Children of the Ward

I watch the children playing, 
See them dancing in the yard. 
Preserve the words they`re saying, 
Like a fancy Christmas card. 
The moments that betray them 
Are the moments caught off guard; 
Yet the dragons cannot slay them, 
Not these children of the ward. 
I hear their mothers calling 
As they empty out the yard, 
Echoing their footsteps, 
Like bells tolling in my heart. 
I gaze upon the portrait 
Of my brother who`s been gone: 
Time itself cannot prorate 
The memory and the song. 

To see you I would kiss you; 
And give hugs until you groan. 
Mama`s off to find you, 
I must go it all alone - 
I`ve been across some borders, 
To describe my private hell; 
In deep and shallow waters, 
Like a bucket in a well. 
Each story has an anchor; 
Yes I dragged mine through the bay; 
I was lucky just to find her, 
Fortunate she went my way. 

The sun is like a prism: 
See it straining through the glass. 
My mind`s not like a prison; 
I`m no prisoner to the past. 
There`s a beauty in the foment, 
And a rage to top the crest; 
Got to have myself a moment, 
So I`m ready for the rest.

* In the same cadence as Bob Dylan's Every Grain of Sand.

Facing 2017

As I prepare myself for the new year, I think back to many things. Today I have been recalling a woman I first met about 1991. She called off of my ad for handyman work. We had just recovered from a hard freeze, an uncommon circumstance for southeast Texas. Her high sitting mobile home had been outfitted with unprotected PVC plumbing. There was not even skirting around it. The pipes had leaks. She asked me to repair them. I had not worked extensively with whole house PVC plumbing. I had no reason to think the entire exposed pipe system needed replacing, because, when I turned on the water pressure, there were just three visible leaks. I undertook to repair those leaks. That done, I found a few more leaks when I turned on the water. And again. I chased leaks all day. My bill to her was, in my estimation, not that high. But, as she told me, with great indignation, "I paid less than that to put it in new." She had to pay me by monthly installments, which I readily agreed to. The last payment was short ten dollars and I wrote that off. 

About fifteen years later, while working my job as maintenance at some apartments, I realized one day that the person living in a certain apartment was this same woman. She never showed a sign that she recognized me and I gave no clue. My memory was jogged, because she had a son living with her. He was an objectionable sort of guy, who took issue with every word out of my mouth. After repeated encounters with him, it dawned on me that he was the one that did me the same way in 1991.

She was a good woman, one who made crafts and sold them. She once gave me a wooden car her late husband had made. Our one issue with her was the incessant smoking, which carried into neighboring apartments. We had some hairy incidents over this. Eventually, she died. Her son immediately moved out, without taking anything of hers. He also refused to release the apartment, so we could empty it and rent it again. Eventually, we gained access. As we gathered all of her stuff, I could not help noting she owned several books on writing. She had worked the dream of becoming a published writer. Many objects about the rooms gave clues that proved her to be a complex person I wish I had gotten to know better in life. 

Her dreams all ended as we sent off the best furnishings to the Teams outlet in Tomball and the rest went in a dumpster. This tribute may be all that will remain to remind the world she was a fine woman.

At Christmas

Every year I have tried to write something for Christmas. Mostly, I have been unsuccessful. The words to describe the season and the human emotions involved have been cliched to death. I am caught up in them and waylaid by them and rarely produce a read-worthy effort. But i do wish one and all the happiest of seasons. Merry Christmas. Happy New Year.

 Now go to the link and read from Dickens. 
http://www.literature.org/authors/dickens-charles/christmas-carol/chapter-01.html

The pterodactyl

The pterodactyl
Can be rather docile;
A quiet contemplater is he.
Wise pterodactyl;
He lives on his rock pile,
Shunning bustle and community;
Polishing his claws,
Humming without pause,
Often slipping into dormancy.

The pterodactyl
Is wholly without guile;
A solitary wisher is he.
Round pterodactyl,
Fat his chosen life style;
A monumental fisher is he.
Indifferently
Allows men to breathe ;

They taste most un-fishlike, you see.

