COMPOST OF MY CHILDREN’S CHILDREN
by J.A. Lane
Gathering amongst my body
(camping out in a sense)
are images that’ll remain until my
flesh, bones, and blues become the
compost within the garden of my children’s children.
Steadily able, probably more-than at this moment,
daydreaming of the promised life of
rejoicing and praising and singing,
all while imagining the growth of my
children’s children and their garden.
GRAVITATING TOWARD THE MELANCHOLY FONDNESS I ONCE SHARED WITH A STRANGER NAMED GILDA
I got lost.
Somewhere between the
yippies! and the trees
I was awakened to
the scent of an hours old cigarette.
There, within the
night dives, I tried
to peek at the fortune of her shimmer.
Gilda smiled like I always knew she could.
I am found.
THE LAST DRAG FROM 12/18/1978
permeates and bathes
the night lungs in a warmth you haven’t
felt in what some think of as decades; but you call
them years. The momentary respite is long enough to think
it’ll keep on and on and on. Your eyes open to nothing
but snow; just a man in the cold,
waiting for life.
BIO
J. A. Lane is a writer whose short stories, plays, and poems focus on exploring moments in time that often examine the depths of the human condition. He lives in the Pacific Northwest.
