Melancholy Margo


Melancholy Margo stands at

the window

surrounded by all that

has gone.

Lost in her past she never

moves forward,

the present just tall

panes of glass.

Reflections of was and

shadows of if

confound her hopes and her


Oh, dear Margo just one

breath of faith

would unlock your window of






Words and image by Til Turner 2018

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I stood on the bank of a stream. A breeze blew through my hair. A voice called out to me, and I turned. My heart leapt, as it does when a friend greets you. I had not seen her in years, but we talked as if no time had passed. Her eyes were still wide, filled with hope, but now ringed from years of grief. She looked at the stream then back to me.

“I missed you,” she said.

“I meant to write,” I said.

The stream flowed by, and the sound soothed me. It washed clean the years of loss and brought back a chance to give all I had.

(This short piece is written only with one-syllable words.)

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Wednesday, 3:03 pm

The cat. The sidewalk. The heat. The smoke. The laugh. The window. The thought. The car. The tree. The cloud. The sky. The dream.

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Skid Marks

skid marks

The basement of my childhood home comprised the entire footprint of the house—thirty by sixty feet. In the corner just left of the staircase as you descended was the hollowed-out remains of an old riding lawnmower. My older brother had painted it green—a racing green I guessed. On a day when he was not jamming with his friends in his psychedelic band, I was able to compete for his attention and win. We took turns pushing each other in the makeshift go cart in a long oval the full length and breadth of the basement. The smooth cement floor marred with numerous long, black skid marks was a testament to the times my brother and I could actually forget the six-year difference between us and just let our mutual exuberance fill the cavernous bottom area of the house.

Now, as a middle-aged man, I can see the time together in all its dimension, like I could reach out, grab one of the long black skid marks, tear it from the burnished grey floor, and eat it like a strip of licorice as I watch my brother push me so fast that I nearly lose control, tipping the go cart up several inches so that only two knobby tires touch the floor. Best of all in those years was our hard laughter and for me to see him smile in a way that assured me that he and I were one, regardless of the many times he had told me to go away and leave him and his friends to their own laughter, which I could only hear from a distance while thinking how nice it would be when we would once again look at each other and grin before we headed downstairs, imitating sounds of racing cars.

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Sour Girl

A humble arrangement of mine of a Stone Temple Pilots tune that has been my favorite for  years.

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