Memoirous

In Memoriam, [Ring out, wild bells] Lord Alfred Tennyson , 1809 - 1892 Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,    The flying cloud, the frosty light:    The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.   Ring out the old, ring in the new,    Ring, happy bells, across the snow:    The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.   Ring out the grief that saps the mind    For those that here we see no more;    Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind.   Ring out a slowly dying cause,    And ancient forms of party strife;    Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws.   Ring out the want, the care, the sin,    The faithless coldness of the times;    Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes But ring the f...

Underground Railroad Colson Whitehead I didn’t know much about this book—except the title and the author. And, let me tell you, right now, read it. I’ve been telling people about this book, and the affect is reflective of the culture prevalent after this election. Bi-polar. People either love the book or don’t. You either get it or don’t. You either voted for Trump or you didn’t. The scary part is walking around in a world where you just aren’t sure. “The weirdness of being black in a white space” cartoon Atlanta artist Cory Thomas illustrates the strange new reality of everyday life after Trump’s victory. There is an underground railroad depicted in the book that is both highly representative historically but also figuratively. By following the main character Cora we are invited along the way to visit several dark (and I mean DARK) periods of African-American history in America. It doesn’t get better. If you are looking for an uplifting read, this migh...

From an earlier post: Wednesday, December 18, 2013 Let It Snow Already this winter we’ve had a couple of snows with more predicted for this weekend. Yup. A White Christmas!! I was reminded in a recent conversation about a sledding hill I always went to growing up near Kettering, Ohio. It was famously named Suicide Hill. This was a real sled eater. Approaching the climb there were barrel fires fed by broken wooden sleds sacrificed to Suicide Hill. The hill was deceptive. Trees lined the descent so that any veering brought the sledder into contact with them. As a kid I was always bailing, letting gravity take the sled into it’s gentle good night, the tight fist of death. I cannot count how many sleds my brothers, sister, and I ruined. The back of Suicide Hill was just as dangerous as the front—though perhaps not as many trees. A ride this direction was longer and not as fast, but full of moguls or bumps that sent me flying. The community golf course where th...

check out a new story out at Gival Press here's just the beginning Check out my new story posted at Gival Press here's the beginning-- Ordinary Time I. One day He was waiting by the dock. Several thoughts competed for his attention. The heavy clouds and thick shadows passing over the water. The ferry slogging through the choppy waves. The fact that spring was late and Easter was early this year. He felt impatient waiting. It was on its way, out there on the gray horizon. Arne-Dag smiled. Always the pastor, always thinking in metaphors. It was hard to escape. The hull of the ferry yawned before him as the ramp lowered and car engines started up. A stream of cars exited. Slowly the queue he was in moved forward toward the ship’s cavity. Again it felt like death or another biblical allusion: Jonah in the belly of the whale. He was trying to alight on just the right illustration for next week’s Palm Sunday sermon. Christ triumphant entering the city. He li...

tons of writing prompts, a way to flash forward Amazon Apple Baker & Taylor Blio Baker-Taylor Axis360 Barnes & Noble Diesel Flipkart Gardners Extended Retail Gardners Library Inktera (formerly Page Foundry) Kobo Library Direct Odilo OverDrive Oyster Scribd Sony Tolino txtr Yuzu

I do English. Been doing it for awhile. Readin’ writin’, you know. It’s not simply that I care (and I do), but others do too. If I submit a piece riddled with errors, it gets rejected. If I were a student handing in a paper, I would expect the content as well as the argument of the piece to be subjected to a rated grading system, evaluated on several different levels. This is life, this is language, this is just how it is. And, if you want to change it, then good luck, you’ll have Merriam Webster to answer to. I also understand with social media we can play fast and loose. I have my own style. Even the best copy editor or proof reader gets that there is room for interpretation. Some writers are prone to inserting or using a style laden with commas, while others choose to loosen up and let the sentence flow. Though I do subscribe to the Oxford comma. As far as spelling goes, there is also room for ambiguity. Is it cosy or cozy, grey or gray? It’s also easy to get hung up on...

The other day I had a flash, a memory—and it still brings a chill over me. It’s one of those nightmare memories, along the lines of standing next to your high school locker naked. I needed help moving and a friend loaned me his car—just one tiny problem: it was a stick shift. Like a normal twenty-year old, I thought this wasn’t going to be a problem. I loaded up the vehicle and told myself, All I have to do is get out of first and I’m rolling. It took me an hour just to get out of the driveway. On the roadway (I remember now it wasn’t a highway, but a very busy divided road—much like Far Hills Ave.) all I wanted to do was cruise. Not have to stop for a red light. Which might have worked had I not had to go about 8 miles. Eventually I did have to stop. I can still feel the terror come over me as I stalled out and, in my anxiety and fluster, was unable to get the car into gear. Either I would be rear-ended or towed, and none of these ideas appealed to me. I started, jerked, ...

