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FOUND POEM
Each morning, beforeI finish my morning cappuccino,I scan my email, hoping to finda perfect poem that hasgone forever unclaimed. I have enough skillto alter it sufficientlythat I can safely claim itas my own, if the ownerever were to appear,by adding, After XXXXX. All I have ever foundis the odd limerick andfrankly I can to betteron…
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CONVERSATION
Arising into nightthe departing suntangoes away with its cloud,memories soon forgotten.Other dancers take the stage,now a romance, nowa war dance, feathers raisedin prayer to unseen gods.Night will soon bringits curtain across this stage,the avian cast’s final bows takenthe theatre will darken, awaitinganother performance,a new script tomorrow,but for this solitary momentof frozen grace, it is wewho…
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BALLET OF THE GODS
Once they pierced your heelsto hobble you, bound upfeet and ankles to lashyou to the earth, there weren’tangels then, no wings, just the painof toes crushed inward,the silent agony of motion,a cruel joke played by godsstarved for entertainment.But Terpsichore, hearingErato’s song, set them freebrought them to a pointe,allowed them to take winglessflight, and toes became…
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THE WRITER
Why do I write, you ask.I’m a writer, so I should havea good answer, or at least a glib one. I could say I write for othersbut you would ask whothose others are, and smile knowinglywhen I have no answer. I could say I write for myself,and that would be true enough,but rather sad and…
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THE WRITER STUMBLES
Each yearin Pamplonathe bulls begintheir slow descentdown the narrow streetsgaining speednostrils flaringmuscle and sinews tautthey forge aheada white wavepreceding themin their mad dashand each yearthere is one,some years twowho, by slip of footor lapse of judgmentmeet the hornsof the lead bullwho in disgustsnorts“this oneis noHemingway.” First published in Defenestration ,Vol XVI Issue 2 August 2019
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THE POET?
He stood in front of the classin a more than half empty lecture halland leaned into the podium, almost smiling. He was here, a real poet, half famousby his own reckoning, totally so by ourssince he was rumpled, as a poet ought,his sport coat tweedy and ill fitting. Still we harbored some doubts,for there was…
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GREATLY EXAGERATED
Many now say the age of great literaturehas died, the mortal woiund inflictedby the advent of the self-correctingIBM Selecric typewriter, when wordsbcame evanescent, as suddenly goneas when they spilled onto the page. Others, I count myself among them,believe the wound was not fatal,deep certainly, but yet there remainsa faint pulse, ressuscitation possiblewith the application of…
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WRITERS
I was born the same day, ina much later year as Thornton Wilder,a fact that had no impact at allon my life, since I discovered ourcommon birthday long aftermy life’s path was half tread. I read him in my youth, and mustadmit I can recall nothing of whatI read, which I attribute to allthat I…
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THEN, NOW
It was easier then, so let’sgo there, the spring of 1970,the location is less important,so long as it’s a coffee housewhere those barely old enoughto drink, or barely short of thatage congregate, waiting forsomething to happen or, Iseriously hoped, someone,someone with little hair, butwho carried James Joyce inhis jeans pocket, Portrait ofthe Artist the only…
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PENNED IN
He stares at the collectionof pens crammed tightly intoa coffee mug whose handlehad long since broken away. He knows some are dead,awaiting a proper burial,following a brief memorialservice paying homageto their illustrious past. He is certain that oneor more is secretly harboringthe poem or story that hehas been meaning to write,the one that the journalon…
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an old writer and his words 