Mark began writing in high school, then put the pen down for about twenty-five years.

Thanks to some “prompting” and encouragement from his wife he picked up the habit again in 2011.
Still learning to write again and loving the process, along with those encountered along the way.
My Blog:


© All postings and intellectual materials on this page are property of Mark Windham.

7 thoughts on “MARK WINDHAM


    I used to bring her here
    in summers years ago,
    a field of flowers when
    a bouquet would not do.
    A blanket, a basket and
    each other enough for hours.
    The fields are gone,
    replaced like so many
    by homes, parks, stores.
    We still show up early,
    claiming a bench while
    the swings are quiet,
    to fill our hours with the
    joy of young families
    and the blooms they
    bring out to play.


    I still go by the house and
    sit with him whenever I am
    in town – some of the time
    I think he knows me.

    He is always in the pool room,
    though to him it will always be
    billiards. He doesn’t play anymore,
    arthritic hands cannot hold cues,
    blurry eyes wont line up a shot.
    The red felt is faded, a tear by the
    side pocket from his last game,
    the table light does not work, dust
    on the balls and sticks.

    There are old black and whites of
    him on the wall – from his heyday
    Grandma used to say. Handsome,
    dark hair slicked back, wingtips on.
    Best player in the southeast they
    used to say; I never did beat him.

    I remember watching him dance
    around that table when I was small,
    amazed at the shots he would make,
    the seriousness of his concentration.
    I never payed attention then to the
    highball always in hand, or on the edge
    of the table, brown liquid and ice.
    Everyone of age in the room had one.

    Today, the glass is the first thing I
    notice. Still clenched in fingers that
    seem to have been gnarled to the
    task. He drinks always, but not a lot.

    He is usually watching TV – the news
    or the weather, I don’t think it matters –
    but he pays attention, just a little more,
    when I put on the Hustler. He smiles
    when a rack is broken and salutes Newman,
    every time, when he orders J.T.S. Brown.


    Remember child,
    we should always
    Let others have
    a turn with
    your toys,
    and always
    offer some of
    your food to
    those at the table.

    Yes, Daddy,
    I will try.
    Should we give some
    of our doughnuts
    to the man with the

  4. Away Too Long

    No guidebook is needed
    when the destination is home.

    The roads are familiar,
    street names like family,
    restaurants look the same
    with menus that never change.
    Things to do, places to see,
    ingrained in memory —
    the faces are all older,
    the people still the same.

    The easiest path to travel,
    hardest journey to begin.

  5. Posted for the ‘Fear’ prompt

    True Fear

    Ghost do not bother me,
    silent shadows to ignore;
    spiders and snakes punchlines
    from a seventies song.
    True fear, for me, could only
    be defined as coming home to a
    quiet, empty house, and to know
    the reason why — and that it
    would remain a joyless place.


    I catch fragments of
    her fragrance even when
    she is gone.

    Strawberries and cream
    on my tongue brings a
    vision of her face,
    smiling with eyes closed.

    Jazz from New Orleans
    reminds me of our trip,
    walking hand-in-hand
    through the Quarter and
    along the river.

    Her silhouette is imposed
    on every sunset, a
    contented shadow admiring
    the colors.

    There is no part of me
    that she has not

  7. Water

    the scald and steam of the shower
    was not succeeding in cleansing
    the stain,
    no more than hours of wondering
    wandering in the rain had cleared
    the memories,
    or a day on the sand trying to cull
    meaning from the ocean had healed
    the pain.
    I was told that water symbolized
    but everything was the

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