Say for example, that you are a poet, and you want to write about a particular type of purple jellyfish washing ashore on the beaches of the Pacific Northwest of the United States of America. And this particular jellyfish has a perfect name… Velella Velella. A poets dream. Say it aloud…. Velella Velella. Romantic, yes? […]
Where I live
while rain presses
Be one with us
Be not dry.
On Saturday, July 13th, at Ft. Clatsop, the Clatsop-Nehalem Confederated Tribes celebrated the 91st birthday of their Hereditary Chief Joe Scovell with a flintlock salute.
only in the humming of the wind in my ears
the smell of winter fog
and the contours of a face,
ever changing with my changing thoughts.
My poetry refuses words today.
Hello how are you do I really care
The language changes but the question’s still there
Spare a quarter, a dime a minute of your time
Have you ever hung a sign degrading what little is left of your mind
Gathering, surrounded by, story writers, story tellers and story readers is like bathing in lavender salts — lingering into contentment, absorbing a lifestyle, humming.
I was working in a fairly large Engineering office in Portland when Thatcher was first elected in 1979. The Vice-President walked over to my drafting station with the chuckling remark –“Hey Scotty, I see you’ve finally got a good, REPUBLICAN prime Minister”! I’ll spare you my curt and expletive-laced response but use yer imaginations.
I am already a wild ghost – only ever half here. How can something like that die?
Out West, were the fog creeps low and steady over the hills and twists
up the morning dew and rising sun in its fingers, there is enough of what is real
to buoy up this freckled skin forever.
Some think that Scotland sterts somewhere near Perth
-or close by Edinburgh she at first draws breath.
While speedin’ Heiland –wards tae don a kilt
An’ nod at skirl o’ Bagpipes and the lilt
There’s a part of a man
Deep inside, rooted in
Ribs and muscular tissue
Between his heart and soul
That longs for the sky.