Lies

Like broken records,

My lies keep on repeating:

I will write more now,

I will post more often too.

But, no, I don’t and I won’t.

Raise a glass

I haven’t written much in a while. Life has been strange for a few months… A year of months. I’m a few letters behind for the boys. Those will be coming soon as I have finally written them. And I’ve started writing with Revis again, who is kindly not holding me to the editing I’m supposed to be doing so we can publish the next book in our Seven Sceptres series. Writing comes easier than editing. Hopefully, though, getting back into the swing of things here, with words like these, will kick me into gear on the work I’m supposed to be doing. Hopefully. We’ll see. In the meantime, if it is your sort of thing, grab a glass and join me for a drink.

…..

Here’s to the words I never dared to share for fear of the consequences I would have to pay.

Here’s to the words I was brave enough to say, consequence be damned, come what may.

Here’s to the guilt I carry for all the choices I truly wish I hadn’t made.

Here’s to the guilt I set aside, an even trade, for the adventures I claimed.

Here’s to the confidence of my youth, invincible, immortal, and a force to reckon with.

Here’s to the confidence I miss, lost somewhere along the path of my life, my mind split.

Here’s to the days ahead.  Here’s to the past.  And here’s to you.

Here’s to the days ahead, through and through, good or bad, they’ll stand true.

The glass is nearly empty now but don’t worry, don’t fret.

Here’s to this crazy ride we call life and always trying our best.

The bottle, and I’ve no qualms about pouring it all, is still mostly full.

Here’s to the two sides to every coin, and the edge too, because it is all part of the whole.

So, I’ll pause for a moment to refill my cup, and I won’t spill a drop.

Then I’ll raise the glass once more before I stop,

“Here’s to the words, wherever they may lead.

Here’s to the words I need and the words I bleed.

Here’s to the words I keep to myself, tucked away.

Here’s to the words I give away, day after day.” 

live

Two lakes, side by side
Called twins, but not to the naked eye
Nestled beneath towering Sierra cliffs
Peaceful, serene, and ready for a dip
They are part of what calls to me
“Come, adventure, live, see.”

Two lakes, side by side
Called twins, but not to the naked eye
They greet me when I arrive
I can hear them when I try
Close your eyes and listen for their whisper
“Come, live, see, adventure.”

Two lakes, side by side
Called twins, but not to the naked eye
Like guardians to the high mountains beyond
They’ll let you pass if you can hear their song
Always, always, I hear their tantalizing hum
“Adventure, live, see, come.”

Two lakes, side by side
Called twins, but not to the naked eye
Their call does not come without a cost
But do not fret, lay your worries on their cross
The mountains can take as well as they give
“Come, adventure, see, live.”

writer daydream haiku

Words flow like water
From thought to ink on the page
Every writers dream

shameless friend promotion 4

Bill, Bill, Bill…  Where is Bill?  Wait!  Not that Bill.  Bill Friday, of course.  The poet!  Though, it wouldn’t surprise me all that much if he knew Kung Fu too.  Anywho, this is another shameless friend promotion.  Have you read any of Bill’s poems before? You should.  I believe I’ve shared them before.  He has a knack for capturing a moment and then twisting on its head to make you think or to hit you in the feels or both.  Get his books.  Read them.  Expand your mind and your world.

A Death on Skunk Street is the first stand-alone book by Los Angeles poet William S. Friday. Subtitled, “…a life in poems”, the book is both a remembrance, and a look forward, at what Bernard Malamud (“The Natural”) called, “The life we learn with… and the life we live after that”. Skunk Street is a work of visions, written by a blue-collar college drop-out with the eloquence of an angry Psalmist. Parts neon and noir, full moon and sunsets, and the words that come from feelings too often unexpressed. From loneliness in a sea of humanity to, comfort in the company of self. There’s blood, and brains, printed on every page. In the author’s own words… “Somewhere along the way, after all the years and all the experiences, you realize that the only thing you have to show for them is your recollection of them. And then, you write. So I guess I’d have to say that I’m the guy who writes what he remembers.”

Buy your copy here.