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Time passes like a river flowing under a bridge. Days become smaller, months merge into years. Rapids swirl, liquid power loosening rock and debris. Time passes like a river during a flash flood. Birthdays disappear, more behind than ahead approaching the precipice. Irresistible current pushing toward the final cascade. Torrents, streams, droplets plunging beyond the…
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Walking in the morning sun warm on one side cool on the opposite. A dragonfly invades the space between my body and the flat darkness cast on pavement. Her wings darken and cool as she flutters in that moveable place. My shadow has height, length and depth. My shadow has volume. My shadow is a…
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There are two types of people in my life. One: those who understand me, who share my quirks and my humor, appreciate my dark side and accept me for who I am— and two: the “normal” people. © 2026 Bruno Talerico 219/365
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Oh! Sentient beings, hear my prayer. I believe in kindness, generosity, sympathy, and love. I believe in the Big Bang, quantum physics, and evolution. I believe in climate change, overpopulation, and the scientific method. I believe in data produced by observable, reproducible, statistically significant research. I believe in ethical, unbiased exploration and experimentation. I believe…
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Are the words streaming into my mind mine or do they come from another? When words filter through my heart to be scribed onto parchment, are they mine or do they belong to the other? When I have signed my nom de plume, is it my trademark or does the other hold the copyright? When…
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Keep it short Keep it simple Make it swish and sway in it’s own sweet way. © 2026 Bruno Talerico 216/365
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Fantasy is for primitives, literacy for reading instructions. Don’t contaminate my style with your uninhibited joy and your immature scrawl. Leave me to spew pain and suffering so, like a child, you can crawl. © 2026 Bruno Talerico 215/365
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When you lost your life, I lost part of mine too. I still bleed invisible droplets, A tourniquet is no longer necessary to stem the flow, a band-aid does the trick, but it’s still blood. © 2026 Bruno Talerico 202/365
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Poets are scouts, I imagine, the ones hiking into the thicket of every day— stumbling over rocks, stepping over roots— until they reach the meadow where golden light casts shadows on a rusted wheelbarrow and a wise old pear tree. No weeping over sunsets or hiding under the veil of rhyme the poetic mind is…
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At a bend in the trail, with a spectacular view of mountain and canyon, I spot a small red cross fashioned from wood, painted with care. Someone loved resting peacefully in a place they loved. © 2026 Bruno Talerico 210/365
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Desert Dweller 