Category Archives: Uncategorized

To Succeed in Life, You have to Actually Show Up OR How David Pastorius still owes me Eighty Dollars

I was reminded of this today. The first rule to success in anything is showing up.

Adam Byrn Tritt

This is not going to be a masterpiece. I am not saying I have, in the past, managed to create such but, If ever I had, this isn’t going to be it. No exemplar this. I’m just mad.

Yes, I know, some of you are saying I should use the word angry instead. Nope. Not this time. I’m just too mad.

Irresponsibility. Complete lack of follow-through. Zero respect for me or my time. And it is rampant.

And this last week, I had had enough. Here is what I posted as my status on Facebook the other morning.

“I will indulge in a moment of complaining and excoriating (which I shall confine to Monday mornings, though, I like Mondays) as I dislike being taken, as I abhor dishonesty and irresponsibility. Such went the way of my recent electric bass lessons for which I waited so long, for which money was…

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Posted by on August 3, 2016 in Uncategorized



I don’t know why I’m reading this tonight. Maybe it is seeing my kids after a year absent – seeing in the light of their eyes the omnipresent brightness of their mother. Maybe it is Sadie asking her questions, continuous, into the deep morning. Maybe it is part of the work of grief, the carrying of the weight in the dark to the mountain-top that is never reached.

Of everything I have ever written, this is the one I think of the most. Not the longest, by far. Maybe nearly the shortest. But the one that lives on my mind.

I was asked, by Murshida VA, what three things would I have someone know about grief.

I took a day to answer, then three things came at one. It has no schedule. It doesn’t end, or heal. One simply incorporates it into one’s life – a wound, a laming, to which one adapts, with which one lives, from which one learns, and with which one may become stronger. It cannot be controlled, anticipated, prepared for – it will be different each time and come in different ways. I will now add a fourth. It is the price of love – never shut it away and you will be able to love more, and again, and see love in all things. Those who cannot grieve cannot return to love, cannot return to grace.

Adam Byrn Tritt

I had pulled the car out of the garage and set up a chair.  Months earlier I had purchased a Norelco family hair cutting kit, and electric razor and attachments, for next to nothing at a garage sale. I had no idea why, but I brought it home, and now, now, it was plugged in and ready to be used.

The chemotherapy had left your hair in clumps.  It fell into the shower drain, left bits on the pillow, left itself on the couch. Each bit that fell, you cried. I watched as you turned once, as I held you up in the shower to see your hair on the drain.  Out of the shower, you stood, facing the mirror, clutching at your hair, pulling it out in clumps, tears falling, falling into the sink with the strands from between your fingers.

Hats you didn’t like. The scarves you used…

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Posted by on June 24, 2016 in Family, philosophy, Social, Uncategorized


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Passover and the Industrial Revolution

Happy Passover!

From my collection, Yom Kippur as Manifest in an Approaching Dorsal Fin.

Every Passover I bake matzah.

I wait until there is
Nothing left to do,
I wait for the lull
In the torrent of business and busyne…

Source: Passover and the Industrial Revolution

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Posted by on April 24, 2016 in Uncategorized


When I Wake in the Morning

When I wake in the morning I want to do yoga.
When I wake in the morning I want to go for a walk.
When I wake in the morning I want to spin wildly.
When I wake in the morning I want to lay in bed and bless the day.
When I wake in the morning I want to wash in dew.
When I wake in the morning I want to make a slow breakfast.
When I wake in the morning I want to stretch.
When I wake in the morning I want to recall my dreams.
When I wake in the morning I want to do tai chi.
When I wake in the morning I want to run on the beach.
When I wake in the morning I want to sit and write.
When I wake in the morning I want to meditate.
When I wake in the morning I want to putter in the garden.
When I wake in the morning I want to do qigong.
When I wake in the morning I want to sing praise songs.
When I wake in the morning I want to greet the sun.
When I wake in the morning I want to be glad.

