Desert Dweller

Oozing crimson
from fresh scratches 
tracking down my bare shin.

Chill morning air seeping
into ancient bones and joints
dark brew steaming—
an orange sphere rising
over the chipped rim.

Calico and tuxedo kittens
playfully climb my legs
as if they are trees.

© 2025 Bruno Talerico
Stafford challenge 344/365.

Downy gray clouds settle,
embracing barren plateaus. 
Pale feathers sift down
to comfort naked sandstone.

Snow settles on industrial structures,
softens edges, and muffles sounds.
Angular blacks and whites blur,
disguising stainless steel shadows.

© 2025 Bruno Talerico
Stafford challenge 343/365.

Tick tock, tick tock—

We’re running out of time.
We’re all running out of time.
This moment, a grain of time,
has already fallen through the hourglass
by the time you read this line.

So why are you waiting—

to begin a business,
a book, a poem,
to say “hello”?

Why wait—

to travel,
to play the trumpet, 
to call a friend?

Why wait—

to paint,
to hike,
to say I’m sorry—
or I love you?

If you’re waiting for permission—
this is it.

Tick tock, tick tock.

© 2025 Bruno Talerico
Stafford challenge 342/365.
Image created with AI.

Alone in the gray of the winter
after my son died,

I was irritated and jealous
of the people who still had children
who still celebrate holidays.

It wasn't fair.

Jingle bells on the radio
and in every elevator,
friends and family laughing,
the well-wishes,
the tinseled tree,
wrapped and ribboned gifts were
too much to bear.
Trying to smile—while inside,
all I could do was cry.

Like the Grinch,
I wanted to steal their joy
and make them suffer.

In Whoville they say
the Grinch’s heart grew three sizes
and he gave back the gifts and food
that he had selfishly hoarded.

Now, when I see you,
speak to you, or even
just have a thought about you,

my heart grows,
and when it isn’t so tight,
I want to spread
the kindness and love
I hoarded.

Now I want to celebrate
and share in the feast,
I also want to help you
carve the roast beast.

© 2025 Bruno Talerico
Stafford challenge 341/365.
Image generated by AI.

first day of the rest of my life
and
last day of most of my life.

© 2025 Bruno Talerico
Stafford challenge 340/365.
Image from the internet.

Expecting the unexpected
makes it an appointment.

The struggle
against censorship and conformity,
dismissed as a phase,
is a precursor to the coming silence.

Like matter and antimatter,
citizenship and servitude,
should not share the same space.

There is no way to square this circle.

© 2025 Bruno Talerico
Stafford challenge 339/365.

Not for the faint of heart—
these savage places
accessible only by
wrong turns and scraped knees.

Enchanted grottos
and obscure oases exist
only for the driven,
the focused—persisting
beyond the point of annoyance
until others label them
‘hard’ and ‘holy’.

© 2025 Bruno Talerico
Stafford challenge 338/365.

There are two ways to die in the desert:
too little water and too much.

Too little—
Dehydration:
head throbbing, tongue cracking,
confusion—
seizures, coma, death.

Too much—
Flash floods:
semi-liquid mass made of mud,
uprooted trees,
skull-sized rocks and couch-sized boulders
barreling downstream—
a locomotive without brakes.

The roar of a hundred lions
announces the explosive debris flow,
a ten-foot slurry—
anything in its path:
sand, trees, boots, backpacks—
launched downstream.

A dry creek bed converts to rapids,
churning like a jeweler’s tumbler.

In the aftermath,
boulders set in the mudflow
become unmarked headstones
for the unfortunate creatures
caught in the flow.

Water in the desert,
whether abundant or scarce,
will leave behind a graveyard.

© 2025 Bruno Talerico
Stafford challenge 337/365.

There are many things
I’ve worried about
that didn’t come to pass,
like flunking out of college,
or nuclear winter.

There are a few things
I never gave any thought to
that landed like a kick in the gut,
left me gasping for air,
like that frantic 5 a.m. call—

“Joe’s been in an accident…
head trauma…unsurvivable
organ donor
need permission…
to withdraw life support.”

I never imagined
no more camping trips,
no more shared meals
or late-night conversations
about music
or the afterlife.

It never crossed my mind
that I could feel
so lost, so hopeless—
I never had a thought
about what a father becomes
after losing his only child.

© 2025 Bruno Talerico
Stafford challenge 336/365.
Image by AI.

dance to your own beat

don’t ever apologize
for being yourself

© 2025 Bruno Talerico
Stafford challenge 335/365.