Posted in Art and Photography

(ART) Escheresque II

Pen and Ink on paper

copyright 2020 kmls

Posted in Art and Photography

(ART) Escheresque I

Pen and Ink on Paper

copyright 2019 kmls

Posted in Musings and Reflections

I know this is not where you expected to wind up, but I hope you’ll stick around for at least a little while and then stop by again.

Search engines are not omnipotent.

Gazing over this past year’s stats, I cannot help but wonder which posts were actually visited on purpose and which were a matter of mistaken identity, their stickiness catching the unwary flies on the web.

There are endless discussions and ideas about how to drive traffic to your site, what tags to use, how to create a fetching title, and so on. I’ve tried most if not all of them. I have been blogging for over 10 years. The number of followers has remained around the same. Readership and views has increased somewhat based on how much I write, maybe 25-30 views a day for a post.

The only thing viral about my blog is when I post about being sick.

It can be disheartening, especially when I see others much younger than I suddenly discovering and writing about topics I have been exploring for years unnoticed while they garner much glory, laud, and honor.

But comparison is a dead end street.

Who or what defines success, or for that matter, a meaningful post? I love sharing and want it to be just as meaningful to you, the reader. But if it isn’t, does it make it any less precious? Does what I write give me joy, and is that enough?

I am learning that with all of the forums available, there are so many options to share, so many voices seeking an ear, with really no rhyme or reason as to which voice suddenly grows louder at any given moment.

And here I am, one more voice clamoring to be heard.

I am not sure if I should go completely silent. That is always an option. Call it a day. Go back to filling loose leaf notebooks with scribblings. Gather them back into myself like precious friends. (Do I feel so disjointed and scattered because I have cast so much of myself out upon the web?)

Or is it just a matter of letting go of the ego and writing simply for the words’ sake, because I love to, and if it resonates with you then that is even more wonderful, right?

Honesty causes me to look deeply inside and wonder if I truly wish for more followers or if I am pointing others to the One to follow.

All very good things to ponder I think. So for now, I will write, and let the words fall where they may . . . midst weeds, thorns, or soil, hard or soft.

Posted in Musings and Reflections


I see through a glass dimly
even more so when I am about
the work of my hands and the
dust of my labors coats the
lens of my glasses.

They are rarely clean and the
cloth I use to keep them from
being scratched resides in
another place. So I resign myself
to moments without clarity
until I have time to truly
clear my sight again.

It is an annoyance more than
anything. I can still see well
enough to work and I am committed
to using only that material
which will not scratch my lens.

Yet in the moment after
I have wiped the debris away,
I realize again how precious
are those brief times of
of unblurred vision.

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

the shadow knows

sometimes i feel like
i am a shadow of
who i once was
captured by memories
of the lives i have lived
remnants of songs sung
play on in my head
and i want to push them
out again into the
light of day

it is difficult
to remain in the shadows
to wrestle with what
is ego and what is call
what to dream of
what to let go
to wait for the summons
and still stay awake
and open to the voice
that speaks in
bright riddles
of silence

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree (Poems)

When My Mind Is A Constant Stream

when my mind is a constant stream
running in places where i wish it would not go
coursing through the contours of my cortex
i am the spinning leaf in the torrent
a visitor to areas cold and dark
memories familiar yet strangly different
tempest tossed
through caverns
wall painted pictographs
passing by in a blur
then falling with the bright spray
out into the light
to float awhile
until i am returned
back to
when my mind is a constant stream…


An Apocalyptic Dream

In the darkness of early morn, I walk between the shadows of waning streetlamps and a wind that tastes of coming rain, the sounds of cricketsong and windchimes dancing in my ears.

In these moments, when most residents still lie in slumber, I can imagine I am part of an apocalyptic dream, the last of my kind remaining, hovering within the strange aura of peace and loss the thought entails.

Then I hear the roar of an engine and a car blows through the stop sign near me, as if somehow the law does not apply to what one thinks is unseen. I realize again that I am not alone and that I am not always enamored with those I must share this planet with.

Though if I am honest, I suspect I too at times am part of the walking dead, asleep to my potential, distracted by nothingness, racing towards a destination that in the end holds little value, unwilling to stop and listen to an agenda other than my own.

I return to the safety of the indoors where I spend a few moments in silent reflection of the coming journey. The muffled wail of the train whistle through the window glass is a mournful reminder that I must be on my way.

I leave the table, the surface trembling with the rumble of the passing train, gather my tattered thoughts around me like an old quilt, and step back outside into the evanescent dawn.

Posted in The Sunday Driver: Life in the Slow Lane

A Foolish Way to Live

Along the mountain roads of West Virginia, I follow a flatbed semi empty of its load, red taillights glowing like the eyes of strange creatures luring me into the fog. Dark trees hang over us, dripping in the mist and it is easy for me to believe that I am once again traveling through Monte Verde.

My cell phone lost signal long ago and so I am left with the wanderings of my imagination and the James Lee Burke audiobook whispering through the speakers of my car. I am on my way to a place of love to sing songs for people both known and unknown. It is a journey I have made many times before singing songs I have often sung.

As I drive, I am struck by the words I am listening to which so encapsulate who I am.

“I don’t like the world the way it is and I miss the past. It’s a foolish way to live.”

If such is the case, then I guess I am a fool and will forever be. Oh, for more of a life of such foolishness.

Suddenly, my phone starts to buzz and lights up with the notifications as the signal from the cell phone tower finally breaks through the barrier of these mountains. I sigh, realizing my brief isolation is at an end. There is a cost sometimes, the price we pay unknown, for what we think is connection.

Then I am turning into the parking lot, familiar faces before me, the guitar case bouncing on the seat behind me in anticipation of song.

Posted in Longreads and Essays

This Morning A Gift of Song

I do not believe in coincidence, yet I am still awed when the world outside of me seems to respond to the inner landscape.

This morning, when I open the inner door to step through the closed-in porch and outside to retrieve the paper, can you guess what greets me?

It is the song of a cricket, singing for all its worth, from a hidden corner somewhere in the room!

It is so loud that our dog, who is not a fan of thunder, smoke alarms, or other loud and strange noises, has to be coaxed out for her morning walk.

I am stunned.

Yesterday, I gave my offering to the world and to you, dear reader.

Today, I am graced by the presence of a visitor I have never heard in all of my years in this house.



I choose to accept the gift with wonder.

The cricket is silent now, the gift given.

The recipient begins his day with his heart filled with the song.