Chris Bighorse > Writing | WritersCafe.org | The Online Writing Community

A Discourse of Time

What I see and write are not the same things. I simply stare at a blank page hoping to see embossed words I can trace into a work of art. Instead..

I often wonder what my father is thinking. Navajo is his native tongue so he stumbles on his english, slowing to think about . . . I often won..

It's the kind of morning that starts late, when the clouds embrace the land and the only difference between day and night is thickness -- of sound..

How extravagent, pretending my life with words. I'm often confused which I've lived; my dreams, my waking, or my work? I catch myself speaking of..

I've never seen Angry Fire, the flames that lick life out of flesh. I've never seen the skeleton of a house, where only a fireplace stands. I'..

When I write a poem every word I use has been used before. Next week a friend will ask, "What makes a poem yours?" I will answer by..

I've gone blind staring at the moon, and I hate her for it. "There is no ground here. You don't need your eyes." She tells me, pullin..

When my uncle leaves the house I always see abloated column of smoke in the distance. He returns smelling of fire, squeezing a handful of change..

I believe I've given you more yesterdays than tomorrows, have swept my ambitions under the rug with dust bunny dreams and pocket change. It's n..