Posts filed under ‘PUBLISHED WORKS’
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: OVERHEAD
Published by New Worlds Unlimited in Journeys of the Poet / Muse in 1983.
OVERHEAD
Overhead, one by one the light bulbs expire,
Their guts bursting,
And in death their ghosts yield a softer view of life,
Harsh shadows melt away,
Reality fades into the background
And the room’s boundaries sink into infinity,
Another bursts in incandescent death,
Familiar objects take on new shapes
As possessions melt from sight,
A book left open,
The words blur into feelings,
Something calls from the darkness
Waiting to be released as the last flame fades.
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITNG POESTRY: DISTANT JEWEL
Published by New Worlds Unlimited in Echoes of the Unlocked Odyssey in 1974.
THE DISTANT JEWEL
Shimmering diamonds in the distance,
Glimmering pearls on an ebony sea,
The city lies ahead
Made lovely by night
And the span of miles,
Those who know her close
Have seen her decay,
Known her bright avenues
The debris of progress,
The broken spirit of men.
Distance lends to a hazy beauty,
Close inspection,
Horror.
MY ATTEMPTE AT WRITING POETRY: NIGHT RAIN
Published by New Worlds Unlimited in Voice of the Majestic Sage in 1984.
Night Rain
The darkened hush of an autumn evening,
A distant mummer and a world of sound approaches,
The wind sweats great flowing beads
Yet in darkness
Where colors fade to gray
And reality to hazy contours
Night hides the rain,
As if only the sound exists,
A time for memories that have no sounds
Only pictures alive in some unchanged time,
A memory’s life.
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: LOVE VISITED
Published by New Worlds Unlimited in Dreams of the Heroic Muse in 1982.
LOVE VISITED
Love visited me once
On a moonlit night
Last in six months,
I grew,
Was nourished,
Became almost human
As my being sought a home,
I held the moon at arm’s length
And watched it grow small
As its certain cycle
Continued to darkness,
The baying of dogs rings untrue,
The sky is empty.
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: THE TEMPEST
Published by New Worlds Unlimited in Treasures of the Precious Moments in 1985.
THE TEMPEST
Lost,
In a torrent of storm and power
A delicate finger fondles the earth’s surface,
Extends from a dark gray womb reaching out,
Caressing,
Tearing with the force of a lover lost in ecstasy,
A mighty machine borne of cloud and air
Spending itself on the unsuspecting earth,
I watch,
A distant viewer of a mystical force,
Amazed at the beauty death’s angel has summoned,
Amazed at the power unleashed before my eyes,
Distance masks the fury, the rage of storms,
Distance masks the horror of life’s reality.
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: SPRING’S PROMISE
Published by New Worlds Unlimited in Mysteries of the Lyric World in 1988.
SPRING’S PROMISE
My breath frosts the winter scene from my eyes
As I peer out the bedroom window,
Trees bend their naked arms
As cold north wind gives them life,
The lawn, the hue of hay
Bristles with the wind,
I look to the future
When my world will once again fill with life,
I look to my wife round with life herself
And the sound of the promise of spring
Rings in my ears.
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: WAITING TOOL
Published by New Worlds Unlimited in Mysteries of the Lyric World in 1988.
WAITING TOOL
A pencil sits poised
Waiting to give life,
As a sculptor creates form
From the essence of marble,
So, the words await
Needing a sculptor of thought.
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: MY CHILD SMILES
Published by New Worlds Unlimited in Memories of the Halcyon Days,1987.
MY CHILD SMILES
My child smiles
For she knows nothing of the world
And that is good.
My child cries
And she knows nothing of the sorrow of the world
And that is good.
My child laughs
And that is good for the world.
UNWELCOMED GUESTS: A GHOST STORY
On one side of my property, some eight to ten feet deep, is a gully. I was told some time ago that this gully belonged to a railroad. I have seen an arial photo, taken perhaps in the 50’s, showing tracks at the bottom of the gully. I’ve also been told that they were either train or trolley tracks. I began thinking, What if there was ever an accident down there?
