Whether you know me or whether this is your first visit, I hope you find something of interest. Writing and relationships have something in common: they both are
In my novel The Stone Dragon, a garden gnome, Cabbage-pants by name, says of journey on the Gnome's Path: "It's not just one path--no, not at all," the gnome said, sitting next to Glimmer on the bench. "Some walk a garden's path, some walk a path through forest, and some even walk a path seen to no one but themselves. Nay, Gnome's Path isn't a place but a manner, ye might say."
And then Cabbage-pants adds, "An' we all o' us gnomes agree that it prob'bly won't cause ye no injury, or at least nothin' permanent-like."
As I wrote in Bare Ruined Choirs:
"Langauge stands at the door, waiting for spirit to rise from the transcendent, and then language serves its purpose--sings praises of God to the congregation, sings praises of creation to the Maker. May it be that I have sung with some degree of eloquence."
from Bare Ruined Choirs
Words for My Son
Words, like wood, will warm the evening air.
We settle, coals within our bed,
blanketed thigh by thigh,
light ruddy with our words.
Your hand rises like woodsmoke into my hair.
Words twine and twist, shadows gather,
and in the shadows, spiders weave their patient webs.
Listen to the words as they crackle and pop,
whole pages flaring, flames thumbing
rough-barked logs, stars craning overhead,
reading over our shoulders words illuminated,
banked with marrow of meaning enough
to warm us through the long, cold night.
Even when the words die back,
the stones of our bodies retain a lingering heat.
We read, bones bright with meaning,
cool to a wordless sleep.