“There are three rules for writing the novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.” (W. SOMERSET MAUGHAM)

Saturday, November 19, 2011

The luck continues...

2011 continues to be a good year for me... Verse Wisconsin has decided to publish another piece of poetry by yours truly. http://www.versewisconsin.org/  Northlawn will appear in a forthcoming issue, presumably in 2012 since they have just published issue no. 107 this week.(chek it out) Hopefully the good tidings carry over into next year. Coincidentally, my poetry group(which I will call Panoply until otherwise notified) will be publishing our book soon. Look for it by January 2012 at the latest. It is titled Portal and Piers. We also have started a blog by the name of Sunday Morning Press- This what we are using as a "publishing house. I have a link to it on this blog. The eventual hope is to be in a position to help publish not only more of our own stuff, either as a group or individually as well as others we feel are deserving and maybe do not have the knowledge, funds or support to do so themselves. We will most likely be selling the books from the SMP blog and/or Facebook links. It would make a great Christmas gift- if we can get it out by then. Only $10! I may even be able to get you a signed copy...

For now, I'll leave you with this;


I watch the treetops as they sway in the breeze
dancing freely, on a cool summer’s eve

the crickets sing their nighttime song
while one dog dutifully patrols the lawn

the other lay panting at my feet
glad for the reprieve from late summer heat

a purple and green mosaic fills my eye
night acting as canvas for the firefly

Sunday, November 6, 2011


2 out of 3 pieces sent to Upstreet have been rejected; Defined and The Ladder, still waiting to hear about Eclipse, as well as the poems sent to Adirondack Review and Verse Wisconsin. Still keeping my fingers crossed...


We live our lives
pressed together
between the pages
of a dictionary
placed here by some
odd coincidence of origin
our inked skin defines us
to one another, though
we still struggle to understand
the words being shouted
from this album left
resting on a high shelf

The Ladder

My wife watches from her post
on the porch as I disappear
into the garage, emerging
a few minutes later, after
some clanging and banging,
carrying a ladder.

A satisfied look settles
on her face, thinking
I am finally getting
to the honey- do list
left magnetized
to the refrigerator.

“What are you doing?”
She calls after me as I walk
to the middle of the yard, laying
the ladder in the un-mowed grass.
Sharp, deep green blades part to make way
for the aluminum rungs and rails.

Without answering, I stand back, admiring
the play of the sun off the gleaming metal
and the contrast of silver and green
before returning to my blue plastic chair
on the ray soaked patio, picking up
pencil and notebook once again. Intending
to write about the jaunty angle of the ladder.
Or, how unapparent it would be to any observer
as to which way is up and
which is down and where
one would be going anyways
that such a conveyance would be needed.

The re-imagined structure has become
as much a curiosity to me-
the creator as the hundreds
of bugs now crawling along it stiles.
Behind me I hear the opening
And closing of the back door.

Thursday, November 3, 2011

sharing is caring

Billy Collins is my favorite poet, as I am sure he is many an aspiring poets favorite. He is the master of the everyday minutiae of simply living life. Collins is a former Poet Laureate of the United States. I want to share a few poems from Ballistics 2008.

The Idea of Natural History at Key West

When I happened to notice myself
walking naked past a wall-length mirror

one spring morning
in a house by the water
where a friend was letting me stay,

I looked like one of those silhouettes
that illustrate the evolution of man,

but not exactly the most recent figure.
I seemed to represent a more primitive stage,
maybe not the round-shouldered ape

dragging his knuckles on the ground,
but neither the fully upright hominoid

ready to put on a suit and head for the office.
Was it something in the slope of my brow
or my slack belly?

Was this the beginning of the Great Regression
as the anthropologists of tomorrow would call it?

I was never the smartest monkey on the block,
I thought to myself in the shower,
but I was at least advanced enough to be standing

under a cascade of steaming water,
and I did have enough curiosity to wonder
what the next outline in the sequence might look like:

the man of the future stepping forward
like the others rising to their hind legs behind him,

only with a longer stride, a more ample cranium,
and maybe a set of talons,
or a pair of useless, cherubic wings.


Once, two spoons in bed,
now tined forks

across a granite table
and the knives they hired.

    The legendary Cang Jie was said to
    have invented writing after observing
    the tracks of birds

A light snow last night,
and now the earth falls open to a fresh page.

A highwind is breaking up the clouds,
children wait for the yellow bus in a huddle,

and under the feeder, some birds
are busy writing short stories,

poems and letters to their mothers.
A crow is working on an editorial.

That chickadee is etching a list,
and a robin walks back and forth

composing the opening to her autobiography.
All so prolific this morning,

these expressive little creatures,
and each with an alphabet of only two letters.

The Golden Years

All I do these drawn-out days
is sit in my kitchen at Pheasant Ridge
where there are no pheasants to be seen
and, last time I looked, no ridge.

I could drive over to Quail Falls
and spend the day there playing bridge,
but the lack of a falls and the absence of quail
would only remind me of Pheasant Ridge.

I knowawidow at Fox Run
and another with a condo at Smoky Ledge.
One of them smokes, and neither can run,
so I'll stick to the pledge I made to Midge.

Who frightened the fox and bulldozed the ledge?
I ask in my kitchen at Pheasant Ridge.