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Posted by on March 9, 2016 in Poetry, Social, Uncategorized


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If I had been brought up with the metric system
I could hold an orange in my hand
And tell you how much it weighs in kilograms.
But I was taught with pounds and feet
And I can tell you how much a whole bag of oranges weighs,
Just about,
Or look at a board and give you the measure of it.
But how many meters it is?
How much the orange weighs in kilograms?
I’m lost. Dumb.
Right in front of me,
Any guess as good as another.

Love, I think—
Love is measured in metrics,
Or some other unit.
I can look at it,
Heft it.
No matter.
Ask me how much I love you:
I cannot say.
I can only look at you,
And trust it can also be measured
In those sighs and desires, and hope
You do not ask.

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Posted by on February 15, 2016 in Poetry, Uncategorized


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The Real, the True Story of Gainesville’s 34th Street Wall and the Student Memorial – An Obscenity

Written sixteen years later. And now it is twenty-five years yesterday. An Obscenity.

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Posted by on August 25, 2015 in Uncategorized


Are You an Illustrator?

Are you an aspiring illustrator? Like myth and folklore? Fan of Rocky and Bullwinkle? My project (may) need you. Write to ask for details. If we are a fit, we can go from there.

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Posted by on August 5, 2015 in Uncategorized


Kiss me, I’m a poet!

April is National Poetry Month

Adam Byrn Tritt

Celebrate National Poetry Month Celebrate National Poetry Month

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Posted by on April 6, 2015 in Uncategorized


This Story

This garden is the story
Told and retold.
The good work,
After the thaw.
Of digging into it,
Thick and deep,
With both hands.
Dark and heavy
Dirt under the nails,
The stains of soil that speak
of productive labour.
Our blisters,
Aching, though
We have dug here before
And will dig here again.
Again, the flowers will grow,
Blooms open to beauty,
Ebullience, awe,
Warm our hearts,
Blooms grow to fruit,
Leaf to vegetable,
Fill our stomachs,
Sate our hungers,
Our hopes of harvest not for
Until cold comes,
Until day is short,
Night is long,
The heady high,
The heart of joy of autumn ends in
Leafless trees.
Grey seems forever.
Hope is lost.
In this cold,
Nothing grows
Nothing blooms.
This is the story told and told again.
This garden. These trees.
This labour.

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Posted by on March 12, 2015 in Uncategorized


One Day

Six months ago I wrote this. It is not my best work. It may become better over time. Nothing I write is set in stone until I am set into the ground. And, even then, stone wears, becomes sand, washes to the sea.

I needed help finding a title. After six months, I thought, maybe, “After Four Years.” It had been nearly that since she fell. Since the days became numbered. Until I could count them on one hand. Until they were gone. But this will be true no matter how many years pass, and I know, even when I die, even that will be different. And so, that one day, April 1st, 2011, will always be that day. The day. The one day.

And, so, below, a mediocre poem that, against my normal practice, I wish to leave here anyway.  “One Day.”

Really. I need your help. I can’t title this poem. It caught me in the car, I had to pull over. I had to write.

Maybe it will be all I write about for the rest of my life. Maybe writing about it will let me write about other things. I don’t know. I think about it more than I should. More than is good for me.

Can you title this? Can you leave a title in the comments?
If you nail it, I’ll send you a book.

One day
Cancer came into my home.
It went though my filing cabinets,
It took my
Who, what, where, why.
It took my how and stole them,
Changed them,
Replaced them with
Ones I didn’t recognize.
It came into my life,
Removed everything familiar,
Replaced them with things
I didn’t know how to operate,
Changed routes.
This street is not the same street,
This house is not the same house.
It looks the same to everyone else.
They are wrong.

Personality changes over time,
Small changes.
Slow changes.
Until cancer decides
You are someone else,
Your life becomes another life.

And, always, you know
That day can come again.


Posted by on February 1, 2015 in Uncategorized

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