Poetry Floats New and selected Philosophy-liteby Jim Wilson
August 24, 2009.
Poetry Floats
I am practicing write and release.
Lifting lines on the rising heat
of winter's curling chimney smoke.
Laying words out an upstairs window
On a springtime zephyr.
Lofting themes tacked as summer kite tails
flying to high cotton cloud pillows while
the slick string slips through my fingers.
Linking fall writings to milkweed seeds,
Lint puffs, and down feathers.
I will float them to you all,
whomever, whenever, wherever,
and you open them in your time
to read and recite
till their season is done.
Never knowing me.
Never knowing that I am watching you
from the crack in the closet door universal.
Feeling pleased and planning to float
verse after verse to you – as our seasons change.
Buy your copy of Poetry Floats for $12.95.
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Not So GRIMM
gentle fables and cautionary tales
by Becky Haigler
November 20, 2009
Mr. Merrill's Extraordinary Driving Cap
(an excerpt)
Merrill found the cap in the store at closing time. The butter-soft, fine leather driving cap immediately reminded him of the British racing green MG classic he had seen parked a few times across the street. In fact, the leather looked a match for the upholstery of the MG. The cap rested between The Atlantic and Audubon in the periodical section of Merrill's Used and 1/2 Price Books and Magazines. It had been placed as carefully as if it, too, were merchandise displayed for sale.
Reviewing the customers of the day, Merrill recalled only a few regulars and semi-regulars. Some of the men wore hats: the teen-ager in a backward baseball cap, the postman, the artist who affected a beret, and the retired professor with a Tyrolean topper. The cap did not seem a match for any of them, but Merrill had not noticed the green MG in the neighborhood for a month or more.
Merrill turned the cap over in his hands, looking for markings. There was not even a manufacturer's label or size tag. He enjoyed the smell and feel of the leather and could not resist placing the cap on his head. He thought of Walter Mitty and pictured himself in tweed golf knickers. With another adjustment of the bill, he imagined himself stepping into the British sports car. The fantasy passed, but Merrill wore the cap as he worked, planning to place it on a shelf behind the counter. Doubtless the owner would come looking for it.
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Three Thousand Doors
by Karen Elaine Greene
August, 2010
Introduction
Introduction
Why do I write?
Because I HAVE to.
I yearn for the feeling of the river running through my veins.
I crave the rush of power necessary
to push words through my pen and onto the page,
send them thundering over the rapids of my life —
the chaos culminating in a surging torrent
tumbling violently over the edge,
down, down,
crashing,
rumbling,
roiling,
into the frothing maelstrom.
I float up
gasp for air
plunge again to the bottom; push off the rocks
thrust my way back to the top
break the surface like a mermaid
and gently collapse onto the calm glass-top face,
gliding quietly through the clear,
breathing deeply of the space surrounding me.
I write because if I do not
I feel I am no more than a leaf
trapped in the brush at the waters’ edge.
Aimless, worthless;
stagnant and decaying waste.
I write to remind myself
that I have at least a toe-hold on sanity.
I write because my life is extraordinary
And I cannot sit idly by.
Buy your copy of Three Thousand Doors for $13.00.
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