Thursday, December 24, 2009

Word Definitions, Examples, Pronunciations and Etymology on Wordnik

Word Definitions, Examples, Pronunciations and Etymology on WordnikMentioned in the latest issue (Jan-Feb., 2010) of Poets and Writers.


[“People who do not know what to do with their time
and they will ache to infect you with this from a distance..”
-Charles Bukowski, The Telephone.]

When I hear the ring
I break a cold sweat.
My stomach tumbles around.
There is always someone out there
That wants to steal time
or piss their neuroses on you.

“Hello. Yes. What’s up?”
And they tell me,
and tell me again
to be sure I heard
and react in a way
expected of me.

They would like to come over.
They would like to meet for coffee.
They want a face to face.

I have to pretend I’m interested if
they tell me about their flu symptoms
or spongy prostate.

The phone is for emergencies and making appointments.

I use it twice a year to make a dental appointment.
I use it once a month to call my money man.
I use it once a month to check a bank balance.
I may call an old friend on Thanksgiving.

The phone is for emergencies.
I my carry it in the car if I go out of town.

The phone is for emergencies.
If I feel like my heart is exploding,
I can call the medics.

People ache for me to call. I have to say no.
I learned how to say no from my old boss.
He told me one day, I have to learn how to say no.
He asked “do you want to know how?”
He looked me square in the eye, and shook his head.
“No. No.”
It was easy. It was simple.

Early Release

It was December of 2050. Nick had just returned to work from the lab. This time he asked for the music nanoseed.

Planted in his brain with a couple of whiffs of a solution containing nanobots, Nick now had ten million compositions available to his senses via the self-assembled device, smaller than a grain of sand, now building itself, autonomously, in his brain. He had saved for three months, and had accumulated enough credits to buy the service.

He could close his eyes, concentrate on a genre of music, and it would “play” in his head. He could stop, pause, continue, repeat.raise and lower the volume – just by concentrating a little harder than usual.

The year before, he got the video chip, and all the films and news he wanted was available to him, any time, anywhere. People had always kidded about getting a TV chip planted in the brain, but it had come to reality about fifteen years ago.

He actually preferred the music device. He always loved music, and when he was in his first year of college, at eleven, he played a little saxophone and a couple other retro, wind and reed instruments.

Today, at work, while decompiling some algorithms for the department, he chose to listen to some old music that they played during Christmas time in the United States. He had heard of the Chipmunk song – a novelty song people played during this time of year. It began playing immediately. He didn’t have to concentrate very hard at all. It played, then started again. He hadn’t thought of it repeating at all, and it played a third and forth time.

It was a little disconcerting, since decompiling complex programs written in superTech code demanding concentration, even for a fellow of Nick’s abilities. It played seven or eight more times, and it seemed to be getting a little faster and a little louder. He struck the side of his temple a few times with the hard palm of his hand. Nothing. He didn’t think it would work, but he tried again. Nothing.

After a couple of hours of the din in his head, he used his mobile to make a priority video call to the lab. They were not answering. He called the company that made the nanobots. They were not answering. There was no voice message, nor were the calls forwarded to a central service.

He concentrated on silence, then tried a simple piano piece. One of Chopin’s Nocturnes. Nothing. Still the incessant, high-pitched voice of Alvin the Chipmunk. This went on for twenty more days. They tried everything, but to operate at this time would paralyze or render him organically or virtually deaf, if it worked.

Nick put in a request for “early release”, as it was called. He took the black pill, and the music stopped.

T. Pitre
Xmas eve, 2009

Get the song that drove Nick insane, here:

Stories In Flight | FlickrPoet

Stories In Flight | FlickrPoet Search for pictures for your poems.

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

Monday, December 14, 2009

The Dog Exercising Machine

Age and bad knees dictate
That I am inside the cab of the truck
with a long, green leash
as Katie runs close by
every morning,
in rain, snow and sunshine.

For seven years
she has run in earnest,
her tongue along her cheek,
ears scanning, sweeping
and swivel left and right
listening for something ahead
or behind
as she gallops, trots,
saunters or paces
at my side.

Her strong back legs -
the rounded, hard, muscle under
the shiny, black coat
push her along.
Now, ears are back over her head -
the leathery tips almost touching
as her back legs –
like a rabbit or race horse
work in time
driving her faster.

Sometimes in the dark,
sometimes, just as the sun is coming up,
but always in the morning,
when the smells
of the deer and elk
are still fresh in the grass
and the berry bushes
conceal a quail
along the fence.

I love to see her run. I love to hear her run.
I can hear the jangle jangle of her tags on her collar --
her ears flap against her head.
her breathing
a snort or puff
as her strong, wide paws hit their mark
ker-plop, ker-plop.
Nails dig into the ground
little tufts of grass and dirt, flying.

When the snow is here
her feet beat their rhythm
in the icy stuff.
Crunch, crunch, crunch,
the first marks in the snow
-- the marks, in line with the truck's tracks,
still there
the next morning
on her run.

I wonder
how all those legs and feet work
in synchronization
as she concentrates on her task
or has her eye
on something ahead
that she has got to get to

Friday, December 11, 2009

Breakfast at The Café

I live in a little town where the
average age is pushing
or pushed past sixty.

This morning, at my yearly, self-imposed,
over a big steak
"no blood, please",
I read the papers and overheard:
“I can't breathe through my nose !”
Their conversation segued
to a friend that had
his jaw bone scraped
because his screw-in tooth
didn't take
after the implant.

The four,
bent over their eggs and noodles,
pondered how much
air should they put in the Posturepedic
for a good night's sleep,
then they realized they
had ordered
stir fry
for breakfast
and this was disconcerting

The littlest, frailest lady
Said she missed a question on the
driver's test because she didn't notice
the picutre of the tiny hand sticking out the window
indicating a right turn.
This woman drives
a three ton SUV through town, with a
pet Llapso tucked under her chin
as she maneuvers through mid-day traffic
with a double latte in her good hand.

Yesterday, I ate my soup
as some geezer described his eye surgery and the
story about a friend that
had his eye removed
while they scraped
cancer out of the void.

I wished for the days that
people kept their intimacies
to themselves, or excused themselves
if they belched or made wind
fiercely enough to make
the silverware on my table rattle.

I scraped more lean
meat from the bone
and finished my meal.

