where the writers are


January 8






Turning into a spin, the edge cuts into my misconceptions, the point sharp and accurate to a fault digs into the excess I carry around, keeping me from my useful purpose.  A good eye and steady hand are needed lest breakthrough ruin me.  Not that all is ever lost for a spoon with a hole in the bowl will stir a soup smooth.  Relinquishing my burdens and trusting the carvers tools and methods takes great commitment.  I am carved commitment or no, but things turn out better when I don’t flinch.


If you can’t make hay then mow the lawn





There is a place so removed, uninspired, ignorance flourishes
I hate to go there.
I avoid it when I can
Today I could not avoid it.
Today I saw the gable end of a small barn
Half hidden in the scrub trees.
On the face of the gable end are two plywood cutouts
They are large, taking up the major portion of the space.
The first is a budgie, a bright blue parakeet, 7 or 8 feet tall.
It is tilted to it's side, it looks dyslexic but intriguing
Above it is a cutout of a black guitar, similar in length.
Hanging long ways across the top, almost from eve to eve.
I don't know what it means.
Why they are there.
Who could have put them there.
A story is there,
Just sticking it's tongue out at me.
I can hardly bear it.
I think of God and laugh.
If my God has nothing better to do then tease me,
I need a better God.
I think of my Higher Power and wonder if the power is curious too.
Am I overlapping a layer of consciousness I have no part in?
Is this subliminal previews of my future?
Am I too nosey for my own good?
I just don't know
It could be something all together different
I have only time.
Time will tell in the end it always does.
I hate to wait