on lucrative promotions that would have uprooted us from our home and schools; he did, genuinely, attend every baseball game and concert. I understood then, as his son. I understand as a father now, and I hope my children will, too.

Regardless, I chose my path. As I told friends at the time I changed my major, I did not want to dedicate my life to earning more money for rich people—I wanted to teach; I wanted to have a family. These were the right choices. There are good days and bad days, but I do not pine for a road not taken. My hours are meaningful and good. The road ahead has unseen twists and turns, and there may be bridges out. Accidents. I feel optimistic, though, that I can continue to glance in the rearview mirror and see a life well-lived. Be a simple kind of man, Lynyrd Skynyrd sang. Be something you love and understand.

A teacher can live securely, not luxuriously. It is still possible my wife and I could someday retire to a lake house of our own through a combination of prudence and luck, but well-lived lives do not necessarily yield dollars. I am at peace with that truth. All the same, as my kayak cuts through Keuka’s waves, I dream sometimes of occupying one of those homes for decades rather than a rented week. I dream not just of summer but winter days, of that coffee and snow on the water. I dream of watching seasons pass over the water a morning at a time so I am part of the cycle of the lake. Of being there.

Stalin went to seminary.

Buried in a cemetery—

after slayin’ millions more

than Adolph Hitler’s lethal score.

What if he’d become a priest:

Would his evil be released?

Doin’ ’xactly what he did:

Killin’ women, men & kids.

Do dreadful, nasty, deadly acts

require valid Hellish pacts?

Or can villains go free-style,

committin’ sins both foul & vile.

Copyright 2020

I’m a wimp

so I hid in my room.

I only heard his voice

as he repaired the gas in the kitchen.

“How’s it looking?” Dad asked.

The warm tenor of his voice responded:

“It’s looking good.”

He’d been working outside

for the past forty-five minutes

Switching out the old tank

for a shiny new one.

Out the window

I had caught a glimpse:

Honey-brown hair

on a well-toned figure.

I heard the smile in his voice,

as he puttered around

Chatting with Dad,

and a good-natured laugh.

I couldn’t see his face,

but his voice said enough.

The even, cheerful inflections

evoked a reassuring sense.

Maybe it’s in his nature

to avoid a mournful tone.

Or maybe it’s his custom

as a professional serviceman.

Whatever the reason,

he did himself proud.

He gave simple hope

to yet another uncertain home.

After a thorough check

he pronounced the stove good.

He took off again

in his forest green truck.

No doubt in his future plans

was to do it all again--

Bestowing his particular skills

to many a waiting household.

Day after day,

he’d fix pipes, tanks, and stoves

Bringing a positive vibe

in his undulating tone.

Does he love his work

This nameless, tireless saint?

One can’t say for sure

Only that he smiles a lot

and, after all, it is his job.

The tank rolled past slowly, sending tremors through the earth. Normally, Marcus would be awoken by the tank driving past his house, but today, he pulled off the blankets and slipped out of bed. The clock showed that it was well after curfew, but Marcus was tired of this war. He slipped on his running shoes and crept down the hallway. The stairs were a sure way to wake up his parents so he went into the bathroom, slid open the door, and leapt out, landing on the awning of their porch below. Awkwardly, he slid/stumbled down the side and fell onto the grass. He saw the light turn on in his sister’s room, and in three seconds, her head was sticking out of the window and she was looking dead into his eyes.