The Left Column

Politics for Poets

Seven Destinations

40 Days to [some strange seemingly exotic destination]

40 Days in [some strange seemingly exotic destination]

3 Days in the crypt

40 Days home

It would be fun to collaborate on a novel. How would rules for consistent style be crafted and applied? The problem with group-writing is stylistic consistency necessary for the book to be salable. The writing quality needs consistency.

What is the sense in fretting?

So many people are so very touchy. Fortunately there is no complaigning here except by the very blogers themselves.

🍀 Persistence pays.

🍀 Happy Saint Patrick's Day!

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🔫 🚀 🚙🚤🚣🔨🍀⚜⏲⏱⏰

There is always time to
🍀 Praise God! 🍀
🍀⏲⏱⏰⏲⏱⏰⏰⏲⏱⏰⏰🍀
🎠 
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Dec 31, 2013 (12-24-2013)

well . . .

I think I've blogged enough today.

"I'm all blogged out."

~ OK Now.

Praise God! awful first novel lines:

After only a week in LA, . . . [ . ?. . . ?]

OK, I've actually got somewhere to go.

how hard is it to use these new symbols in your stuff? Well, first you need to know that they exist. Second, you can just cut and paste them.

🌀 🌁 🌂 🌃 🌄 🌅 🌆 🌇 🌈 🌉 🌊 🌋 🌌 🌍 🌎 🌏 🌐 🌑 🌒 🌓 🌔 🌕 🌖 🌗 🌘 🌙 🌚 🌛 🌜 🌝 🌞 🌟 🌠

I've got a message for . . . Mr Bash (an alias for someone else). Mr Bash, if I use brace expansion with the dot-dot idiom, ie like this:

echo -e {🌃..🌅}{🌍..🌏}{🌑..🌚}" "

why does that not work when

echo -e {🌃,🌄,🌅}{🌍,🌎,🌏}{🌑,🌒,🌓,🌔,🌕,🌖,🌗,🌘,🌙,🌚}" "

will? Maybe I've not ordered the elements properly. Well that little snippit doesn't work that well but t

Sassy. Brassy. Shiney. Bossy. He dreams of her like that. He wants to bring her home.

See what she makes with her 
     well-skilled hands?

If
 yar out side
  the yarn of time
 spining over in your
   grave descriptions of a 
            political situation
    that you could make more cheerie
    if you'd use colors less dreary.

 (top your poetry off with a cherry
   high atop a ledge in Derry)

  The pain of recollection lingers.
    a bad decision from bad choices.
 How much more time will they have to make it all right?
  When will she ever get to the river again?

  She plans it at least for early July.
     Mid June would be better.
 She'll have to wait
   to see what her budget
 will let her do.
🖐🖑
🖑🖐   

The following poem is fresh, whipped up, off the cuff.

  

  
  He can't keep living
    in a land of poems
    in silent roams
     with lust for old tomes.
          
   When big wind blows the folio pages away
   what does he have left to say?
    He comments on the sound of the rain.
    
     Then giant lightening with fearsome rolls over him
      and wind crushes with rain the freshmantic plans.
        Stomping in the lower muckies along the river walk
           will today be 
               in the river.
        Careful not to stumple into the flooded bramble thickets
       that grow within the fallacies of mind.
       
  Every momement, the
        minute before the dawn of her eternity
         is not because of their intellect
          but the breath of Love!
              Love from . . . !!!
          
    How does one end a poem like this?
     brag about how much harder one has it?
      how everything that reader does is so much apropo and 
                  more difficult?
  wow to you is never as grand as wow to . . . them.
 They have the superior failure, the suprelitive
         recollection of distress and hard knocks,
  they've blown more tires, ruined more rigs,
 been gyped out of more things, ripped off by better people
      than you
  could ever imagine in your stories.
  
  Your story wonders off
    out where you think the worst-case author won't follow,
  out and up the stairs back there, where
    the old insittutinal gardens are ran fallow, zero funded,
        giant pieces of marble 
   fallen over 
 statues of pan in a glade
    broken into pieces and washed down a field
    by a flood and 
  no one ever went out
     and put the thing back where it had been.
  A crop circle grown in now with a ring of trees,
   twelve peaches eaten, pits placed in random places?
    pits formed into a ring?
   
 a banyon tree in the mind
     one can climb
 like a jungle gym that floods the sky
     and rotates like the moon or the rings
        of your mind
   out there in the etherial heavens,
    the midnight hails you "Tell me when,
       when 
 are you coming home?
   We've been missing you?
      when."
      
 but when he gets home
   he doesn't wake the boy
 lets him sleep
   leaves before the boy awoke
 too busy these days, he thinks 
   too busy.
   That is what the boy is told.  
      


  Praise God! 

🖐🖑
🖑🖐Look at him doing
  his Buster Keaton thing!
   spinning a golf club, chucking it
       on the wing.
 See him a-dancing
   along the pier and the sand
      look him yucking it up
        with the gracious MC of the band!

  And they'll be dancing
   at the water
    on the shore line
 in the sand.
  They will be singing
   their anthems
 and they will sound
    oh, so grand!

 Can't you hear them almost marching?
 Stirring in what they are thinking?
  Does he use his pen
    to write it all down
 so he will remember
     'hit send'
 with a click
   that is eternity
 he is empowered
   in his midlife crisis 
    2000 dolla shoes
  and those impeccable socks
    with their cadmium blues.

 The sound of a fog horn?
   The distant sight of cargo ships tossing about
      on the ocean?
 Trouble him later with that.
   First let's make the tee!

   
 🖐🖑

Wake up!

Wake up!

And this really is at 
the end of the column