Six Orange Cats

I was sitting under the bridge that ran over the creek.
A bag flew over my head
and splashed in the water.

I heard squeaks from the burlap bag.
I ran into the water,pulled it out,
and took it to the bank to open it.
Out spilled a bunch of wet little creatures,
helpless and tiny and clinging to each other.

I read in the paper later that week
that a man was killed when a burlap bag blew up from his rusty floorboards and tangled in his feet when he tried to brake for a curve on 101.
His old pickup went straight through the rail into the ice cold lake.

Six orange kittens sit on the sill of the front window,
licking their paws after their meal.
They seemed to know about the story in the paper.

Thursday, December 10, 2009

After the Days of Whiteness

After the soft, white blanket
lifted from
the ground
in my little town,
green bolder,
birds happier -

Little, blue-headed birds,
big, sharp-beaked birds
flecked bodies
like banty chickens.

Fat starlings
eating yellow apples.
Pecking the soft insides
clicking -
as they
do their work.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Sharkbite Bob

Sharkbite Bob told the pretty girls
in southern California
he lost his leg to a shark
off the port side of his sailboat
while swimming with otters.

Part Comanche,
a fearless man
shy of 66 inches
in his tan Timberlands.
Sharkbite lost his leg
to thrombosis.
He was a long-distance truck driver.

Early one Sunday last year,
he lost his life to exiles
of the Soda Butte wolf pack
in Yellowstone.

His bones gnawed by bears,
they found his camera
and some aluminum pipe
– his left leg.

The last picture
recovered from his camera
was the hungry pack surrounding him
as he stood on a log in the park.

Crowded together
jowl to jowl
muzzles wrinkled,
canines dripping with saliva
eyes aglow
in the red light of
the morning hunt.

Monday, December 7, 2009


I sing and the woods sing.
Flower-cups, a slumbering alder,
each soft corner of the grass.
On the horizon, on the calm green water
in rows - as the poet may direct
morning shadows
and blue herons.

I dipped the pencil,
masquerading as a plume,
into the cool ink
while my muse, the Greek Goddess
lies in wait.

I gauge distance from that time
of sour thoughts
and tremble to feel
fragments scatter and cut like glass.

a brilliant blue flash.
I struggle with these uninvited guests -
snarling monsters
fangs behind the fog.
Black devils and wolves!

Now words bathe my paper
where the stars might sleep,
lines emerge from a jaded belly
some swirl and bounce
others clutch and clench.
I hold fast the leash
of musty dogs.
Snares are laid,
traps baited.
Words lusty.
Some seduce,
some the demon hides

Yes! This tune has promise.
I hum above the fray.
Wounds hidden.
Scars painted gaudy colors.
Devils dispelled.

How many times must
I travel this road
or is it best to wander?

Friday, December 4, 2009

Dirty Dancing


I was the first to dance the waltz in our family.
I recently had fallen in love.
How else was I to dance with the voluptuous
of our limbs
and the close compressure
on the body
of my beloved?

To waltz with your eyes closed in a crowded ballroom ,
you must be in a trance only love can induce.
The colorful and flowing ball gowns!
I in my tails,
a bit tipsy from the champagne poured freely.
Beautiful music!
Strong melodies.
Shostakovich, Litz, and Stauss.

Step-step-close. Step-step-close. Step-step-close.

The following day, The London Times wrote:
"We remarked with pain that the indecent foreign dance called the Waltz
was introduced - we believe for the first time.
We had believed that last obscene display was confined to prostitutes and adulteresses.
We feel it a duty to warn every parent against exposing his daughter to so fatal a contagion."

Step-step-close. Step-step-close. Step-step-close.


Elvis died thirty years ago, yesterday.
In Tennessee, my lady friend from New Jersey succumbed to the Memphis heat
and died in a old canvas Army tent while camping near the Heartbreak Hotel.

She was found surrounded with stuffed animals and her portable phonograph plugged into the Bronco so she could play the 45’s she brought along in plastic milk crates. Hound Dog was still spinning on the tiny turntable when they found her.

I had visited with her for a while in her tent, played some tunes for her, fooled around a bit, but left to cool down in a downtown theater in Memphis. While I watched a bad mid-day matinée, I recalled the summer of '58, when I bleached my hair, put on my starched, black and white striped shirt, and posed for a photo with dad, by the side of the pool.

Elvis and I had some things in common.
We both liked peanut butter and bananas
and shooting pistols indoors.

We both liked the same type of
lean and long-haired ladies,
and we both played the guitar
just good enough – just cool enough
to get by
with the same type of ladies.

Thursday, December 3, 2009


Noah's wife got him up early.
He was instructed to make a big boat.
He forgot the number of cubits.
He had misplaced half his tools.

His wife asked him
who was going to pay for the lumber
and who was going to sweep up
all the shit
if they floated around for a year
with a boat full of animals.

God called on Naamah, Noah's wife,
to save the plants.
She collected -
putting everything in the cabin.

Noah's sons and daughter in laws
didn't lift a finger on board.
Noah was sorry he volunteered.

It took Noah
120 years to finish.
His wife nagged him
the whole time.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Writing poems doesn't mean he's gay

Posted 10 hours ago

Dear Robin: I've been seeing a guy for almost a year. He is really sweet and treats me well, but I have a question. He likes to write poetry and songs for me. It makes me kind of embarrassed, and my friends think it is a joke and make fun of him. Could he secretly be gay?


Dear Conflict: Just because a guy enjoys poetry and songwriting does not make him gay. Why would it embarrass you? I think it is very sweet that he cares about and trusts you enough to show that side of himself. Tell your friends to knock it off, they are probably just jealous. Do you know how many famous musicians have sat and serenaded their ladies? I can assure you, the ladies probably weren't thinking "I wonder if he's gay?" The fact that there is this assumption when a guy shows a different side of himself could be one of the reasons it doesn't happen very often. Unless there are many, MANY other things involved that would make you think this way, change your mind-set and appreciate it, rather than questioning it

Galileo's Middle Finger

[A found poem.]

Removed by some enthusiastic admirers,
three fingers a vertebra and a tooth
taken from his body in 1737.

The middle finger, from his right hand,
was kept by an Italian marquis
passed on from generation to generation
in the same family.

The relics were inside an 18th century blown-glass vase,
in turn, inside a wooden case
topped with a wooden bust of Galileo.

