Winter is here, but it isn’t on the Cape, hot and clear seventy-two with patches of sun, no snow, the seagulls from Seattle have moved in and settled to share the festivities of krill with wayward penguins sunbathing on the beach. Winter is here; but not on the Cape of Horn, forties and fifties with … Continue reading Winter is Here
Jeffery carried a guitar slung on his back. He did not know how to play it, not really. Although, he could strum enough to accompany himself singing “Red River Valley.” It might be noted that saying Jeffery sang “Red River Valley” is somewhat of an exaggeration. He played the four or five chords he knew … Continue reading The Axeman at the Cowboy Poetry Open Mic
Canute stood on the shore and drew a line in the sand The tide rolled in and ole Canute could not stand and stay dry, so he stepped away and said "O pride of men will make men dead." Old DjT took his magic marker and drew (o, so proud) hurricane lines a lot darker … Continue reading Dorian goes This Way
This Montana boy is dinkum apologetic because "dinkum" does not appear in his poetic aesthetic For, though a dinkum shameless lingual thief, He’s ashamed, as a dinkum fly-over American inlander, (O, let us in dinkum shame be brief) to never have pilfered "dinkum" from any dinkum New Zealander!
Eric was frosted. The new young Bishop had not asked him to narrate the Christmas program. For the first time in twenty-seven years, the Bishop had not called on him, with his trained voice, to read the verses of Luke and introduce the Elders, the women, and the children each in their turn. For the … Continue reading On the Seventh Day
“It’s the Win’er’s Solice today,” Bert Osburned said. “I think. Isn’t it?” He pulled his heavy brows down over his little eyes, a serious frown, which is about the way he made all his proclamations. He wore a wide brim hat and scuffed boots and had been a history teacher at the high school. Since … Continue reading A December Twenty-First Argument
Eric Studdard was working on his three hundred and twenty-third masterpiece. This one would be a winner for sure. He had spent the better part of an hour on it and the poem was currently two hundred and ninety-seven words long, with thirty-one lines and seven and ¾ completed verses. It was composed along the … Continue reading “Cynosure” Fumbles a Masterpiece
On Monday the wind blew from the North On Friday the wind blows from the South. Both are cold winds. I feel the chill taint of October or perhaps November.
Upon reading the tag for the Ragtag word of the day, and after looking at the Urban Dictionary invective referenced therein, I just—JUST—could not resist the following diatribe on one of my fav hobbies-hosses (trying to grave our vocabulary in concrete tombs) which also includes one of my pettest peeves—undervaluing the full, social, historic, and … Continue reading Re: the RPD Writeup on ‘Fleek”
“Saloon was a fancy name for the place. Saloon had associations by etymology that suggested class. This was not a class place. The squeak-hinged door had squeaked the same tune for forty years—opening-to-closing, six days a week. (Closed Sundays, except for select parties and football games.) A twenty-four inch, dust-dimmed TV hung from the ceiling … Continue reading How Delmare Wrote his Next