You are not that which surrounds you.
You are not the events.
You are not the politics.
You are not the chaos.

No more than the bird in the sky is the sky,
No more than the plant in the soil is the soil.
No  more than the cream in the coffee is the coffee.

You are essential.
You are real.
You are.

(C) Glenda Kotchish Sepember 12, 2023
Image by Image by Alan Dobson 

Saturday Morning 2022

Tulips lean over the vase edge
Color faded, wilting
on the hearth
At the base lies the dog
curled into a ball
rays of sun warming him—
A slight jerk, perhaps a dream
The sound of dripping from 
the clogged gutter
outside the window
The clock on the brick wall ticks away
out of rhythm with the drain pipe’s dripping—
no rhythm at all 
this collaboration
Distressing like the rapping 
of young people’s music
makes me long for Bach
I rise
find the blue-tooth speaker
the cell phone,
amazon music 
press buttons
slide screens
centuries old
joins in
(C) Glenda Kotchish 2022

A brochure in the mailbox

Neil Gaiman, in his master study class said that you should keep a compost book–a book of ideas, starts of stories. And while this log would most likely be undeveloped, it would provide you with material for future stories when you or it had matured.

This story, “Homearama” was in my compost book, actually the very last page of the book. I jotted down the words last summer when I saw a brochure on a new development in my hometown. The image was captivating in its starkness. I haven’t changed a single word from the original. I hope you enjoy it.


The Old Fox

She is a white fox now and hidden from view. It’s hard to see her, especially on misty, foggy days. But she’s there, white, silver, vixen and wise. She knows all the tricks, old and newly invented; so beware when she slips across the corner of your vision. She’s up to something, to be sure.

In yonder year she was red and blazed like the sun. A shot, a comet, a blast of color she was, slipping in and out of the hen house, under the fence, through the hedge, into the woods. Her long legs admired, the swish of her tail–envied. Her head held high, she pranced about, skipping across the brook, into the stream, swimming, bounding into the river–currents ignored–she emerged–on top–always.

She is all this, still. She’s bold, she’s bright but ignored. You’ve been warned. If you see her, you might not, you probably won’t but she’s stirring the pot, she making things happen, she’s molding you and you have no clue.

© Glenda Kotchish

July 25, 2018