View from the Top

I climbed my first tree before I was five. Got stuck. Screamed. Daddy had to walk two miles home from work in the middle of a hot West Virginia afternoon and rescue me. Like a cat, I finally learned not to climb down head-first. For the next XX years (I'd say how many, but no one would believe it) I spent time in the tops of trees, where I learned some of life's most important skills -- and pleasures. I'd say what they were (and are) but that would be telling. And you know what they say -- writers should show, not tell. So kick off your shoes and shimmy on up. Join me here surrounded by blue sky and little green leaves. Bring a book if you like, or a notebook. The apples up here are crisp and ripe and free for the picking.

Sunday, September 19, 2010


Marking my place in "Ballad of the Sad Cafe"
was a scrap so small and frayed
that it fell out and got lost in the bedclothes,
maybe drifted to the floor
where the vacuum sucked it up
or the cat chased it into a dusty corner.
So, how will I know
where to pick up and start again?
Like that unplanned call from the deathman,
this tiny loss has left me adrift.
It will take a certain offhandedness,
a what-the-hell outlook to start again,
since the plot has left me,
the characters strayed away.
I will just have to trust
or try to make up what's happened so far. 
But then, the story may not be
what matters now. 
What matters now is the picking up,
the starting again.

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