Heavy brushed strokes
Dried in time
Outline the windows and doors
Trace the floors
Change in light
He’s in the paint
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Alone
He stops to stare at the large word painted on an old brick building
Steel-blue letters with sharp black edges and gray shadowing
Silent breeze plays with his hair
Rain touches his face
Smiling – he walks on
Alone
In Three’s
My Grandma used to say something along the lines of “It happens in Three’s” – she believed it.
It is a phrase repeated by some when loss strikes… Why do we say things like this, is it a superstition carried-over from some ancient grasp for acceptance? Is there a power of three that some people cling to? Is it real?
I never really gave it much thought.
I wonder what Grandma would say now that one of her son’s has passed-away, the third branch of my family tree to die in the last sixty days.
“They go in Three’s?”
Dancing with the Waterline
Sharing Gifts with Sarrah
I revised these pages weaving in some valuable feedback from the Tribe of Writers that I am privileged to spend time with.
As if quietly nudged, the desire came to preserve what I can recall from the life of Sarrah, the cute little spotted dog that invaded, influenced and ultimately improved my life.
A few days ago my work took me out to look at a house in Belfair near the Hood Canal, then to another at the north end of Bainbridge Island. On this long drive I was painfully missing my road trip partner and thinking about how much she would’ve delighted in the adventures of that day. Inevitably she’d have spotted a park, given me “the look” in my rear view mirror, started to use one or more of her many whines, growls, barks or howls from her large vocal repertoire (she reserved snorts for the rare occasion when there wasn’t enough time to stop) and we would have embarked on another new earthen gift, which busy people drive right on…
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Contrast & Contradiction
Frankenstein Heart
Shattered Photos
Broken bits honed in time
Tarnished and dented heart shaped box
Wrapped in scarred, weathered, leaking human leather
Living in a bramble of learned thorns and tangle of earned rusty barbed wire
Dark Place
Like a cellar dug under an old farm house – this familiar place is dark and dank
Sadness drips down walls near loneliness piled in corners
Tired thoughts and lost moments eat timeless air
He sits on the bottom stair holding a soggy box filled with related questions
How long will he stay?
Today
Don’t borrow trouble from tomorrow -Anon
Can Bryan Write? 