Had Galileo not said that the Earth revolved around the sun,
he would have gone to his tomb with all his fingers and teeth.

How to Critique Poetry

Critiquing is not about analyzing poetry, it is about helping to better a poet. However, it is important to understand the elements of poetry. So before you begin, make sure you know all the tidbits and insights on poetry. Once you have established knowledge of poetry, be sure to follow some simple rules in each of your critiques:

1. Start every critique with what you like about the poem or writing and end with reiterating the same points.
2. Balance your critiques and suggestions with positive observations.
3. Be sensitive to the writer. The point of a critique is to help improve the poet, not insult their ideas and creativity.
4. Include a disclaimer that says you recognize the poet has the right to throw your critique into the nearest dumpster. "Take these for what it's worth." is a very common way to say "This is what I have to say, but you don't have to listen."
5. Label the critiques by line number if they are line-specific. Before writing the critique:
* Read the poem several times, including once or twice out-loud.
* Find out what the poet's purpose is.
* Decide which poetic form is used. Keep it in mind when critiquing. What to critique on:
* Clichés.
* Redundancy, is anything repeated one too many times? * Weak emotional venting.
* Rhetorical questions to the reader.
* Little variation between syllables or meters.
* Simple vowel rhymes.
* Originality. Be very careful with this one. Just because it's the same topic and same form doesn't mean the writing is unoriginal.
* Bad selection of words.
* Emotion, does the writing give an aesthetic experience?

[Source: Last accessed, 19 November, 2009.]

Here's a link to another article about critiques by Chanti:

One more tip:

Wisdom and insight of a Port Angeles poet, Raymond Carver.

"What can be said for a poet who lets the poems go unattended and uncared for, abandoned, or worse, un-attempted. This person doesn't deserve poems, and they shouldn't be given to him in any form. His poems, should he ever produce any more, ought to be eaten by mice."
(Paraphrased Raymond Carver, from A New Path To the Waterfall.)

Pardon me for paraphrasing. I changed some words, but not the meaning or gist of his quote.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Flash fiction, 19 Nov. - Big, Gooney Hands

Big Gooney Hands

Bill had big hands. Bill worked at the Cargill meat processing plant in Iowa. He worked the pork line. It took him a long time to get used to the pork line. He told his wife that the insides of pigs looked a lot like the insides of people. It upset him, but he got used to it after a few months.

His wife, Mimi, was a tiny thing. They sat right next to each other in his big blue, Oldsmobile. She would cuddle up next to him, her head just visible over the seat - Bill's head in contact with the roof of the Olds. They would go to the diner on Thursday nights for a steak and curly fries at Myrna's Cafe. Sometimes Bill would have two pork chops on a stick – a house specialty.

Bill's big hands were always moving at work, cutting the pork bellies open or lopping off the ears on the line. He kept his two knives razor sharp with a steel. For seven hours a day, Bill stripped meat from bone or filled blue, plastic crates with pig ears headed for Chinese markets and pet food companies.

After dinner, Bill and Mimi would go home to watch TV and play with their dog, Buster. Bill's fingers would almost touch the floor when he sat on the couch. Buster would lick the big, puffy fingers, still smelling of pork and fat.

Sometimes Mimi would bring Bill a tub of warm, sudsy water with some Epsom salts so he could soak his aching hands. They ached from handling the heavy knives and the chilled meat for so many hours, day after day.

If it were Friday, Bill would go to the little corner of the bedroom where he had his workbench. He'd put on his magnifying visor and take the little box off the shelf. Inside, the tiny figures of Bill, Mimi, Buster, and some of their friends and family. All carved from cow horn he would collect in the beef department of the company during his lunch hour. The largest of the figures, Bill, was only a half inch high. Bill's big, gooney hands were visible on the carving if you looked real close, with the visor.

Mimi was amazed at how realistic the figures were, and how they had so much detail – right down to the little mole she had on her chin, and the rabies tag that Buster had hanging from his collar. Bill made his own tools out of discarded and broken dental tools that Dr. Lange saved for him. Bill was meticulous. He kept his workbench as tidy and clean as Dr. Lange's. It was his way of having some order, control and neatness, unlike his job on the line.

No one else in the family ever saw Bill's carvings. Over the years, his collection had grown to forty figures, including Buster and the feral cat that lived under the porch. Everything fit into a box the size of a cigarette pack, lined with cotton wool, and kept on the shelf near his table.

Bill would work for a couple of hours every night before taking his bath and climbing into the bright yellow, wrought-iron bed with Mimi. She would massage his hands and sometimes rub them with olive oil that she warmed on the wood stove.

If they made love that night, Bill would talk a while, then turn on his side and tell Mimi about what he carved that night. Tonight, sleepy from his big meal and lovemaking, he told Mimi that he was having a little trouble with one of the carvings. It was the figure of Mrs. Lovette's daughter, Emma, that lived across the road. Bill had put a little too much pressure on his carving tool this time, and had broken one of the tiny arms. He was upset, but would try to mend it the next evening.

In the morning, as Bill was climbing into the cab of his pickup, he saw Emma walking to the school bus. She had a big bandage on her hand and her arm was in a sling. He asked her what had happened. She told him she was practicing her cheer-leading last night and she fell from the top of a pyramid that the other girls had formed for a new routine. Her arm was broken. It was a clean break.

Rev., 30 April, 2011

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Paper Clips

When I surrendered to the monthly task of vacuuming around the heavy wooden legs of the work table in the kitchen, I discovered a paper clip, hidden in the oriental rug. It was deep in the rug -- with the dog hairs, bits of Milk Bone, some toast crumbs and hermit spiders that love the environment I’ve sustained for them.

The paper clip was invented by a Norwegian, Johan Vaaler, in 1899. During World War II, Norwegians were prohibited from wearing any buttons with the likeness of their king on them. In protest they started wearing paper clips. This signified the binding together of the Norwegian people as a protest against the Nazis. Arrest was the consequence if you were caught wearing a paper clip.

At my home, the paper clip has many uses. Straightened out, it has opened CD trays on the computer, or cleared the orifice on a number of glue bottles or utilitarian nozzles and spouts in the household. Used alfresco, it has plucked a stubborn bit of debris from my ear when no Q-tip was handy.

Like every tool, it has its limits. I’ve never tested how many pieces of paper one clip can fasten, but during tax season, when sorting expenses, the clip is expected to hold many sheets of paper. When it fails to meet the task - big guns come out - rubber bands.

