After several years of writing here at patrickhiggy.com, I’ve decided to take my writing somewhere newāsomewhere it can stretch its legs, breathe a little deeper, and maybe find a few more kindred spirits along the way. I’m not shutting this site down. I’ll keep it live as an archive for the work that’s already here.…
ššš ššššš ššš ššš š š”ššš šššš šš ššššš.Still, the ache is realāand yours not to name. Loss invites platitudesātidy, thoughtless, banal.But sometimes grief plays an unwelcome encore,Egotistically offering just one more,Wrapping you up in a suffocating shawl. Hope often whispers in tiny, blooming threadsāA name, a laugh, dreams forming in our beds.And thenāa hush. A pause. A…
for Maren, who makes mountains bloom I admit it.Her beauty was the sparkāāāThe shaggy bangs and sun-kissed layersā¦āāThe high cheekbones drawing my eyes to hersā¦āāThe white teeth straight, the smile crooked and trueā¦āāThe frame both strong and lithe. But sparks fade.Her grace fuels the flameāāāThe deliberate pace she kept among her peersā¦āāThe learned cadence of…
A New England thaw held hostage.Colonial Ghosts folded into cold mistAnd bone-gray branches of maplesStill clutching their syrup. Frost-heaved roadsāsap buckets hanging empty,Bare birches slow the seasonās ache.Spring is barely an idea, hidden beyondCovered bridges just past the fog line. The sugaring moon is a coy tease,Like a cute barfly flashing her smileWhile her man…
Not everyone is blessed (or cursed) with an ear attuned to Geddy Leeās singular wail. One of my ex-wives once told me she turned on the radio, heard what she thought was a dying cat, and only realized a few moments later that it was Rush. And yet, here I amālifelong fanāproudly curating Muzzled Rush:…
Gifted with scars for which I never asked,Sometimes I feel like I’ve healed.Then they reopenāthe licking starts anew.Things flow freely that were barely congealed. Do my stories differ so much from your own?Perhaps. Perhaps not.Maybe some of us are bornJust to idly let them clot.
The moon rises over Manhattan.Her fortified smile poured smoothlyIn a sea of faces, bitter and wry.Her syrupy voice, friendly and warm,Completed my cherry-topped night.The moon sets over Manhattan,And the sun stings my eyes.
Performative profundity falls flatWhen contradictory contentNames your true nature. Your talk belies your own talkāAnd small wonder why we balk.Your testimonial truthsAre wishy-washy and weak-spined.Surely you canāt believe weāre blindEnough to swallow that scripted sludge. Convictionās more than catchphrase carouselsOr costume changes to match your mood.We weary watchers see the true script.Your fire fades under…
California love blooms again in Georgia soil.I planted them for her a long time agoāPoppies, little bursts of color for my SoCal girl,Rooted in red clay. She smiled at me that first time we met,Brightening and warming an already bright day.I stood there powerless, holding this fierce angelāRooted in red clay. She smiled when she…