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.
POETIC BLOOMINGS 
REPLACEMENT FLOWERS
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.
OLD GRANDDAD
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.
SHARING
Remember child,
we should always
share.
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
sign?
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.
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.
SENSES
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
touched.
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
change,
but everything was the
same.