Everyone has a paper clip or two in a drawer in the kitchen or office. They come in different sizes and designs. Some are plastic, some are in the traditional, double-oval design (the “Gem”), while some are the “Owl” or “Ideal” designs. The Ideal has the advantage of not getting tangled with other paper clips, while the Owl design is smaller and has the same advantage. The Owl was so named for its eye-shaped circles. They didn’t tangle with other clips and they don’t snatch stray papers that do not belong with the stack. The variation on the Gem, or traditional clip is the Non-skid. The Non-skid is grooved so it will stop papers from slipping out from its grasp.

There are people that match some of the characteristics of the paper clip. There are those that are plain, ordinary and more common, but reliable and up to the task.

There are those that don’t tangle with others and don’t attract strays, while there are the non-skid types that hold fast to anything that they come in contact with.

All of us have something in common with the paper clip. We can be joined together in some way, while some are more easily joined than others. Some choose to live alone, while others must pack themselves together, only to be separated when called to task.

Then there are those that are twisted and bent in order to perform a specific duty that they were not originally designed for.

Thursday, October 29, 2009

Mother H.

I was married to her oldest daughter.
H. was the kind of woman that
would correct your pronunciation
over a dinner of Coq-au-Vin .

She snapped her fingers at
Chinese waiters.
I feared that Mr. Fong would
blow his nose on my spring rolls.

She set the table with two or three forks
and two spoons.
She slept on pillows stuffed
with down from chins
of English Sparrows.

She had a large bosom
and was always
bumping into me -
given the extra space
I gave her to navigate
the rooms and halls
in her spacious home.

I was married to her daughter
for sixteen years. The last eight,
a business relationship.
Her daughter tried
to shrink my head.

Why Do I Write Poetry?

I like the way words can be mixed
to make sound soup
or a puzzle -
that sings.

Writing is cheap.
It costs nothing.
You can borrow a pencil from
the cashier at the counter,
or the guy at the next table.
Write on napkins,
Write on the edge of magazine pages,
the newspaper that someone left on the table.

Writing doesn't require you to buy paint
and brushes
and turpentine
and an easel
and canvas
and have a room
with good North light.

Too Many G-D Poets-Revised in late 2011, again.

Too many poets. Dreadful.
I am Peeved. Nettled.
Yet I too, am a guilty poet.
While I sit and wait for my soup to arrive,
I read a few pages of Simic, Collins, and the Seattle papers.
The noodles cook and drain.
Mrs. Green slices the smoked pork.

I fight to tune out the background signals, the laughter, static,
while I scribble arthritic sentences in my composition book.

The bowl of Pho came, hot and spilling over the side.
I watch a skinny teen with bad skin,
scribble in her binder,
and I wonder what she is saying.


The Exquisite Thumb

The persnickety thumb,
most snobbish of all digits.

Thumbs up. It's all OK.
Thumbs down, and the decision has been made,
the die cast.

Without the thumb, I could not have pinched her fine bottom,
nor could I have fended off the assailant
by poking my thumb in his eye. I couldn't have grown
such rare roses and vegetables, and
without the thumb, specific rules
could no longer be applied.

No longer would I be set apart
from so many of my animal cousins.
I could not measure and gauge, one eye closed, arm extended. Nor could I, with index finger and thumb,
form two sides of a square
to frame a scene for a painting
or to compose a photo.

I couldn't thumb my nose at the quarrelsome geezer next door, nor could I have hitchhiked half-way across Europe,
no longer under my parent's thumb.

Without the exquisite thumb, I would not be able to hold my pen to write these words in its praise.

Camping Out

Three vehicles
parked in a circle.

Inside the sanctuary,
no children played as they did
in the days of the covered wagon.
Empty bottles, gas stove,
bags of dog food, wrinkled clothes, wet towels,
folding chairs, food wrappers.
Everything varnished
with a blue, wet cold.

Mom, Dad and two, teenage boys spend a lot of time
inside the vehicles
with four dogs.

They read,
listen to the radio,
play with a deck of damp cards,
tell stories,
and dream of the time when they can have hot water
tumbling over them in their new home.

They are up at four to start the cars
to warm up a bit.
Then, a few hours of sleep
before the little car pulls out in the dark,
on its first mission of the day
to take the boys to school, a few miles away.

The boys, wash their long hair from
water warmed by the rare winter sun on the hood of dad's car.
Sometimes mom or dad dry the boy's hair
with orange towels.

All poems of the poet: Charles Simic - works

All poems of the poet: Charles Simic - works

Wednesday, October 28, 2009



Psychopathology and the Creative Arts

Sorry. That's how it is. The intensity of the drive to go to the heart and sing its truth comes most easily from pain. At least for starters. Going inside and penetrating the mire of lies and illusions we call our identities is the most difficult thing a human being can do. Only saints manage it really well. It is hard and it is painful, calling for great courage. Only the most courageous warriors succeed. Alan Watts, the Zen philosopher, wrote a book entitled, The Book : On the Taboo Against Knowing Who You Are. He says that our minds, families, societies, nations, and the whole human world conspire to create an illusion which we buy into. We collude with our world to avoid knowing who we really are. Why? Because who we are is so wonderful the world as it is couldn't exist if the secret was out. Instead of being the exalted beings we are, we play mental games and watch talk shows until it is time to die. When we're not doing that, we obliterate ourselves with drugs and alcohol. Most people call that life.

Only those who have the extreme need to heal, the extreme drive to get clear of what's encrusted that inner essence, are likely to have the drive to do the inner work that will set them free. That need/drive will also make them good writers. Nothing like being beat up, raped, tortured or abused to motivate you to get well. (Well, major diseases do the same thing.) Motivate you to transcend. Grow. Enough pain, and a human being will do anything. Even go inside and clean up the mess. Suffering provides the impetus to enter the inner world in its splendor and confusion, its turbulence and obscurity. However hard it is to heal, its easier than living with the psychological detritus of mental or physical rape.

