Nutty coffee. Blue water gulf.Salty cool breeze. Sun-warmed skin.Squinty-eyed bright.Rolling waves crash.Up and down in my ears. Up and down.Aqua-tan sandbars submerged.Beachcombers on a fifty-five degree day.Most in sweatshirts. The adventurousin swimming trunks, shirtless.Thermal jeans on my legs soakingsolar rays. I feel peace today.I feel joy right now.This moment in time, an island all to … More Prose by the Gulf
Roads branchinto lanesbearing fruitof tiny farms,a patchwork quilt.Ten thousand feet. Angelsblow smokeover the hills,settlesin ravines.Twenty thousand feet. A thin bandof yellow and red,smudgesthe horizon–blue above, gray below.Thirty thousand feet. Angelic smokenow covers all,an untaut blanketrippled with wavesfrozen in time.Forty thousand feet. The white carpetwelcomesHis entrance,too brightin my window.And holding.
My heart had died,strangled, beaten,desire eaten by disease;black and blue, but crimsonseeped out.Like fallen tinder on trace ember,His gentle breath—hushes turned rhythmic glow.The threads of a cloud,its weave pulled apartby the light;one ray becomes two,two rays become seven.Hope is.
Brock Stephen Henning 