Tag Archives: writing

Haiku?

These come in from a cull of some old notebooks. I’m posting them here for an archive, if nothing else. Feel free to peek in this archive if you want. If, when you leave, you are still counting, I have failed.

 

I am unsure of the date for these three. Maybe March of 2017

 

Is alt-medicine

newspeak for Flint tap water?

Or do you smoke it?

 

My father enrolled

in watchmakers’ school. He lived

His perfect metaphor.

 

The rheumatism

has my left leg in its jaws,

Motherfucker!

 

 

On November 1, 2017

The old, fat man sees

his penis in a mirror.

“There you are, young Toad.”

On August 4, 2018

Refrigerator
On the fritz. Warm beer’s better
Than no beer at all.

On Ash Wednesday of 2016, I wrote:

No ashes for me.

Why the annual proof of faith?

Faith isn’t on skin.

I also wrote a note that I was glad I got to live in a country and a culture where I can write this idea. Today…eh.

 

A February 2017 offering a memory of a thing of beauty.

Thicker than bacon

Spanish cheese made of sheep milk

Medium oven.

 

It seems very odd to post the next two in May. They spoke of a much different experience than now.

At last, it is winter.

I have missed you like mania

Misses depression.

and

Today is too cold

For Valentine’s Day, my love.

My blood fails to heat.

And the marginal note said, “Deb’s 200 miles away anyway.”

On 4/19

Jawbone of an opossum

 

Three year old Nora and I walked to the pond today.
We brandished a slingshot to ploop stones.

Deer tracks littered quotation marks
over the sandy approach to the south end.

We found bleached bones in a handful of gray fur–
unlucky young opossum’s night path crossed mother Red Fox.

The jawbone, with most teeth still intact,
was declared “Dinosaur” and ordered for collection.

We also collected three interesting rock samples.
They are polishing each other in my right pocket now.

Geometry & Poetry 4-18

The sun appears to rise in the eastern sky, increasing its angle of incidence from the horizon.

My window is on the SW side of my house, above ground level. I sit with my shoulders perpendicular to the glass.

#1 At what angle will westbound and downbound rays of light correspond to the angle of inclination on the rear window of that SUV parked directly west of me so that its glint prevents me from reading?

#2 As the sun appears to rise in the clear sky and arc toward the south, at what time will the beam be so deflected as to permit me to continue my book?

#3 Can I apply this geometry to my SSW facing passive solar heat collector that, until now, has been content to sit in shade every morning?

#4 Is this poem worthy of the distraction?

Show your work.

Touchstones

America,
What are your touchstones?
What is it that allows American arrogance?
I don’t say that judgmentally.
It’s able to simply sit like a toad in a puddle.
It’s a toad. It’s in a puddle.
In this case, the toad’s the truth.
In another case, it might be the puddle.

Lately, a lot has been said about guns.
Is it guns? Is that a touchstone?
You could make a case.
Lately the case seems very gory, and hate-filled.
Guns seem to have something to do with racism
and kind of sideways religious intolerance.
And hate. It’s rolled up into a
Tangled confluence.

Is it money?
Our money or will anyone’s money do?
Or is it the system that delivers the money?
Or is it the people to whom the system delivers the money?
I get lost in the hierarchy.
Seems like a lot of hate in the world about money right now.
Or maybe it’s the system that makes Americans hate.
Or the people who the system works for.
It’s kind of tangly too.

Is it freedom? I love freedom in America.
Freedom is great. More freedom is greater.
I’m free to do anything I want in America.
I can walk down your street with guns and money.
And I can say hateful things at the top of my lungs.
That’s freedom and it takes
a thousand Hell’s Angles spending money on guns on the head of a pin
to keep us free.

God bless Hell’s Angles.
God bless freedom.

Steeping 4-24

At six he still finds it possible to lap-sprawl.
But now his shoulders hang off one side,
His knees off the other.

He throws his head and cub lion’s mane back.
I see the sure pulse in his neck.
His kick is strong when I tickle.

This will all be over in a couple of years
Or sooner.
Giggles give way to needing referees on the field.

Fathers urge their sons onward.
Grandfathers are willing to steep a few moments.
I’ve been all three.