Very developed people don't need to suffer to write. People who have clean inner acts according to Freud, Jung, their choice of analyst, guru or just themselves, can be motivated by the joy they get in putting out their thoughts. The joy they get in singing in praise or gratitude. The joy of being joyful. Read the saints. Yogis. Rumi. Now there was an ecstatic being! [Ecstasy: Your Birthright, Shield and Reward gives great examples of ecstatic writing.] These ecstatic beings suffer plenty. I've heard from a genuine Hindu monk who has studied lots of saints of all denominations that most great beings lead/led rotten personal lives. Think torture. Martyrdom. Poverty. Disease. Burning at the stake. Flaying. They paid for their bliss. But bliss isn't dependent upon the outer world. And bliss wins in the end.

Until we reach sainthood, the rest of us have to grunt. But don't worry. If you're meant to be a writer, your life will present you with exactly the amount and kind of pain needed for your individual growth and writing style. Isn't that neat? You may not need really big pain, preferring to extract meaning from smaller events. For instance, you can get plenty of pain just by consciously attending PTA meetings. Or going to City Council meetings. Life will give you all the suffering you need. You just have to be awake when it comes. Then you can turn it into great writing. Writers get paid for skilled observation and articulation of pain, among other things.

A great Buddhist saying that I don't really agree with: 'Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.' Pain comes is an unavoidable part of life. Suffering depends upon what you do with it. Do you hang on to pain? Grovel in it? Relish it? Make it a country western song? [A great way to make money out of agony! Feeds and entire industry.] The Buddhist notion is that pain comes on its own. We create suffering.

I have some problems with this. The Buddhist idea is, if you're totally in the moment, like a Zen master, pain is clean like a razor cut. It hurts when it hurts and that's the end of it. If you're worrying about tomorrow, and remembering yesterday's traumas, then the razor feels like a sedge hammer. You get knocked around, batted around by your feelings. Memories. Cuts from the 'razor' become from cuts 'the knife' and then from the 'butter knife'. And then 'chain saw' and so on. Hurting more as we struggle. We prolong pain by fighting with it. All well and good and very hip.

But my experience with pain-- including razor cuts-- is that pain lasts. Healing takes time. There's pain during healing. Is this pure pain, or is it self-created and prolonged suffering? When does pain become suffering? What if I'm not the Zen master and get lost in my mind and banged around, even though I'm doing my best? Am I wrong? Deficient? Is it wrong to suffer in the Country Western sense if that's the best I can do? Tricky topics. Next time you're suffering, think about them.

Even so, its not what happens to you, it's how you hold and use it that counts. Everything that comes to you bears a lesson. Some of it-- death, failure, illness, loss-- is real growth producing!!"

Friday, October 23, 2009

Old Cougar

Old Cougar

It was the fiftieth reunion, and
G., S., C., L. and K., were there, in a circle of seventy-year old women, all displaying a little flesh, jewelry, sensible pumps, chic outfits, glasses on silver chains, dyed hair, expensive scents and cameras the size of cigarette packs..

She was at the edge of the pack of other women
in a shiny, blue wrap,
holding an enormous handbag,
a double gin and tonic in the other.

Lips pursed, deep lines etched around them from smoking;
her voice hoarse from booze and Virginia Slims.
I could see a little blue of her silk bra.
She had dialed in her décolletage with care.
Her teeth, porcelain veneers, gleaming white.

She's hunting for an adventurous, energetic lad as
she waits, watches, calculates,to sink her claws
into a strapping buck.

Don't EVER call her ma'am.


Boy's Lunch

Boy's Lunch

Mom always made his lunch before she was off to work.
Sometimes dad.
Mom knew exactly how to fold the paper bag.
She put his name on it.
Not too big
so the other kids would notice.

The bag was folded down once,
twice, three times
to make a perfect seal,
a perfect handle.

Inside, a sandwich
on dark rye or wheat bread.
Sometimes left-over meatloaf
from Sunday dinner,
lots of ketchup
and a slice of lettuce.

Other times, liverwurst on rye
with spicy mustard
a slice of lettuce.

Fruit and carrot sticks,
a little green box of raisins, a little note.
Hi, honey. Have a good day,
There's a surprise in the cupboard
for you when you get home
Remember --
feed the Poochie.

accepted by National Gallery of Writing Contribution, Nov., 2009.


“Pure Gravy. And don't forget it."
-Raymond Carver (1938-1988)


Sipping a fresh cup of dark roast,
16 ounces, paper cup,
no sugar, no cream,
listening to Bocelli
eating veggie burgers
and a potato
fried in light
virgin oil,
reading a great poem.

He didn't explode from
or die
from the tightness
in his throat.

His dog gave him joy when
she jumped up and put her big, red feet
on his lap.
Dribbled water on him from her soft
mouth after she drank
from the bucket under the faucet
lop, lop, lop.

Earlier, I may have written a poem about
this old man,
sitting alone in his house, with
one light burning next to his used arm chair,
his eyes cloudy from
the beauty of the music.

Anyone looking in
would wonder if
if he felt alone or sad.
He was full of joy
and looked forward to the
time he could do it all
exactly as before.

yWriter5 - Free novel writing software to help you write a book

yWriter5 - Free novel writing software to help you write a book

Friday, October 16, 2009

Latest revision; Laughing Dog Farm (12/14)

Dad's ashes are out there - a few steps from the front door, mixed with the roots of a new, red Hawthorne tree. On quiet mornings, his ghost, cut from soft, gray silk, floats above the trees near the biggest pond.

On summer nights I left my blood in the bellies of mosquitoes that found me inside the RV. I made runs to Taco Bell for tortillas and burritos, my chest marinating in the juices as I ate them, while watchingCanadian television with feeble rabbit ears on the seven-inch screen.

RoseMary The Wonder Dog was with me during that summer, sleeping quietly on the concrete apron of the driveway. Her wide, black lips still, and stuck to the cool cement. Once in a while, her head lifted when she heard a sound in the tall grass or when a hawk or deer passed near.

That was a solitary summer. No one around, no visitors.
I explored the hand-dug ponds, and played with the water that followed the land from the top to the bottom of the hill. I made dams, diversions, catch boxes, and directed the water through wire and rock filters to the bank of the pond and the ditch below.

Trails and paths were made from old wood palettes. They lay over the mud and around the ponds. I cut low branches, planted and moved pines, hacked the weeds, mowed the meadows, made more paths and lanes and hideaways while RoseMary sniffed out, and dispatched the voles in the pear orchard.

When I mowed, I drove once through the tall grass with the blade still, then again with the blade moving to avoid killing gopher snakes. I made boxes for wrens and swallows from weathered cedar, saved from fences and old buildings the spare shakes from my shed. I made a house, tall, with two compartments and a narrow slot at the bottom, for the bats. I hung it from the roof peak.

