Alan D. Harris
I carry a memory stick on a string around my neck My stick archives 1000 images 1,000,000 words My stick helps me remember who I am who you are My stick helps me remember the first time my child walked, talked the last time my grandpa laughed, cried If I misplace my stick I may forget your name, my own So archive my picture on your stick Mention the last time you saw me laugh, cry Carry me with you until you forget my name, your own before your life is but a frozen archive on someone else’s memory stick
Alan D. Harris
Taped across the family fridge are visions from a child’s hand proof the young girl loved to draw in pencil, pen, and crayon. Pictures of the family dog, of a boat without an oar, a drawing of a golden gate, her bedroom window, and a door Pictures drawn of things she knows and things she’s never seen She drew Jesus in a swimming suit and the door she colored green In fact the family's favorite is not the dog, but is that door which she drew in careful detail though she’d not seen it before The child from her death bed said, as cancer opened Heaven’s gate, "I’m gonna swim with Jesus to his boat then behind the door I’ll wait…"
Alan D. Harris enjoys writing poetry and short stories based upon the life stories of friends, relatives, and total strangers. His work has appeared on four continents in as many languages. Harris earned the 2011 Stephen H. Tudor Award in Creative Writing at Wayne State University.