Junk Drawer

Poem: Death


Death moves silently
But not always swiftly.
We know death is nearby
We feel it, we smell it, we see it.
Death teases with its embrace
Not yet, not yet, not yet.
Death plays upon the stage
The audience holds its breath.
Sometimes death comes quickly
Like the strike of a cobra....

It occurs to me that I should be trying to push my books at readers. The title of this post is taken from a seminar I attended at the Pacific Northwest Writers Conference years ago. The author, a woman whose name is lost to me after almost thirty years, was talking about promoting your writing. She indicated that most writers...

Oh, the road I've traveled is not straight
But I am, it's how I roll
It zigged, it zagged, and often sagged
Weird, scary, and often droll