A morning breeze stepped through the open window, lifting curtain edges and touching walls like the hands of a curious child. The fragrance was fresh like laundry line dried under a forever sun. In bed, the cotton blankets owned me within a twist of warm compassion, protecting me from the world beyond my … More CURIOUS HANDS
The window releases a gasp of inside life, of half voices and doors closing. Delinquent sounds muddy the outside. A car radio lips out a samba, entertaining tapping fingers and flowered dresses swaying. Casual clouds, rugged images cast to the street, sliding into alleys, covering the homeless. Café tables stream with words … More RUGGED IMAGES
Words slip through the boundaries of light. Between fences and past sleeping cats. Words are the strength of action, the curator of museum imaginations. Words are fathoms, the levels of thought, the passage between mountains, the stillness of lakes. Words are the home we comfort in, the language of warm blankets that … More WORDS
I can hear the water clock. The liquid metronome of a dripping faucet. A distinct sound muffled into silence during the day of sounds. On the ceiling, the passing reflections of headlights from passing cars below crawls over the cracked plaster. A blinking neon pulses across the street, matching the faucet drips and then … More BETWEEN THE DRIPS
It was a cloudy vision, a river of hands flowing thick, reaching franticly for treasures but coming up empty as they tumbled like stones, never resting, bumping into and falling over as the force moves into crowded silence past towns and under weary bridges where a cloudburst of muddied hands swim in an apocalypse of … More MY DREAM
Early morning offers the comfort of silence as you awake to your human architecture, stretching out sleeps stiffness while your system processes the inward blueprint, preparing for your first step. It’s a good day when all the parts work. You yawn out tired air with a moan; a familiar voice inflection known only to … More A GOOD DAY
It was a day dedicated to high relief, with many paths, chosen and forced; like spiders fleeing heavy noises. Statues watched with granite eyes the song of traffic and voice passing beneath stone arms lined with pigeons, as the faces merge like many streams into one great river. Eyelashes wink at an edging … More THIS DAY
My first breath of day lingers with dreams, fresh in my eyes. My fingers stretch, rudely awakened; morning has arrived. Early breezes sweep onto my windows. A train whistles. Breaking into quiet. Passengers prepare for the city. The aroma of coffee steams the air. My covers. Shields against darkness. Protectors from dreams stealing … More MY ANCHOR
Broken glass, flattened fences, subways sing the language of city blues, not counting bruises or blocks with empty parking lots that mourn the loss, not knowing how to cry. Factories out the country, signs say keep out as men without gloves and collars up spit on the properties that once supplied their families well. … More ABANDONED SOULS
Songs of dreams jump the river, heavy with nights and clouded rains. Scuffed shoes on the beach and shirt tails shake the wind. The Nickel Bar calls the faithful by aroma, even the sour and stale from the evening before. Johnny comes home, proud to be standing. The hope of many buried in suitcases … More THE NEXT CURVE
Roger Singer 