I originally posted this Thursday, December 6, 2012 “December” by James Schuyler Il va neiger dans quelques jours FRANCIS JAMMES The giant Norway spruce from Podunk, its lower branches bound, this morning was reared into place at Rockefeller Center. I thought I saw a cold blue dusty light sough in its boughs the way other years the wind thrashing at the giant ornaments recalled other years and Christmas trees more homey. Each December! I always think I hate “the over-commercialized event” and then bells ring, or tiny light bulbs wink above the entrance to Bonwit Teller or Katherine going on five wants to look at all the empty sample gift-wrapped boxes up Fifth Avenue in swank shops and how can I help falling in love? A calm secret exultation of the spirit that tastes like Sealtest eggnog, made from milk solids, Vanillin, artificial rum flavoring; a milky impulse to kiss and be friends It’s like what George and I were talking about, the East West Coast divid...

In Wiry Winter - James Schuyler (1970) The shadow of a bird upon the yard upon a house: it's gone. Through a pane a beam like a warm hand laid upon an arm. A thin shell, trans- parent, blue: the atmosphere in which to swim. Burr. A cold plunge. The bird is back. All the same, to swim, plunging upward, arms as wings, into calm cold. Warm within the act, treading air, a shadow on the yard. Or floating, gliding. a shadow on the roofs and drives, in action warm, the shadow cold but brief. To swim in air. No. Not in this wiry winter air. A beam comes in the glass, a hand to warm an arm. A hand upon the glass finds it a kind of ice. The shadow of a bird less cold. From   Collected Poems, Farrar, Straus & Giroux

Check out 365 Affirmations for the Writer , an eBook that will inspire you and keep you writing. *The link takes you to Amazon, but also available through Apple Baker & Taylor Blio Baker-Taylor Axis360 Barnes & Noble Diesel Flipkart Gardners Extended Retail Gardners Library Inktera (formerly Page Foundry) Kobo Library Direct Odilo OverDrive Oyster Scribd Sony Tolino txtr Yuzu

Geist Literal Literary Postcard Story Contest 2 A project of Geist About Make your own postcard using photos, drawings or images in the public domain, write a story inspired by that postcard, then send us the image and the story. The relationship between image and story can be as subtle as you like, as long as the contest judges can see the connection. Geist Literal Literary Postcard Story Contest The Fourth River ’ s new weekly online publication, “Tributaries,” showcases the brief and the inspiring, that which sustains us and takes us through unexpected courses. Each week we will feature one piece on the home page of the web site. Clickto submit to Tributaries *Please submit nature/place-based work in the form of: -no more than (500) words of prose -one poem -one piece of visual artwork Spelk= Short, sharp flash fiction https://spelkfiction.com ·   We publish flash fiction — 500 words, give or take. ·   We’ll consider just about any genre: we’re not...

The only time I’ve ever been arrested . . . . sounds like a good writing prompt. Go! The only time I’ve ever been arrested was about 40 years ago on an overpass in Nebraska. I’d flown out from Dayton, Ohio to visit my sister working at a summer camp in Platte. It was the end of the season yet before time to go back to college. At that time in Ohio classes didn’t start until the second half of September. I remember the silty-bottom rivers and sand cranes, the sound of them calling to each other over the rolling hills. Outside of that and getting arrested there isn’t much else I remember about Nebraska. That summer a friend had introduced me to the thrill of sitting on an overpass above the highway and the rush when a semi passed beneath, the sudden whoosh as it flew out. I’d sit with my feet dangling, feeling the aero dynamics through my thin-soled sneakers. Movies and bowling cost money, but this was free. So on my last night in Nebraska I talked one of my sist...

A few posts ago I announced that I have been awarded a residency on Great Spruce Head Island, once the vacation home of Fairfield Porter who hosted numerous characters from the New York School of painters and poets, namely James Schuyler who had a room reserved at both the Maine and Southampton home of the Porters. Fairfield Porter was an artist that only seemed to grow in importance after his death—like so many artists and writers. While alive the kind of art he pursued had no purchase, no level footing amongst Abstract Expressionism. Jackson Pollack was an acquaintance and neighbor of Fairfield Porter on Long Island (as was Willem de Kooning)—yet the two were worlds apart. Firstly, he was viewed as a hobbyist. This was mostly due to the fact that he owned an island. He came from a wealthy family and in truth didn’t have to work or earn money. Yet he lived relatively modestly. Among the Bohemian crowd he circulated with, he was a bit of a dad, okay, a bisexual experiment...

Check out 365 Affirmations for the Writer , an eBook that will inspire you and keep you writing. *The link takes you to Amazon, but also available through Apple Baker & Taylor Blio Baker-Taylor Axis360 Barnes & Noble Diesel Flipkart Gardners Extended Retail Gardners Library Inktera (formerly Page Foundry) Kobo Library Direct Odilo OverDrive Oyster Scribd Sony Tolino txtr Yuzu