A Trickle

Can be corrosive in a gentle, diminuative expression. Pleasant to listen to, waters the earth in some estoric way. Eventually leads to bigger things. Many are drawn to just a trickle out of thirst, aethetics, desperation. To be enjoyed for it's simplicity and frugality.

Location: Mississippi/Missouri/Texas/France

old lady with a kid locked inside

Sunday, April 05, 2009

Forced Blogging

The idea of anything being forced just turns me inside out. Forcing oneself to write is a bit like forcing oneself to excercise, you can feel yourself rebelling. That amazes me because, I want to write, really and truely. Why it becomes such a battle seems to be because I have all kinds of blocks, like obstacles they put out during road work to keep you from taking an exit that only shoots out into space not really leading anywhere except to fall flat and die.

When I do constrain myself to the keyboard and "have at it", word by word, I feel some underlying current that suprisingly jumps out my fingers. It's a fantastic sensation, but it's word by word, sometimes character by character. When a genuine writing spurt comes along, it's a high that only a writer can experience. It's what you ache for and what keeps you spurred to hack out any little thing you can even faintly call writing.

I am determined to hammer, plunk, drone, and peck until something, someday, somehow manifests itself to be qualified to be published. I have no real idea what that item might be, a poem, a memoir, a short story, a novel, only writing it will tell.

Saturday, September 13, 2008

change of season

the winds blowin'
time's growin'
I'm told

where to there,
who would care
it's not a dare,
throw your cards

the leaves are dancin'
I'm fancyin'
live it while you can,
like a bear

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Thursday, August 21, 2008

Down to the Last Drop

Alack and alas........

Poor pathetic little bloggie. I can see that I've not really given my blog any attention. That's sad, one could get the impression that I'm not really interested in writing. Granted, I'm not a prolific writer, or prone to journal but, I do have my little spurts and sputters and have even recently written a poem with such title, "sputter" located in the poetry critique secion of Absolute Write.

Blogging seems to be the pulse of the world, one giant ball of syntax synapse. I feel like Pooh's little donkey friend, "Oh, my!"

Where to begin, what virtual thread of the giant ball could one possibly begin to unravel? And, why should one even bother? The immensity is overwhelming.

I'm pondering, it's muckish and I feel as though my fingers have become my feet sloshing through a little puddle of a brain with no great cause. To blog or not to blog has become a question.

Poetry is my vent. All I can do is think to post poetry until something else comes along. Bear with me, if you're even here at all.


hung on a question
to end a thought

i follow the dot
the curve up
to the spot where
the sequence logic
is not

characters cued
and grammar all skewed
a simple slide down
back to zero ground

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Wednesday, February 07, 2007

I Hurt!

Whining is NOT becoming but, I am so whining! I recently joined the gym and, of course, I had to really push myself. I wanted to show myself that I was still able to do what I could when I was in my twenties. Since that was over 20 years ago, my body had another agenda. And, since I didn't listen to that little voice that kept trying to warn me, my muscles decided that they are not going to be happy sleeping all night long. I uuuch and ouch all over my body!

It's after 10pm and I've taken a couple of aspirin and hope this pain in my shoulders is not any kind of permanent damage that I've done to myself. We ate out at a Mexican restaurant hoping to get to bed early. Oh no..............that was not going to happen. We locked the car keys in the car! After the lock smith came and we paid him forty dollars a minute, then we headed home hoping for a reprieve. A hot bath is calling me!

I wish I could write more but my eyelids have decided that they are closing up shop. I need a bath after running two miles but I'm wondering if I could just wait until in the morning.

Falling asleep at the wheel....................................................


Tuesday, February 06, 2007

shut in

voices seep
through the cracks
like a winter wind
without faces
and I think
myself delirious
to have company

Monday, February 05, 2007


the farinheit of love

there is a brilliance
I am unable to explain

crisp white
so sharp it hurts

a crunching sound
and long glides

pastoral, bleak
a fantasy

Winter comforts
offering sleep

alone and awed
cold embraces

and I understand

Sunday, February 04, 2007

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