The day I brought home a steel barrel to use to burn paper, I had to make holes in the bottom for air flow. I used my long-barreled, .22 revolver. My cowboy gun. It made me laugh at what I was doing, and the neighbors yelled, wondering what battle was on, as I shot six, neat holes in the oil drum.

Prompts for writers

[Just cut and paste links. It's a chore to convert all the links to LIVE links using the tools on BLOGGER.]

If you want to use some of the on line resources for prompts, OR if you ever have the opportunity to lead a group and you don't have your own, personal resources:

List compiled today, so all links have been vetted.

Twitter search: - you need an account, I belive. Use this random number generator to pick your prompt from the numerical list: - Prompt generator - Another prompt generator - another generator, but with some bells and whistles...pick adjectives, nouns, verb/phrase, etc. - Click the button to generate random prompt - photo prompts - Random image generator. Careful. Not censored

Monday, October 12, 2009

Yesterday's Paper

John Tabutt, 62, of Winter Springs, Florida, shot Nancy Dinsmore.

John was going to marry Nancy
the next day. They were lovers.

A noise in the house, &
John got up & fired at a shadow in the hall.
John thought that Nancy was still in bed next to him.

There was no intruder,
nothing dangerous in the house, except John's .38.

Nancy was dead at the scene.
A brutal and fierce wound, grew,
exactly where John was going to pin his mother's brooch.

-Found poem, Oct. 2009

Saturday, October 10, 2009

Friday, October 9, 2009

Fish and Open Mic Night

[Revised copy was posted on March 29, 2011.  This poem was accepted, and I was invited to participate in a writer's workshop by writer in residence, Nancy Rawles, in late April.]
Fish and Open Mic Night
It's fish and open mic at Der Schnitzel.
Poached, steamed, broiled, boiled,
dried, fried, in soups and sauces,
piled high, eyes still bright
silver bodies shimmering
in the harsh lights of the hall.

Tonight, ten fish dishes - ten acts.
Comics, poets, a demure cello player,
a dwarf on A# harmonica,
and a shy, teen,
seams stretched,
singing a familiar “Oh, Baby...Oh, Baby” tune,
a Capella, memorized note by note, listening to a CD.

Blazing, stilted taste and organized fun,
glorious in attempt to dazzle and entertain,
certain the crowd was buzzed and fuzzy on the beer
and polite, white wine.

Glorious - in the way we squirmed and fidgeted,
embarrassed for the people on stage –
a few feet above our heads
and too close to our small table.

We see the holes in the older woman's hose
when she sits on the stool to read her poem.
We feel sad for her -
uneasy when she looses her place.
Her poem is about lost loves.

When she finishes, she puts her head down and sobs a bit.
The stagehand moves to her quickly,
touches her shoulder
and says something in her ear.


I, Bear

I Bear

Light brown,
my nose half missing,
one eye plucked away, accidentally,
my arm torn and my coat
dirty and worn.

My mother, my guardian, my caretaker,
carries me in her soft, wet mouth
in rain and snow and sun.

I am silent, and when I'm put
down to rest, I hug the edge of
the wood deck and
a neat piece of wood, one
leg askew behind me.
The coarse stitches on my paws
evidence my care.

I'm brandished, admired and
a part of morning's
ceremony when my caretaker
is fed and petted and cooed over
by her master.

And so it goes. My caretaker holds
dominion over me, Master holds
dominion over my caretaker.
And so it goes. And so it goes.

Friday, October 2, 2009


When they dropped the bomb, the spent, young lovers were sprawled naked, on the futon. They crawled and pulled each other the few feet through the soot and ash of the bamboo mats to the Koi pond in the garden.

Even in death, the bright red Koi glowed brilliantly on the surface of the water, now the temperature of the tea, still boiling in the pot nearby.

The couple slid into the water to escape the flames and to soothe their blackened skin. They tumbled together into the water, their flesh bright and fluorescent, as it cracked and split like the fish they baked the night before.

Her Mother Won't Listen

I've told her. I've warned her more than once. I could see the signs, Her daughter running with the wrong crowd, and I've seen her smoking in the alley after school. Her mother won't listen.

The chubby girl is in her dad's shop behind the garage, getting plowed by a older boy in a ski hat with silly ear flaps and a heavy-metal t-shirt. He's smoking a cigarette she rolled for him. While they're entangled, he admires her dad's antique wood plane on the pegboard by the bench.

The boy listens for her mother coming down the back stairs. If she's coming, they will hide behind the empty boxes near the back wall, still out of breath. Giggling.

My Muse Anne Frank

I still have a copy of The Diary Of Anne Frank that I kept from the Chinook Middle School library in 1971. I never returned it. It’s a brown hardback and on the cover is a black and white photo of Anne.

I wanted to live in that attic with Peter, the boy who was a friend of the Franks. I didn’t care if the Nazi soldiers chased me. I could be quiet as a moonlit night.

Around the same time, I constructed a “fort” out behind our house. This fort. built under the Jonathan apple tree and next to the wood shed was my attic. I had a white diary that locked with a tiny metal key that I hid in one of my shoes. I wrote in the diary about boys, horses, dogs and Mount Rainier. I hung a print of a stallion on one of the plywood walls. I fashioned curtains from two old towels. Like Anne, I put pen to paper and tried to make sense of my world.

Since then, books have affected me deeply. Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood, Toni Morrison’s Beloved, Dee Brown’s Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee, Bastard Out of Carolina by Dorothy Allison. Isak Dinesen’s Letters from Africa - Roots, Ragtime, Refuge. It’s hard to stop.

Interestingly, it was a book that initiated my divorce from my ex-husband 14 years ago. After reading Bridges of Madison County, I vowed to get out of a loveless marriage. Robert James Waller’s words opened a world to me that said I could someday love like his protagonist, Francesca.

-Patty Kinney
29 September, 2009

Tuesday, September 29, 2009


demoWrite, collaborate, publish and distribute...all in one place.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

A Sign - revised, July 2010

The madman chalked red X’s
on the sidewalks of the houses
if he suspected
or had evidence
that people there
were unkind to each other,
or their dogs.
When he was a young man,
he studied hobo signs
chalked on railroad cars, mailboxes, fences,
buildings in barn yards,
in towns he probed.
Signs that said “doubtful”, “mean dog”,
“be ready to defend yourself”,
“dirty jail”, or “nothing doing here”
sent him away
or might draw him closer
to investigate.

