Most readers are closet writers. They journal, dream stories, imagine scenerios, and then disappear into what they are reading. The question to ask before writing is: Who am I writing for? If you write for money or fame, it is a long narrow road with few recognitions. If you write for family, for fun, or for self-therapy, then you will get rewarded in your life from the effort. If you have a passion for writing; if you pick up a pen in the middle of the night to write down a dream; if your idea of doodling is writing words or poetry; if you are facinated by the challenges of writing…then you know why you write and others may never understand.
Two Mile Walk Through Columbus [Indiana]
Looking through red reversed letters from the window of Jill’s Diner
Waiting on a greasy burger
Thinking about the two miles from a park bench to this booth
Passing the other side of every postcard picture
Views of Columbus others do not see
A plaque on a quiet walk beneath the Third Street bridge
Professing the “death valley” survivors
Poor people living in the uncivilized early 1900’s Columbus
Hard tanned men with orange hats and vests
Working behind pylons and making downtown hum with machine noise
Crossing barricades in streets that hide developing architectural wonder
Pictures taken of sculptures, art, memorials, and bright passages through alleyways
The geometric shapes and curves of concrete and steel set against green and budding trees
Tributes in bricks laid downtown in meek monuments to many more deserving
New memorials in fresh concrete of quoted wisdoms about life or learning
The walk fills with color and reflection of one experience among generations
The surrounding fields and dirt roads changed to a humming place of people
People on their way to somewhere else perhaps
Instead they stayed here, and called it home
A woman freed from time sits contemplating over a greasy burger
Filed under Poetry
Life is Boundary
Lines form and people follow the flow
separating into groups on the sidewalk.
Mannered in institution,
he, she, they.
Blur into one moving mass of color.
Then one yellow dot runs from formation,
chased by its larger who returns it to
the spot in symmetry.
Comformity, assimilation, and boundaries.
We file ourselves in order from the time our feet
bare weight, until our weight we cannot bare.
Then we seal our deaths in set form, row upon row,
marking our existence in uniformity.
Filed under Poetry
Water’s edge: Introduction (Book series)
Her canoe was paddled by a small man who spoke very little. Her long blue cotton dress was wet and dirtied at the bottom from the leaking boat. Her gloves were as soiled as the dress, and her delicate white face was dusted tree pollen from the island. She had no idea that this little island her husband had described was so far from the mainland. The closer the boat rowed toward the island, the more scared Margot became. She had hardly traveled beyond her own home in South Carolina for the last ten years. She had been twenty when she met William, and only six months later they were married. His family was rich, and hers was not. She married because she loved him, or atleast the man he portrayed himself to be at the time. Her next ten years with him included many nights alone waiting for him to return from drinking all night. He spent little time working for his father and spent less time trying to be a husband to Margot. His wild ways were not uncommon in the South.
She stepped foot on the soggy island turf and considered jumping back into the boat. She thought about her sunny room with an ocean view while looking at the low hanging trees surrounding this densely forested island. Why had her husband left her this mess? He said in his journal that there was a small house inland and he had meant to have it redone as a vacation home for them. She left the boatman with his fee and he promised to return the next morning with supplies and more food. For now, Margot had a carpet bag full of cleaning supply and a small supply of bread and cheese wrapped in her handbag for later. As she walked a grown over path from the water’s edge toward an unknown home, she thought of her father-in-laws last comment to her the day before. “Don’t come back Margot. If you are smart, you will never return here.”
Filed under Romance
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