Graveyard on Forest Covered With Grasses, Pixabay

Psalm II: The Food of Worms

An end. It comes to me that all things must end, great and small.

Even time — that most constant of human concepts — will end with the last breath of humanity. Time came into being the moment mortals perceived it, and it will cease when the last mortal is gone. Existence will continue.

As mortals perceive them, measures of time mean little to me, like copper pieces do to those who accrue great wealth. A copper piece means as little to the wealthy as does a second of eternity to the eternal. I confess I care little for either.


Psalm I: Memoirs of an Immortal

I am immortal.

I am an orphan, an unknown father’s son whose mother, since labor, lay long interred. I have known neither.

I believe when we are born, our bodies first inhale to trap our divine souls in a mortal coil.

Every breath from birth to death is a struggle to keep our divinity captive until that last exhale when the divine prospers and escapes its prison of flesh.

I am immortal.

My soul’s prison is eternity. My solitude is my dungeon, and my failings my scourge.

In quiet hours, I speak in whispers of names and faces I have…


Desert road leading to Monument Valley at sunset by miroslav_1

Decades ago, my first corporate job out of college paid for a new apartment with speckless walls and medium pile. I knew I would retire from that company many years from then. I spent late nights and early mornings away from my young family. I did it with pleasure, not a pleasure because I was leaving them, but because I was building something. I was a part of something.

Every time I entered the office, I must have worn the face Caitlin had as she crossed the threshold of each room. Massive plate glass windows faced the west, a massive…


Parents want to protect their children. There are outliers, of course, but for the most part, I am confident in the truth that parents want to protect their children.

This was true for me decades ago when my daughter, Caitlin, was two years old. My wife and I were viewing a new apartment. It was an empty three-bedroom with speckless walls surrounding floors of medium pile that had not yet met bare feet. The scent of fresh paint invoked fresh possibilities of our family growing into and out of a new home.

Caitlin ran from room to room, no furniture…


Photo by Greg Raines on Unsplash

The last person inside had strapped a set of balls under his rear. At one time, they flashed in the sun as he tore up the macadam. Now he sat on the hill, and they faded over time — along with his paint job.

Once a precision machine. Once a showpiece. Once a workhorse with a gun rack and a shotgun in his rear window.

Now grass grew around him, tall and green, and his rubber grew dry and cracked. Under tires long flat, he could feel crawling things taking up residence. …

JR Verwey

Son, husband, father, writer, and artist. Writing isn't a choice. It's a necessity.

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