Category Archives: Writing

I want to wed a word to word, to mount a phrase that I can nurture to a line, and build from that a quatrain of account, and pen it to display a thought of mine. And then I’ll set … Continue reading →

You used to tell me, halfway serious, that I should take the measure of our years, and write a book of them and love and us. Remember that? I do, but it appears that there was either nothing there at … Continue reading →

I sent a sonnet in an envelope, with reading fee, to some address back East, and with it in the mail I hosted hope for praise, encouragement, or at the least a helpful phrase or usable advice. Instead, I got … Continue reading →

If I, for fifteen minutes every day, assign myself to write a bit of prose, I think I’ll find I have some things to say, for doing leads to noting. I’ll compose a quarter hour worth of text a night, … Continue reading →

This pen’s a stick of charcoal in my hand. I sweep in strokes across a page of lined buff paper, spiral-bound and pale as sand, or shade with tiny smudges. All I find outside commuting windows or beyond my walking … Continue reading →

I didn’t notice pyracantha leaves until I tried to fit them in a line of poetry. I know the fruit achieves by fermentation autumn sparrow wine, but till I looked at leaves to make a song I never saw how … Continue reading →

Reviewing verse I wrote when I was young, the feet uneven and the tenor brass, I skimmed what didn’t scan: a toddler tongue in stammer; my conceit as green as grass. I understood what made my lover groan when I … Continue reading →

Transmitting 50 pages through the mail, I thought he’d send opinion back to me, but too much time has passed — his comments pale before they exit him. And what of she, my oldest friend? A careful letter sent to … Continue reading →