April 21, 2014

The Ride Home

The Ride Home
By John R. Greenwood

 As I sat at my writing desk (my weathered picnic table in the side yard) I watched the passing cars and pickup trucks returning home from work. It was a regular, old-fashioned Monday night, 6pm, after work parade. 

Something that was a part of my life for forty years--for some reason--tonight stood out like a sore thumb. Maybe it was the quiet of the moment. It was mid-April. The snow was gone. The sun had a half an hour left in her and the Nuthatches were beginning their evening ritual of circling the trees that surrounded my house. 

I was content and the traffic seemed that way too. Monday’s pace didn’t have that Friday night impatience vibe in it. It was as if each passing vehicle had gone into some NBA final minute stall trying to run the clock out at the end of the game. A desperation attempt to squeeze a little more spring enjoyment out of the ride home. I was sitting in my own yard but I felt the same way. It was such a hard fought winter and spring always passes through like a brakeless freight train.

The whistling tires and bass thumping stereos had an orchestra feel to them as they passed by. My heart rate slowed and my pencil seemed to flow across the lines of the page as easily as grandma frosting a chocolate cake. My mind mellowed out like it did when work hadn’t found me yet. I felt relaxed and happy as a kid with no homework or chores to do.

The traffic thinned, the breeze picked up, and the air cooled a degree or two. The sun was losing it’s grip and falling behind the shadowed hill. I heard a mother calling out to her kids to come in for dinner. I gathered up my empty coffee cup and my writing ‘gear’. 

I felt better than I had in months--spring fed and smiling. 

It was a nice ride home tonight, don’t you think? 

April 20, 2014

Easter Story

Easter Story
By John R. Greenwood

Silly tales make smiles emerge, softly in the tuck of an arm, and bubble sounds like sprinkled sugar upon warm pastry please a one boy crowd. I collect these simple moments so fleeting, like July fireflies, jarred up and set upon a bedroom sill. A little ones first Easter nourishes me like April rain a flower’s bed. I smile in return and squeeze tight the love staring back at me. 

April 14, 2014


By John R. Greenwood

delusion haunts me every waking hour and then the hours beyond
as the years collide I wonder where the search will end or if? 

what waits there, where illusion and delusion collide 
like battling brothers whose minds can't agree 

listening at every corner with eyes open sky-wide
the taste of sweet corn makes me smile

never sure what train I'm on 
or if I belong at all, I remain un-still and restless

photographs tell me what to write
the pens stalls and wanders off as if dementia riddled 

another night falls asleep, quietly begging for forgiveness
for all it's bravery - what is, really isn't