By Bruno Talerico
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Downy gray clouds settle,embracing barren plateaus. Pale feathers sift downto comfort naked sandstone.Snow settles on industrial structures,softens edges, and muffles sounds.Angular blacks and whites blur,disguising stainless steel shadows.© 2025 Bruno TalericoStafford challenge 343/365.
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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 hourglassby 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…
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Alone in the gray of the winterafter my son died,I was irritated and jealousof the people who still had childrenwho still celebrate holidays.It wasn’t fair.Jingle bells on the radioand in every elevator,friends and family laughing,the well-wishes,the tinseled tree,wrapped and ribboned gifts weretoo much to bear.Trying to smile—while inside,all I could do was cry.Like the Grinch,I…
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first day of the rest of my lifeandlast day of most of my life.© 2025 Bruno TalericoStafford challenge 340/365.Image from the internet.
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Expecting the unexpectedmakes it an appointment.The struggleagainst 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 TalericoStafford challenge 339/365.
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Not for the faint of heart—these savage placesaccessible only bywrong turns and scraped knees.Enchanted grottosand obscure oases existonly for the driven,the focused—persistingbeyond the point of annoyanceuntil others label them‘hard’ and ‘holy’.© 2025 Bruno TalericoStafford challenge 338/365.
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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 bouldersbarreling downstream—a locomotive without brakes.The roar of a hundred lionsannounces the explosive debris flow,a ten-foot slurry—anything in its path:sand, trees, boots, backpacks—launched downstream.A dry creek…
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There are many thingsI’ve worried aboutthat didn’t come to pass,like flunking out of college,or nuclear winter.There are a few thingsI never gave any thought tothat 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…unsurvivableorgan donorneed permission…to withdraw life support.”I never imaginedno more camping…
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dance to your own beat don’t ever apologizefor being yourself© 2025 Bruno TalericoStafford challenge 335/365.
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Frigid eerily calm air makes nostrils flare. Morning frost lightly dusts brown grasseslike sugar on breakfast donuts.Yellow-green finches bathe playfullyat cracks in ice.Steaming fragrant coffeewarms icy fingers.© 2025 Bruno TalericoStafford challenge 334/365.
Desert Dweller 