For Four-Twenty

Two More Days

As capricious as Spring can be,
I think she has come round again.
It is Friday.
If sun & cloud & wind conspire,
Winter’s back is broken.

The evidence is here:

-Monday’s grass strains two shades of gray-green away from winter sere.

-A single tadpole madly flagellates the big pond.

-A dozen robins rape each other all day in full sunlight.

-Buzzards spill air to pick the bones of winterkill.

Review: Prisoner 489 by Joe R. Lansdale

https://smile.amazon.com/Prisoner-489-Joe-R-Lansdale/dp/1626410739/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1483467699&sr=8-2&keywords=489

I asked my family for all the Joe Lansdale titles I had not yet collected for Christmas presents this year. They came through just fine!

Joe Lansdale is a master of modern writing. He does not pigeon-hole himself into one genre or another. Thrillers, sci-fi, fantasy, detectives, short stories, novellas, longer novels, series writing. This guy is a modern master. I look up to him.

This little novella is hardly more than a very long short story. It begins on page 11 and it finishes on page 82. It contains 8 pages of illustration inside that range. I’m certain it is intended to be read in a single sitting, although I ended up breaking it into two pieces. I’m kind of happy I finished it in the daylight. This is a creepy story.

It is written in third person past tense. Only four human characters engage in all the action. (There is, of course, the “other” dark force and, although it clearly has intent and will, it does not speak.) All characters are associated with a prison and all may be prisoners on special assignment. Or they may not. It doesn’t really matter since they all have some good in them and are just trying to do their jobs. I’m about 88% sure that good prevails at the end of this story.

The action all takes place on an island. Lansdale refers to actions which take place on a neighboring island where the prison is located. The use of an island is excellent because we know no one is coming to save the day. In fact, we know that the protagonist(s) cannot escape to save themselves. Pretty smart writing.

I won’t tell you the story; that wouldn’t be fair. I will tell you that there are passages of excellent horror and moments that, if read before bed, might induce some disturbing sleep images. Here’s a favorite.

“…Slowly, it lifted its head to the cloud-touched moon, and that howl, that dreadful howl, that sound that uncoiled from inside the (bad guy), came out. It was both frightening and depressing. It was like the howl of something or someone that had just realized it was missing something important, and that the lack of it was an awareness so dark and deep there was no crawling out of it. It was a sound that made Bernard feel all the evil in the world, all the futility and disappointment of life, of his own life. It was a howl that reached down deep inside of him and touched a hidden nerve so buried, causing it to throb. Bernard felt that his life and all the lives that were being lived, had lived or would be lived were nothing more than desperation personified.”

Nice.

One other thing that Lansdale does as well as anyone, and better than almost all, is the interjection of humor into the horror. I’m not sure how that happens in the mind of a horror writer but here’s how it looks on the page in dialog. The heroes have hatched a plan to stop the evil.

“Bernard and Wilson scrambled into the dozer. Bernard said, “You ever play cowboy?”
“What?”
“Ever roped a cow?”
“Of course not. But if you would like to take the time to explain it to me, nothing would please me more, except for that whole giant, bad-ass monster shit.”

N’yuck, n’yuck.

The most distressing part of this little publication (Dark Regions Press, 2014) is that it suffers from a few instances of poor editing. I kind of hate editing errors. There is no real excuse for them, but here’s a sampling of what I found. Do these set your grammar nerves on edge?

1. How about this three sentence set?
“Bernard moved through the split in the trees, walking back the way they had came. Wilson caught up with him obviously not wishing to be left alone.
“They came to where the trees broke and stood where the dozer had come.”

2. Or the reference to how one could “wreck vengeance?”

There are others, but I’ll leave them to your discerning eye. Anyway, typos and editorial errors aren’t really the fault of the writer.

Lastly, it is, as I indicated, an illustrated version of the story, and, while the illustrations are suitably gray and gloomy, I’m not convinced that they add that much to the publication. But they don’t really distract too much either. So, there’s that.

Overall, it gets a 4 star rating on Amazon but the sole 1 star review and one of two 2 star reviews admit that the readers don’t seem to like the horror genre very much. I would assign those readers low stars for buying a book about stuff they don’t like. You like horror? You like hints of the occult? Dig this one.