Unwelcomed Guests was accepted for publication by Necrology Shorts in February 2010.
UNWELCOMED GUESTS
Will Trizma was a writer of ghost stories and mined the local countryside for legends and their settings. The area abounded in both. His wife, Joan, acted as his editor and sounding board for his ideas. At times, the only comment she would make is, “You’re sick.”
Not only did he write ghost stories, but he also dreamt of them. One night he conjured a most vivid story; a story from the future. But unlike most of his dreams, he could not remember this tale. The only recollection he had was that it was horrifying.
* * *
It was the evening of August 15, 1949. The time was slightly before ten as a train made its way toward West Chester. There were fifteen souls aboard, counting the crew and passengers on this quiet summer night. The steam locomotive was pushing a caboose and two passenger cars. The weather had been stormy for days and up ahead the foundation of the bridge spanning Ship Road had been undermined by runoff. Jim Purvis, making his last run in a fully loaded fuel truck, slowly crossed the bridge. As he reached the span’s center, it collapsed leaving the truck astraddle the tracks. Jim could not believe he was still alive considering the load he was carrying. Although injured, he managed to climb out of the ravine and go seek help.
As the train slowly made its way into a depressed section of track, the conductor, Ben Elliot, sat on the caboose’s platform and began filling his pipe thinking about sharing a late dinner with his wife. He looked down to light the pipe, and once achieving a satisfactory burn, he puffed contently, and then looked up. The sight before him made his scream, “Holy sh…! He never finished the expletive.
The caboose rammed the truck, followed by the cars. The locomotive cut through the wreck until it reached the truck exploding the gas tank and turning the wreck into a funeral pyre.
* * *
Writing is a lonely profession, and years ago Will sought out a local writer’s group for support and editorial advice. During a Christmas dinner attended by all the writers, Will and Joan suggested a summer party and volunteered to hold it at their house. As the day of the party approached, one spouse or two became sick and others were called away unexpectedly on business.
Will and his wife greeted their guests, their thirteen guests.
Their dog, Millie, a lab mix was her usual excited self with the arrival of every new visitor. Once everyone was there, she settled down and dozed in the sun.
The conversation was lively with all the creative minds present, and as dusk approached, Will was called upon to tell a ghost story. “Not dark enough yet,” he answered.
Dessert was served, and when there was no longer a hint of sunlight, and with the patio bathed in twilight, Will deemed the time right for his tale and went into the house. He returned with candles, one for each table, after extinguished all the inside lights. “Now we have the right atmosphere,” he said. Will began his story and even Millie appeared interested, her eyes reflecting the candlelight.
The weather had been rainy the last few days, and at ten as he began to read, Will noticed a mist begin coming out of the gull bordering one side of his property. A few guests had asked him earlier about the gully and he answered that it had once harbored a railroad track.
The mist became denser and soon overtook the yard along with the guests. One by one they all fell asleep, including Millie. As the wall of fog enveloped all present, fifteen human shapes began to form. The specters slowly made their way to the dozing, and one by one, entered their bodies.
The next morning, they awoke from their deep sleep and knowingly smiled at one another. Ben Elliot looked around, and Will’s eyes filled with tears. “We’ve waited sixty years for this moment.”
Millie awoke and growled. She knew there was something terribly wrong with her master.
THE END
MY ATTEMPT AT WRITING POETRY: CITY MORN
Accepted for publication by Expressive Arts Review, 1974
CITY MORN
Sunlight filtering thru elevated
Roadways,
Dawn, finding its way thru twilight
As the sleeping city greets another
Day,
Delicate steel webs vaulting gray
Rivers,
Ribbons of concrete conveying
Sleepy-eyed travelers,
The hush of night giving way to
Din of traffic,
Morning-sky reds lost to haze,
Another day begins.
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