“One, two, three. One, two, three.” He kept his beat in time hitting the snare and bass drum in repetition. Looking across the room to Johnnie who was strumming wildly on the old guitar. It was made of red oak and was halftuned. Missing one string it couldn’t play all the songs but got close enough. He smiled at his old friend, his hair greying and the lines on his face lifted in joy at this old act of melody and clashing sounds. Juliette was on the bass guitar, her hair low over her neck as she slowly kept pace. The trio of Oxford Hall, back together again, performing their hits.
For absolutely no one.
They played, and smiled. They played, and drank old beer found by a truckload off highway ten. They played and made new songs. Songs about hate, and love, and hunger, and hope. Sometimes they couldn’t remember the lyrics. So they made new ones.
“One, two, three. One, two, three.”
A concert at the end of the world.
For the three of them.

He stared at his big toe sticking out of his old worn sock. Was the remainder of the sock worth keeping, providing just a semblance of protection against the damp dark woods? He grunted pulling his large boot back over his tired feet. Time to continue on deeper into the forest. He hoped to find food deep inside, perhaps places untouched by scavengers. He peered low to the ground scavenging for fungus and moss to use in homemade medicines. A lot he had taught himself by trial and fire. Once he almost died after ingesting the wrong elements. Three days on puke and blood, but he came out the other side. He scanned the treelines for birds, or other small animals. It had been a while since he had squirrel for dinner. Been a while since he had anything other than small plants. His bones hurt. His eyes jaundiced. But he traveled on, because the only thing left in front of him was the next step. He traveled on, in his old worn boots hiding a small piece of cloth inside that was once a sock.

My poem Another Hit has been published by Festival for Poetry and can be read here for free

The fish were biting today. It would be a good dinner tonight Ezekial thought to himself. He still had some of that old bay seasoning, unopened and preserved. Maybe it would be a good night for it. If Sarah would let him celebrate. But she was always worried. Worried about the next meal, the next winter, the next night sleeping in their tent. She lived with worry, and by choice, Ezekiel did as well. 

He was never one to stress. Things came, things went. For him that was how it always had been. His line tugged again and he reeled in another large fish. It was enough to provide not just dinner tonight but breakfast tomorrow. Ezekiel began to pack up his gear, to leave the rest of the bounty for nature.
He returned to their camp a short while later. Sarah sat on a makeshift chair, made from an old splintered tree trunk. She was shucking the corn they had harvested from a nearby overgrown farm. A good dinner indeed. He looked at her now, her brown skin sweaty and glowing in the sun. She was beautiful.  He should tell her that. He sat the fish down in front of her.
“A good catch.” he spoke softer than usual with her.
She eyed the fish. Then looked at him, her eyes small and concerned.
“It is.” She thought some more before speaking again. “A good time to open that old bay.”
That caught his interest,
“Oh Yeah? Feel like celebrating?”

She took his hand then, and made sure he was listening.
“Yes. Ezekiel. There is something you should know, I’m pregnant.”
His heart was instantly full. He looked at this beautiful woman soon to be the mother of his child. He brought her in close, hugged her a little too tight. He was full of joy, and excitement at the news. During the embrace he looked to his haul of fish, to their small campground they called home. The easy things they had, just the two of them. And the thought of adding another. Another mouth to feed. Another person to protect. He held Sarah close. He would never speak it, but now, after all the years together, he was the one who was worried. 

The next chapter.

“I am not alone.” 

He said that to himself over and over. And truly he wasn’t. His group was currently at eight. It had swelled to twelve last year but one family wandered off in the winter and did not return. But there were times when it felt like the opposite. Most had partnered up, made mini families. He wasn’t very social in the before times and he naturally held true to that style now as well. But being in this group was important. It allowed for mutual protection and aid. A better lifestyle than being alone and scavenging for everything.  Susie was the youngest, a daughter of Mark and Jen. She would sometimes come over to him and ask youthful questions. At first he was annoyed by her, but now he smiled as she approached.
“Did I tell you about the dinosaur I saw in that magazine?” she asked, her eyes gleaming with pride.
“Yeah you did, but tell me again.” He didn’t fault her for the conversation. It wasn’t necessary but it was soothing on an audible sensory nerve.
Mark was friendly enough, but Jen was wary of him. She would often collect Susie quickly when she noticed them together.
The other four in the group were two couples, Benjamin and Sylvie were in their sixties like him. They knew of the world before and he felt comfort in that, having someone else who could relate. Benjamin’s health has been declining and he knew one day soon some decisions would have to be made. Sylvie knew it as well. You could see it in her eyes. The last of the group were Donald and Preston. They had met scavenging, and whether out of true love or necessity they had paired up. They were both strong, and good hunters. He knew they were the strength of the group, but they mostly kept to themselves. He looked at his group of eight, all survivors, huddled in a small house in a small town. He knew the world was failing, or at best continuing the descent to the end, but he took one small comfort still,
“I am not alone.”

