Novelist, Teacher, Transplanted West Texan, Reluctant Poet
I’m lousy at small talk Never know what to say Each week I call both of my grown sons Eager to talk With little to say
By Chuck Etheridgeabout a year ago in Poets
Each year, I intend to really observe Easter, Make some Lenten promise, Give up caffeine, Or meditate daily, Practice some spiritual discipline,
As I bolted out of a building On the far side of campus A short, grey haired man in his 60s Burst out of a work truck and asked
Eyes dancing with delight Huge smile Happy gurgle Delightful mornings with a baby Confused eyes, unfocused gaze,
Alarm ringing at 6:30 each morning, Fighting the urge to hit “snooze,” I shuffle blearily to the kitchen, Trip on the dog,
Carrots can’t consume clams, Cormorants can’t consume carrots. Cats can claw Converse cleats, Can't clarify calculus concepts.
For twenty years he slept on my belly, Shedding orange fur, Spearing my nipple with a sharp claw Purring loudly, unashamed,
Bashful Bob Believed bossy Bill, Befuddled by bees' buzzing, Bailed before Bathing brave Betty's Bashful beagle Beatriz.
Little Lucy Licked lotsa lime-laced lollipops, Leaving laugh lines Looking like Limb-leaping lemurs Left lonely
Annabelle, An adorable allosaurus, Allowed algae around able arms, Attracting Albert, An airborne avocet, Advancing around,
The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. The face was better looking, thinner, less bald, less grey. Not a younger me, but a different me, a better me.
By Chuck Etheridgeabout a year ago in Fiction
“Yup,” I said. “But I got better.” He chuckled. “How’s the family? Still competin’?” He carefully didn’t mention my current “team,” who all stuck out like sore thumbs and the Dumas Round Up.