Poem for Friday, August 30, 2024

Steadily the rain pours in a rhythm that has me awake at this late hour. The small light beside my bed allows the canvas of stars outside my window to be seen while I read. I do not read now, my eyes skimming the page, absently I glance over the pages, and random words catch my attention while I recall the events that have brought me here. What moments of sorrow are these that keep me from dream and what times are these that make it difficult to look beyond these days? I look at his photo and wonder if our time spent together was no more than a facade. Those days shared now seem more like a dream enclosed within ironic truth. It began on one Friday morning and ended the same, a week later. The clouds drift in small patches across an otherwise blue sky. I sit in this lovely park on such a beautiful day. Some children play nearby, birds singing in the trees around me, and the daily press before me waiting to be read. The rest of the day open to many possibilities I sit

Saturday, April 13, 2024

- April 13, 2024

Saturday, April 13, 2024 Religion is no longer what it was at one time in my life. I am no longer trapped in the lies of the Cult of Denominations. What part of the strawberry is the straw? Long walk Sunny Day finding my way home again. I dream many dreams, nothing is as it seems, vivid dreams I dream after a long walk on a sunny day. I went to the museum this morning. I went by a place that gives out free lunch on the second Saturday of the month. I had to nap after eating because I had not been getting as much sleep the past few days. I had vivid dreams. I plan to go somewhere tomorrow. I was going there today but I was too tired to go today. https://www.patreon.com/jason29171⁠⁠ ⁠http://swellcast.com/jason29171⁠ Poems and Photography: ⁠https://a.co/d/bFYc1kO⁠ Words, Floating: Poetry And Photography: ⁠https://a.co/d/5htw2lz⁠ ⁠https://jason29171.substack.com/⁠ ⁠⁠http://Fjasonwhitakerwriter.com ⁠⁠ ⁠⁠https://medium.com/@jason29171⁠⁠ https://www.viewbug.com/member/ja

Where once the dead would tread, Those fields where the grass grew deep… Once, Where the grass grew deep.

- July 11, 2017

Heat rises from the long stretch of asphalt, in waves it rises. The lake water now evaporated from my skin. The lake is my only escape from the boredom, which is my life: days at the lake with my dog, Red. The lake behind us some distance, Red runs along the edge of the woods as though he’s looking for something. A car appears on the horizon, a tiny dot so far ahead of me. Not many cars converse this road since the interstate was completed. Nobody lives in walking distance of us, which means I have a large back yard. Green grass sways in a gentle breeze and a bird chirps at the edge of the woods. The path to my house is in sight: it runs from the edge of the pavement toward the line of dancing trees. Red vanishes, ahead of me, down this trail. A trail created by years of feet treading where once the grass grew deep. The solitary yellow mailbox is the only visible evidence of the humanity that resides only a short distance within the embrace of trees. Red’s barking echoe

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F. Jason Whitaker Writer