He was a harvest hobo,
following the crops in the West.
Once beaten senseless, and left to die in a Fresno alley.
They laughed when they punched and kicked him,
stealing his knapsack and his kit.

The beating injured his brain.
He was never the same.
He lost all inhibitions and good judgment.

He couldn’t remember what rows to pick
when he picked grapes in Visalia
and oranges in Porterville.
He lost track of time, and had to write everything down.
He made little sketches so he could find his way
back to his box under the railroad bridge.
At night, he played his harmonica
until he dropped into dreams of his days as a boy
or his job with the city.

He dreamt of the beautiful woman that gave him
a whole pie when he begged for food at her door.
He dreamt of the old, black man that looked into his eyes for a long time before tears came.
The old man saw himself in his eyes.
He saw a man with even less than himself,
and it was more than he could endure.

The hobo impressed the dirt path
in front of the man’s simple cottage
with a new mark – a mark never seen before.
It was an austere eye,
a large tear in both corners,
made with polished pebbles
and shells he carried in his pack.

Friday, September 25, 2009

Modern Couple

Chuck is a big man
He wears t-shirts and jeans.
Chuck has no arms.
He left them in a dirty, little field
in Nam.

His wife, Kim, is Vietnamese.
She talks non-stop.
Chuck has never hit his wife with his fists.
He doesn't have any, but he tries to
kick her with his heavy Wellingtons.

Kim raises flowers
and sells them under a white tarp
at the street fair.

On Saturday, Chuck eats a burger nearby
and flirts with the waitress
with red hair.

He keeps a measured eye on Kim
and angers if she talks too long
to a gentleman buying flowers
for his wife.

Friday, September 18, 2009

The Lost Symbol and The Da Vinci Code author Dan Brown's 20 worst sentences - Telegraph

The Lost Symbol and The Da Vinci Code author Dan Brown's 20 worst sentences - Telegraph

Chance Meeting

Consider the chance meeting of a dog and a man on the street. The man smiles and smacks his lips – a calming signal.

The man asks if he may pet the dog . The dog strains at the leash.
The man smiles, squats, and offers the back of this hand. No threat, no sudden moves. Soft words and a quick glance to determine the correct greeting. Good boy...nope, Good girl.

The owner stands straight and proud of his four-legged child and the man sees himself in the eyes of the dog and knows that he, too, would like to be greeted like this on the street by a stranger, and clicked at, and lips would smack, and he would be as calm and loved as the beast.

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Quotes about writing

Quotes about writing

Reading Kafka Improves Learning

Reading Kafka Improves Learning,
Suggests Psychology Study
ScienceDaily Sept. 16, 2009
Exposure to information that does
not makes sense (such as
surrealistic literature) -- or is a
threat to meaning or creates a sense
that expected associations are
violated -- enhances adaptive
cognitive mechanisms like finding
patterns, psychologists at UC Santa
Barbara and the University of
British Columbia have found in two

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

Flash Fiction, 9 Sept.


There I was in front of her. She motioned a hug. I don't hug very often. I am not a hugger. Hugging and massage is foreplay. My grandparents and my parents hugged me.

I warned her that she may feel something. I could feel it. I could see the lump growing in my checkered, flannel pants. I hugged her. She felt it. Her lips drew tight.

“Oh, baby!”, I said.

I looked at her face. Close. She was looking at me hard with those warm brown eyes behind the mask of age. I could see the lines around her eyes and the corners of her mouth.

“Oh, baby!'

Flash Prose, 9 Sept.

Seven Gong Man

On the round, Forest Green table on my deck, there's a stainless steel bowl that mom used for salads, and a rusty chef's knife I use to clean the moss and dirt from between the cedar planks.

When I hear a noise in the alley, the yard, or around the front of the house that I don't recognize, whether it's early in the morning, or after dark, I use the back edge of the knife to strike the rim of the bowl seven times. Exactly seven sharp strikes, and I pause and only strike the bowl after the last pure ring of the gong has vibrated away. It's very deliberate and even, and timed almost perfectly.

Whoever is around to hear the beautiful bold resonance of the bowl must wonder...where is the sound coming from, what is it for, and who is this seven gong man?

Fat Fish

Fat Fish Patty Kinney's BLOG and writing. One of my favorite, local writers.

Saturday, September 5, 2009

Some writing links from the AWA site


Saturday, August 29, 2009

on poetry...........

This is why I always tell people to get out of the way because the poem knows much more of what it needs to be than the poet does.

Quote from my writing teacher, Feb., 2006

You're doing all the things writers do--looking, sniffing, touching, noticing, recording, exploring, lying awake, obsessing, planning, feeling great, feeling bad, and following your urge to write about what's going on. Strange land, but familiar too. Welcome to this new place that has the feel of home.
-Ann Linquist, my writing teacher, February, 2006

Online newspaper and magazine software | ProsePoint

Online newspaper and magazine software | ProsePoint: "Online newspaper and magazine software
A free and open source newspaper content management system."

Finding Your Muse – Writer Workshops

Finding Your Muse – Writer Workshops

Writing.Com: Write On!

Writing.Com: Write On!

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Do You Have These 11 Traits of Highly Creative People? | Copyblogger

Do You Have These 11 Traits of Highly Creative People? | Copyblogger: "Do You Have These 11 Traits of
Highly Creative People?"

Palin's Resignation: The Edited Version |

Palin's Resignation: The Edited Version | "Palin’s Resignation: The Edited Version
If you watched Sarah Palin’s resignation speech, you know one thing: her high-priced speechwriters moved back to the Beltway long ago. Just how poorly constructed was the governor’s holiday-weekend address? We asked V.F.’s red-pencil-wielding executive literary editor, Wayne Lawson, together with representatives from the research and copy departments, to whip it into publishable shape. Here is the colorful result."

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Five Reasons Good Writers Fail | TopicTurtle

Five Reasons Good Writers Fail | TopicTurtle: "Ignoring the Story. An interesting experience or an interesting life does not automatically make for an interesting book. Stories need to be shaped, they need to make sense, they need to have a point — and writers, therefore, need to stand back and look at their ideas with a ruthless eye. You need to ask, “What’s my story really about? And why would anyone care? And what’s the best way to tell it?” And you need to come up with answers. Tom Clancy says, “The difference between fiction and reality is that fiction has to make sense.” The exact same thing can be said about memoir or narrative non-fiction, as well. A good idea is never enough."

