dawn - upturned soles on the battlefield
remembrance day – for those who waited in vain
war memorial / timeworn names / collect snow
Gram's locket wasn't even pretty. It was a dull silver circle with a scratched red stone in the center, but she never took it off. It hung from a chain around her neck, always.
As a little boy, I'd been allowed to fondle it while sitting on her lap, but only if I was careful. And I was never to try to open it.
Originally from NYC, Allen lives, writes, acts and directs theatre in Mexico.
His published fiction, non-fiction, poetry, plays, photos, etc., have won awards and appeared in: NY Times, The Writer, Newsday, Literary Potpourri, Poetry Midwest, QLRS, Herons Nest, Frogpond, Modern Haiku, World Haiku Review, many others.