Play Tables

Play Tables

By John R. Greenwood

With winter in the rearview and with spring fresh legs

Two playful friends battle for position

Anxious for ketchup stained boys with pine cone collections

Little girls in flip-flops

Moms chasing with Coppertone

Work weary dads with sunburned shoulders

Grandma and Grandpa with old web-frayed lawn chairs


jrgapril2011

Spokes and Spirit

Spokes and Spirit

By John R. Greenwood

(Written for and about, Emile B. Klein’s, “You’re US” art project)

Spirited Spokes

Speak   Outward

Chrome voices

Polished and True

Ever Reaching  Out

Across Borders   Human ones

Over Walls   Created ones

Human Hubs

Speaking Spoke Voices

Pointed   Out

Turning   Out

Moving   

Forward

     Cycling 

kcaB

Voices of

Mixed Colors

Colors of Mixed

Voices

Keep 

P   e   d   a   l   i   n   g   >     0--0    >

jrgapril2011

Weathered Man

Weathered Man

By John R. Greenwood

Like a weathered man

Clinging to a youthful soul

So goes the snow

Raining Iguanas: Out to Pasture

Raining Iguanas: Out to Pasture: "Out to Pasture By John R. Greenwood With head held high On a back road dusty He came to rest Tired and rusty They parked him in a pastu..."

Sideways Step

Sideways Step

By John R. Greenwood

This chapter nails the writing portion of my personality; stepping into writing from the side, at different times, from different angles, about different things. I love to tell stories and share memories. I thrive on making people laugh, and smile. More interestingly, I like connecting to people. I live for an emotional twinge when a familiar chord is touched. The journey becomes a mental fuel for me. To see how deep I can go. To see how fast I can find the fastener that joins my brain to the “victim”. I always do it with the hope that I can better understand an individual. We all carry baggage. I feel like a baggage handler.  Your problems are my problems. You don’t need therapy, I can help you. That “Did I ever tell you about the time?” connection. It’s easy to fix peoples problems. Just pick at them like a dark hardwood sliver, barely under the skin. Grab a sewing needle and let me work my magic. I will poke, prick, and squeeze, not too deep, not too hard. I don’t want to make you bleed or cry out in pain. I just want to get the sliver out. It has been in there awhile and it is beginning to redden around the edges, spreading further and deeper into the skin. If we don’t get it out soon it will worsen, a puss will form, the pain and danger will intensify. At last, we prod it loose and out slides the sliver fully intact, wipe it away with a tissue, toss it. Swab the left over wound with antiseptic. Cover it with a bandage and within hours, it will feel better. Within days, your memory of the sliver will fade. Life will be one of renewed anticipation. 

Oh, those damn slivers. Sit down; let me grab a needle. 

J.R.G. Summer of 2009

This was a writing exercise from Old Friend from Far Away (The Practice of Writing Memoir) by Natalie Goldberg