A prosperity for all men. The sign rusted and dull, but the words were still enchanting. Prosperity. What does that even mean in a world like this?
Enough food grown in the small garden carved out of this hillside? The community had come up with a barter system, but who is to know if the exchanges are fair? What weight does it hold? One disagreement and murder and violence could ensue. Luckily so far, the garden has fed everyone here and peace has lasted. But what if a baby is born? Or a stranger walks into town? Do we lose our humanity when hunger takes over? Or if the winter is harsh? Or the locusts come?
A prosperity for all men reads the sign at the town’s entrance, a lone relic of a time when people actually visited here. It’s a noble thought. It just has a lot of variables to overcome.

In the sand a small beetle dug and dug, but the predator desert mouse still found him faster than his claws could move.
High above in the lone tree in this part of the desert Ashmit sat on a small folding chair. He wore his balaclava tight around his face, a long thin shirt covering up to his wrists, and his ak-47 slung loosely around his back. His cargo pants were worn but still holding up. One interior pocket held an extra set of ammo, the other a small pear. It was ripe but he was saving it for after pick up. He could see the dust miles away. But the desert played tricks on his eyes. He looked to the sun but wasn’t quite sure of the time. Soon his shift would be over. Another would take his place for 24 hours. And he would rest for seven days. And then return. To guard this tree in the desert. No one knew why anymore? It was something the elders had done. And so they did it again. No one ever attacked the tree, its roots thick into the ground sourcing water from deep deep below in the old land. Surviving. Much like Ashmit. He counted himself lucky to be one of the seven guards. They lived lifes of somewhat comfort in the village. When one died others clamorred for their spot. Each guard was afforded their own bed, and a clean shower after each return. A benefit that many would die for. 
But it had its drawbacks as well. No guard was allowed to marry. Often he sat here thinking of  Meera, a girl from his youth. He fantasized about her long brown hair, and a night they had played cards for hours, watching the sun come up.
He walked to the canteen he had brought on shift change and poured a cup, dropping a few tea leaves into it. The sun would brew the tea quickly, the heat here natural and radiant.
The dust cloud grew closer. Ashmit sipped his tea. Dipak would be here soon. He didn’t particularly like the man, his jokes crude and his beard unkempt. But he smiled without doubt at the exchange once every seven days, his duty done.
Until next week, to guard a tree. No one knew why. But it was a noble enough endeavor.

My poem The Directions We Take was selected to be included in the 2025 volume of Art on the Trails which takes place at Beals Preserve in Southborough, Massachusetts. The trails at Beals Preserve call artists each year to exhibit their work along the trails. Each year they invite poets to comment on the art and select the best two poems for each work to be included in an annual chapbook. My poem is in response to Pivot Points by artist Rebecca Long seen below.

I will not be able to attend but there will be a closing celebration and Poets walk on September 14th if you are in the area. You can order a chapbook while available here . Find out more about Art on the Trails

Her hands reached across the car seat, its ripped leather telling stories with crumbs and lost money. Only the shadows from the broken windshield were more splintered. 

Her hands fumbled for something inside. Anything of value may help her barter for the next meal, the next potion of remedy. Anything to kill the hunger, the pain of another day on this stretch of Missouri highway. 

She had left Saint Louis behind, its warlords controlling all of the area from what used to be Washington University down to the Arch and the river below. Her father had told her of a hotel anime conference there where he met David Carradine. Years later she wondered who David Carradine was, and what was Anime?. But it had been important to her father. He said the old man had given half a effort at the panel, not really answering questions. But later that evening at the hotel bar, he sat alone. Smoking alone. The man her father said had been a legend of Kung Fu.
She didn’t know what he was talking about, but she liked the sound of her fathers voice. 

He said as he approached Carradine he noticed the actor watching him from a side eye, and he was pretty intimidating. But once they got past the small talk the actor slid the chair out beside him.
“Buy me a whiskey,” he said. Her fathers eyes still lit up years later when he told her this story. It was one of the happiest visions she had of her father.
She tasted whiskey once. And hated it completely. She spent the nights staring at the starry skies. Thinking about what David Carradine must have looked like. Wondering why people would gather to discuss this Anime thing. And how anyone could stomach whiskey. 

Her father did mention Carradines most famous role. A monk called Caine. Who walked the earth. She couldn’t help but smile at the similarities to her current journey. Exiled and alone, looking for faith and food in the wilderness of old America. 

Exiled and Alone. Hungry. With memories of her Father. And stories of the times she never knew.

Excited to announce my poem When You Are Dead has been included in the collection The Alien Buddha Loves You Too published today by Alien Buddha Press.
You can snag a copy off Amazon here