Self Publishing

In past times, I tried my hand at self publishing. It was a self indulgent exercise, as such enterprises often are. I threw in every word I ever wrote, almost, with the exception of  a work I called Ollie Filbert, a novel for kids. The result was a ragged collection of stories and poems, in three unrelated volumes. I am proud of some of those tales and verses. The entire enterprise failed, which could have been predicted. Aside from the burying the best work under the weakest, I have no facility for self promotion and no money to hire publicists.

I am currently trying to wrap up a novel. At the same time, I have been peddling a short novel, titled, Beyond the Dark Water. BTDW, I am proud to say, has been picked up for publication. It is fiction based in autobiography and will be available in 2017. I have no illusions concerning money, but am very proud that somebody saw merit in this work, enough to promote it and put it in some bookstores.

I am still wrestling with the details, but I couldn't wait to share the news.

Quotes (1) - Literary

“
Loneliness is the human condition. Cultivate it. The way it tunnels into you allows your soul room to grow. Never expect to outgrow loneliness. Never hope to find people who will understand you, someone to fill that space. An intelligent, sensitive person is the exception, the very great exception. If you expect to find people who will understand you, you will grow murderous with disappointment. The best you’ll ever do is to understand yourself, know what it is that you want, and not let the cattle stand in your way.” – Janet Fitch, White Oleander

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.” – Jack Kerouac, On The Road

“Writers don’t make any money at all. We make about a dollar. It is terrible. But then again we don’t work either. We sit around in our underwear until noon then go downstairs and make coffee, fry some eggs, read the paper, read part of a book, smell the book, wonder if perhaps we ourselves should work on our book, smell the book again, throw the book across the room because we are quite jealous that any other person wrote a book, feel terribly guilty about throwing the schmuck’s book across the room because we secretly wonder if God in heaven noticed our evil jealousy, or worse, our laziness. We then lie across the couch facedown and mumble to God to forgive us because we are secretly afraid He is going to dry up all our words because we envied another man’s stupid words. And for this, as I said, we are paid a dollar. We are worth so much more.” – Blue Like Jazz, Donald Miller

Beyond the Dark Water

As early as 1961, I contemplated writing an autobiographical novel, prompted by my interest in Jack Kerouac, Henry Miller and even Philip Wylie. My older brother offered to disown me if I even tried.Despite all negativity, I made a few halfhearted efforts, beginning in the mid 1960s and other times, variously, for thirty years. These attempts at literature were unfocused, and pathetic, even. Finally, about twenty years ago, I began to write up a few autobiographical pages, then whole chapters, which were saved in files. But, creating a cohesive narrative was an accomplishment which eluded me.Finally, I reached a point at which this work had endlessly stalled out any creative writing beyond this one silly volume. I might not get it completed. So, what? Shelve it and move on to other projects, or continue the struggle, despite my advancing old age?

Before I could decide, I hit on the notion to create a fictional side story that would carry the originally intended story. I made the narrative advance by having my older brother, Rusty, who had been murdered, in 1969, come walking into my yard, on a sunny day. A day in which I, a seventy plus year old man, labored at a mundane task, comfortable in my retirement. He threw a monkey wrench into my contentment, reviving our rivalry and accusing me of a terrible crime within the family.

From the beginning, it was clear that my abusive stepfather bore the blame as the primary cause of my life failures. I totally blamed him for my lack of social graces, for my silence before non family members, for my fear of promoting myself, even to secure a job. And Rusty I blamed for being an accomplice. Yet, Rusty had me on the defensive.

Another complication to finishing my book resided in my complex relations with my other siblings. After Sadie, our Mom, died, we lost all cohesion as a family unit. Some have grudges against me and some actually hate my guts. So I had another decision to make.

I am a man of peace. A pushover, in fact. To avoid further conflicts with the relatives that despise me, I deleted from the book as many references to living persons as possible. Considerably shortening the word count. I was left with a relatively short novel, but I took a chance peddling it and secured a contract with Black Rose Writing. Beyond the Dark Water is scheduled for print in April.