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

It's Hard to Think About Nothing

I have Nothing to Say. This is Nothing to Sneeze at. Nothing to Declare. Nothing is Original. I Know Nothing About This. Expect Nothing. Nothing was so Shocking. Nothing is Bad. Nothing to Write Home About. Nothing But The Truth. Nothing is Forever. I'm Putting Nothing off. Nothing Left to Do but Wait. Nothing But Smoke and Mirrors. I Have Nothing But Time. Nothing to Prove. Nothing is Free. It's All or Nothing for Me. I Have Nothing to Do. Nothing is Frightening. I Am Afraid of Nothing. Nothing But Hot Air. Nothing was Sent I Have Nothing Left Inside. Nothing Can Hold Me Here. Nothing is Ok. I Believe in Nothing. Nothing is Wrong. Nothing is Good. Nothing as usual Nothing is More Powerful Than This. I Want Nothing. Nothing is Easy. Double or Nothing. Nothing is Safe. Nothing But Trouble. This is Nothing Special. Nothing was Delivered. Nothing to Hide. Nothing was Found. Nothing Can Come of This. Nothing But The Facts. Nothing to Report. Nothing is Right. Nothing Can Be Taken For It. Nothing to Think About. Nothing to Feel. Nothing is Simple. Nothing Can Be Explained. Nothing was Known. Nothing Can Be Forgotten. Nothing was Decided. Nothing is Certain. Nothing was Done. Nothing is Impossible. I Have Nothing Left to Prove. Nothing Left but Questions. Nothing Can Be Taken Lightly. Nothing is Hard . Nothing to It. Nothing Can Go Wrong. Nothing was Left to Chance. Nothing is Created. Nothing was Added. Nothing was Taken. Nothing was Received Nothing to Buy. Nothing Happened. I Have Nothing Left to Give. Nothing was Ever the Same Again. Nothing Can Make Me Stay. Nothing to Love. Nothing Can Come Between Us. Nothing is Broken. Nothing to Lose. Nothing Can Keep Me Away. Nothing in Common. Nothing Can Separate Us. Nothing Can Buy Happiness. Nothing Left to Rely On. Nothing Can Bring Me Down. Nothing Matches. I Have Nothing to Wear. Nothing Matters. Nothing Special About This. Nothing Elegant. Nothing to Worry About. Nothing Works. Nothing to Win. Nothing Beats This. Nothing But Net. Nothing was Sweeter . Nothing Can Defeat Them. Nothing to Celebrate. Nothing was Lost. Nothing is Fair. Nothing is Unusual. Nothing Changes. Nothing Can Come from Nothing. Nothing Compares. Nothing is Important. Nothing Can Be Done About This. Nothing to Fear. Nothing is Permanent. Nothing is Set in Stone. Nothing was Visible. Nothing is too Big. Nothing is Random. Nothing Can Be Coincidence. Nothing is Real. Nothing was Clear. Nothing is What it Appears. Nothing is Better Than This. Nothing is 100 Percent Sure. Nothing Can Be Forever. Nothing is Worth Knowing. Nothing is Relevant. Nothing is Sacred. Nothing Really Exists. Nothing was Left. Nothing Can Stop Me. Nothing is Going My Way. Move along, Nothing to See Here. Nothing to Laugh at. It's Nothing Personal. Nothing was Heard. I Have Nothing Left to Say. Thanks For Nothing.

Sunday, April 5, 2009

Snatches; an essay

I often entertain myself by creating poems and prose pieces out of bits of real-life conversation I hear during mealtime in my favorite cafe. I live in a little town where the average age is near sixty or has pushed past. Sometimes the conversations are just too awful to hear or to weave into a tale or poem. I'll give you an example.

This morning, at a self-provisioned celebration over a big steak, medium-well, no blood, please, I read the papers and overheard, “I can't breathe through my nose!” The breakfast conversation segued to a mutual friend that had to have his jaw bone scraped because his screw-in tooth didn't osseointegrate after the implant. The four elders, bent over their utensils, eggs and noodles, pondered how much air they should put in their Posturepedic for a good night's sleep, and the group realization that they had ordered stir fry for breakfast. Oh my gawd.

The littlest and frailest lady remarked how she had missed a question on the driver's test because she hadn't noticed the tiny hand sticking out the window in the illustration indicating a right turn.This woman has been seen driving a three-ton SUV through town, with a pet Llapso under her chin as she maneuvered through mid-day traffic with a double latte in her good hand.

Yesterday, I ate my soup while listening to some geezer describe his eye surgery and the more graphic story about his friend that had his eye removed from the socket while they scraped the malignant cells out of the void.

I dreamed of the days that people kept their intimate conversation to themselves, and excused themselves if they belched or made wind fiercely enough to make the silverware on my table rattle.

I retrieved more of the lean meat from the bone and finished my meal – happy to be healthy and able to leave conversations if I find myself in one that begins with description of a visit to the doctor or a mattress salesman.

Friday, April 3, 2009

Post from Michael, California artist and sculptor

Michael said...

A doctor friend of my father Dr. William Wolfram used to order his dinner and then about half way through he would order the same dinner again. After dessert he would order Postum, he thought it was healthier than coffee. He was very large and died rolling around on the floor bleeding to death while his Homeopathic wife tried to give him pills.

April 3, 2009 2:34 AM

Thursday, April 2, 2009

The Old Blue Chair

The Old Blue Chair

The big, old chair
smelled of dust and food and sweat.
Full of peanut shells, dog hair and
spider webs, I set it out on the curb with a FREE sign on it.

Tim, who took his own life last year,
bought it during one of his
visits to my little town. He needed a chair he could
sleep in. He was no longer able to sleep laying down.

Tim's VISITING chair came from the local
store that has a perpetual SALE sign
painted on their window
in giant, orange, gaudy script.
Overpriced, low-end furniture,
but free delivery.

I wrestled the chair from the living
room and drug it to the curb
in the rain. It was gone in three days when
the person made sure no one was watching
and took it away, soaking wet,
to its new home.

Tim and the chair
had things in common.
Both were too large and
both grew too uncomfortable
after a time.

This poem can be found on at