The problem, she said, with being a writer is, it's never done. The line never ceases movement even when the end arrives - The ripples created on the mind span an ocean so vast, so incomplete, There's no shore to find, no place to rest. The noise reverberates; The worst kind of one man band. … Continue reading Before the First Draft
poetry
Begin
Enough now. Enough of the stops, don'ts, doubts, blank stares at empty pages. The Death card has turned up for ego - so small yet so loud - a sparrow's cry in a canyon echoing - an illusion of bigness. Peace doesn't live in illusion. Peace is where ink finds paper, and Voice forms the white spotlight … Continue reading Begin
That Fall Day
Sometimes, it just happens this way. Fall slams on the trees, the air chills, and I remember. I remember running, my feet pounding into the soft pavement, the smell of my new leather jacket, and catching up with her and running faster, faces streamed in fearful tears. The car, the lights, others, nothing moving fast … Continue reading That Fall Day