Writes Alone

My musings & struggles with the blank page…

To Be and Not To Be

Writing is the only thing that takes me out of time, out of this world, and out of myself. Writing makes the “I” cease to exist. It’s absolutely marvelous, the ultimate narcotic with none of the side effects. Nothing else comes close. The power of words to make worlds is beyond great, beyond wonderful, beyond description. I love to write and I love to read. I write to be and not to be.

You’re Not Prepared

Unlike suffering,

happiness has no


If you’re not prepared

to suffer,

then you’re not prepared

to live.

Believing in God


Not believing in God

is weakness.

I choose to believe,

but have no faith

in the end.

When solid meets

liquid myth grows.

Fathomless depths.

A hand that made

everything rocks

the original cradle.

We aren’t destroying

the mother,

but returning her

to infancy.

Where nothing

is enough.

The Good Earth

The closest thing

to an animal is a human,

heartless as a god

believing in dreams,

as if they mattered more than death.

Dragons, dragons, dragons

breathe fire into the flesh

of warrior maidens.

Stubbornly persisting in

the tapestries of inked flesh.

Shimmering night mares graze

in shadowy mirages,

tame enough to ride.

If you approach on your knees

and don’t look in their eyes

you will be ridden until you

are a forgotten grave.

Name no longer legible,

glorious weeds dancing upon

your remains digested and

mixed with the good earth.

No One Can Resist

Death is



Lifting her skirt

Spreading her legs

No one can resist

Her womb extends

Beyond the earthly

Into numerical


No longer fly

Beautiful, dutiful

honey bee,

struggling at

my feet.

Staggering under

the pressure

of pollution

and the heat.

You and your

sisters no longer fly,

alone and walking

to find somewhere

to die.

Expired Centuries ago

Let us grow old together

crouched in bushes

by the side of a road.

Unnoticed and unloved.

Desperate men and starving dogs

pissing on us sometimes,

but we won’t mind.

It’s only a matter of seconds

before we’re rounded up.

Branded, slaughtered, eaten,

and finally forgotten.

We can live forever in the

few moments remaining.

So save your tears for heaven dear.

Redemption is a coupon

that expired centuries ago.

Past or Present tense?

Recently I had the most absurd literary experience of my short life. I was out to dinner with some relatives from England and I mentioned I just finished reading Wolf Hall and Bring up the Bodies by Hilary Mantel and had enjoyed them immensely.

Suddenly there was a clatter of silverware, an English relative had dropped his knife and fork,and was clutching his brow, “How ghastly! Wolf hall is the worst book ever.”

I was more astonished, than offended by his completely unexpected reaction and was momentarily at a loss for words.

His wife weighed in and said, “That Mantel woman is very odd. Have you seen her? Do you know what she looks like?”

I recovered myself enough to respond to her interrogation, “Yes, her picture was on the dust jacket. I read an interview in The Paris Review about her and-”

“Good God, it’s all written in the present tense.” Blustered the Husband, “I cannot stand anything written in the present tense. It’s just wrong, all wrong.”

“Well I suppose it was all present tense.” I said, relieved to be off the topic of Hilary Mantel’s looks. “But I still enjoyed it.”

The husband groaned and said, “The past tense. If it’s not written in the past tense, then it’s not worth reading. If I open a book and it’s written in the present tense, well I end it right there.”

His wife nodded her head in knowing agreement. I wasn’t sure what was going on, so I refrained from laughing until I asked one more question, “So you only read things written in the past tense?”

“Jolly right I do.” he said, “We both do. Anything else is…” and he shuddered at the thought of it.

So I’ve been pondering past and present tense quite intensely these last few weeks. I can’t say I prefer one over the other. I’ve never heard of writing being judged this way before, but there’s a lot I haven’t heard of. Incidentally I still recommend Hilary Mantel’s books, Wolf Hall and Bring up the Bodies. Historical Novels written in the present tense are an engaging and lively read for some us.

Selfies Butterfly

Selfies butterfly in our hands.

Sparks of unscripted

sonnets blaze the city dark.

No one sleeps anymore.

Eyes listen

Ears see

Noses touch

Skin smells

Souls taste

Far beyond the pale depths

no one sleeps anymore.

Dreams wander lost

in concrete

vestiges of forest.

Only the brave seek the future.

Beneath Us

We all have parts

we play

Some we choose


are hung round

our necks.

Like nooses


open beneath us


something dies.


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