Groovy
Out-smoking
Dude
Resourceful
Outspoken
Militant empire exacting their
Absolute philosophy over all other
Neophyte
Societies
Priest
Apostle
Unique
Lecturer
Jewish rabbi
Erudite
Scholar
Unwavering
Spirited son.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Fire Dance
Check out my latest Photography Book, Fire Dance!
http://www.blurb.com/bookstore/detail/2319240
http://www.blurb.com/bookstore/detail/2319240
Monday, July 11, 2011
Writing a True Novel
Writing a true novel is like dueling with a cockroach; penetrating and exploring the past could get real messy. Don’t kid yourself if there is anything else you can think of to do, go ahead and do it. It involves a truckload of continence and revision.
You begin by dreaming about the past, sorting through old pictures and searching for and actually finding old friends, who you later discover were better left in the dark.
You set your scene; research the town you grew up in and thought you knew. Lots of surprises await your discovery under the dusty covers. Then you get to pick which roads to go down and which ones to pass up. It requires enormous energy and creativity; buckets of right and wrong decisions line up for inspection. Old issues march up to, and then parade-rest at your door. Closure takes on a higher meaning, something akin to, should I tell them about the implant, and which one?
Who is your audience? Why should they care? Can anything human relate? Or should you save the paper for puppy training? Why now, have you achieved enlightenment? Who will it hurt or help? Precious time is spent writing poems, honey-do and shopping lists, feeding the dogs, and taking pictures of cloud formations. You spend an inordinate amount of time reading other inspired memoirs and novels, and spending time with the grandkids, anything but writing that damn book…
But wait there’s more, you have to get your facts straight, no embellishing to make it more interesting; names need to be correctly spelled and a time frame established. Trust only a handful of your friends to read and critique. Don’t post online if you want to publish a chapter elsewhere. Take all advice with two aspirin and try not to get confused; one chapter at a time. Find a group meeting and stick with it.
Don’t forget about Aunt So and So, who worked at the Library and discovered the cure for that deadly virus, or the Uncle who won the bronze in Seoul, or the neighbor from next door who died of Cancer because family and friends will get mad at you if you leave them out.
Show them, describe using all the senses, make it colorful, who was popular, what music was playing on the radio and what did you wear. Sprinkle in some dialogue with a dash of character. Pack a punch, leave them wanting more and don’t solve all your characters’ problems; your next blockbuster is wheezing in the wings.
You begin by dreaming about the past, sorting through old pictures and searching for and actually finding old friends, who you later discover were better left in the dark.
You set your scene; research the town you grew up in and thought you knew. Lots of surprises await your discovery under the dusty covers. Then you get to pick which roads to go down and which ones to pass up. It requires enormous energy and creativity; buckets of right and wrong decisions line up for inspection. Old issues march up to, and then parade-rest at your door. Closure takes on a higher meaning, something akin to, should I tell them about the implant, and which one?
Who is your audience? Why should they care? Can anything human relate? Or should you save the paper for puppy training? Why now, have you achieved enlightenment? Who will it hurt or help? Precious time is spent writing poems, honey-do and shopping lists, feeding the dogs, and taking pictures of cloud formations. You spend an inordinate amount of time reading other inspired memoirs and novels, and spending time with the grandkids, anything but writing that damn book…
But wait there’s more, you have to get your facts straight, no embellishing to make it more interesting; names need to be correctly spelled and a time frame established. Trust only a handful of your friends to read and critique. Don’t post online if you want to publish a chapter elsewhere. Take all advice with two aspirin and try not to get confused; one chapter at a time. Find a group meeting and stick with it.
Don’t forget about Aunt So and So, who worked at the Library and discovered the cure for that deadly virus, or the Uncle who won the bronze in Seoul, or the neighbor from next door who died of Cancer because family and friends will get mad at you if you leave them out.
Show them, describe using all the senses, make it colorful, who was popular, what music was playing on the radio and what did you wear. Sprinkle in some dialogue with a dash of character. Pack a punch, leave them wanting more and don’t solve all your characters’ problems; your next blockbuster is wheezing in the wings.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Jellyfish
The straggler popped, cracked beneath my heel
resembling light blue bubble gum
startling me from my daydream.
I looked down in dismay.
Would that bubble sting
or would it just
flatten blue
burn the
sand.
*Nonet--A nonet has nine lines. The first line has nine syllables, the second line eight syllables, the third line seven syllables, etc... until line nine that finishes with just one syllable. It can be on any subject and rhyming is optional.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Ghost Train
**This is a story in a poem using one syllable words.
Still dazed
I traced
his ash gray face,
that shot an F
through a coach seat base.
Far from here
in a black coal car
a sense of true
got shot and scarred.
It jumped real quick
and as it flew
It struck an oak, stout and new.
It glared back wise
with gold owl eyes.
Its heart
dripped thick
on an old black crow
that sliced his neck with coarse cruel blows.
The crow’s shrill beak
cut nose and cheek
the blood then hissed
and hit the street.
It scowled and bared its blood red teeth.
A street lamp blinked
It could not sleep
nor get that thief
to change his leaf.
When
his thumb
shrieked hot lead
it found its mark
trained for dead.
in a black coal car
a sense of true
got shot and scarred.
It jumped real quick
and as it flew
It struck an oak, stout and new.
It glared back wise
with gold owl eyes.
Its heart
dripped thick
on an old black crow
that sliced his neck with coarse cruel blows.
The crow’s shrill beak
cut nose and cheek
the blood then hissed
and hit the street.
It scowled and bared its blood red teeth.
A street lamp blinked
It could not sleep
nor get that thief
to change his leaf.
When
his thumb
shrieked hot lead
it found its mark
trained for dead.
The blast came fast
sharp as an axe
and chopped a clock
that ticked and tocked.
I hugged the frame
and the glass
in hope,
since two
my fears would pass.
sharp as an axe
and chopped a clock
that ticked and tocked.
I hugged the frame
and the glass
in hope,
since two
my fears would pass.
Still dazed
I traced
his ash gray face,
that shot an F
through a coach seat base.
A rock hard sneer
trapped in a frame,
this ghost
still drives
the night sick train.
trapped in a frame,
this ghost
still drives
the night sick train.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Camel Dung
Fresh camel dung
the curse of the lower Nileattracting a multitude of flies high above
decomposing mummies
buried in forgotten pyramids
beneath the sands of time
deep inside secret chambers
stacked with gold
foraged from the influence
of unknown origin
of which countless markers
have been left behind
planet-wide
flies being the common denominator.
If the ignoble fly had been in charge
how might he have managed?
Would ancient insects have done a better job
at keeping quotas and curbing bad behavior?
Who would’ve done the heavy lifting?
The chosen people were dropping like flies.
There had to be a back-up.Someone must’ve had a plan.
Why were the pyramids so big?
Are they entrances to another timeOr a door into our own psyche?
Are WE the alien life formon this hostile planet?
What have we learned?
What legacy will we leave for our children
our children’s children?What time capsule will they discover?
Will it hold the keyto the age old question
Or merely pose new questions?
Will we survive
on this planet of dwindling resources
or calculate new methods of regeneration
revolutionizing an alternative fuel
a godsend of limitless magnitude
something similar perhaps to
camel dung?
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)