Below you will find an easy-to-follow guide to everything I’ve published here since joining in November 2020. The most recent stories in each category will be at the top.
You’ll notice some stories will appear in multiple categories — politics and humor, for example — while others only appear in one. The whole idea behind this page is to make it easy for readers to find stories of interest on my profile page.
The categories are:
The Author’s Pick section includes stories and poems I feel strongly about sharing…
Baseball. I’ve loved the game since I was a small child.
The crack of the bat sending a double down the line. The pop of a fastball blazing into the catcher’s mitt on strikeout. A speed demon getting the jump on a pitcher and stealing second with ease. A throw from the hole to nab the runner at first by half a step. And, of course, ESPN’s go-to highlight: Long, towering drives that leave the field of play and land amid elated or dejected fans — round, red-stitched souvenirs imbued with enduring memories, be they bitter or sweet.
To love nature
is to love your family
your circle of friends
humans as yet unborn
and the patient trees
the friendly grass
the flowers in their bright adornments
the birds and bees and all wild creatures
we rarely if ever touch or see
the soil and sun and faraway stars
the mystery and majesty
and all miraculous moments
the laughter, the joy, the splendor
the glory all around, the glory within
heart-warmth and hope
even the sadness and the ache
of missing all we used to love
disguised and dismissed as departed
passing into what…
A few weeks ago, I had a chance to spend the entire day in nature. First the beach, then the forest. What a day! But like all things in this time-bound existence of ours, it slipped away even as I lived it. That’s OK; that’s the way of the world. Returning to my motel room, I carried with me a deep, inner calm and a sense of abiding, fulfilling nourishment.
After savoring two bowls of sliced watermelon, I decided I was in precisely the right frame of mind to try my hand at POM Prompt #27: Let it flow.
It’s a good day for living
and a good day to give thanks for being alive,
because sunlight’s bright beams
can’t be contained in scrapbooks
or even 186,000 flash drives,
and the daytime light we witness
surrounds and infuses,
illuminates and diffuses,
passing through and by us
like one long chorus of angelic harmonies
and a miraculous universal energetic constant
arising from the one true source
beyond imagination’s comprehension
yet more in touch with our souls
than our own tentative hearts —
shining away the deceptive shadows,
obliterating the veneer of darkness,
magnifying the light inside us
until it’s pointless to distinguish
the grace and wonder of our inner life
from the way we move in the world…
Thinking about the past
as if it could be new again,
or maybe a real-time reminder
to live out mindful tomorrows
spent in wiser ways . . .
If I could go forward
and bring it all back
for multiple do-overs
until I got it right . . .
Surely I would love more
and judge less, surely I would
nurture a kinder heart,
a keener smile,
less sniping at conditions.
Surely this moment
is the best chance I’ll ever have
at yet another fresh start.
But here I am again
living like an unborn…
I dreamt I saw you in the afterlife.
You were surprised to see me
in what you had known as heaven
before I arrived.
“Darren!” you exclaimed. “How’d you get in here?”
“The same way you did,”
I answered. “The Way.
And the Truth. And the Life.”
On Earth you might have thought I was being clever,
or cryptic, or somehow misappropriating
the words of our Lord and Savior.
But in heaven you looked at me
with what passes for eyes on the other side
and smiled like someone happy to be home.
“Of course,” you said. …
Since I gave away the punchline in the headline, I’ll start with a storyline that will give readers the back story.
I’m the youngest of five children. My oldest sister was already 16 when I was born in the mid-1960s. She loved Elvis when she was a teen and I was a toddler, and she loves him to this day. One of my earliest memories is dancing with her as she played 45s on a little mobile record player that sat in the middle of the floor. I even remember the song we danced to: “His Latest Flame.”
See how short life is.
Walk through a graveyard
and calculate lifespans.
Dates on tombstones say it all
more clearly than word problems
in the simplest sixth-grade math classes.
Remember how, as children,
we used to imagine that special days
would take forever to arrive?
Birthdays reduced to frantic anticipation
and perpetual future focus
until we opened presents
and tasted cake.
Then came another year of counting down
just so we could answer with a higher number
when someone asked us our age.
There we were,
shrieking and laughing and running
in parks and playgrounds,
never giving a thought
to getting tired…
not far from low-tide shore
across the tracks
by the sea.
dances in the wind,
the wind that blows where it will.
roars wordless wisdom,
conveys indecipherable secrets
of motion and change,
of what it means to grow,
to grow roots,
to bend with grace
and love the truth
of what moves us.
sways while standing,
stands while swaying,
displays true survival skills
moment to moment
in the timeless continuum
that moves with us through time,
time itself a self-winding clock
that winds us with it,
a series of instances anticipated
or arriving out of the so-called blue,
here, then gone,