Author Archives
Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
-
The January moon will never be full again
Cruel slant of a moon that could be a fang or a hook, a nail, or a cat’s claw stuck to the sky, pulling it down gloating, feeding until it’s full— but the moon looks empty, full like it wants… Read More ›
-
The day we thought we died
It was the first time I started my morning ritual but then stopped and just went back to bed. I got the coffee going, fed the animals, but it was still dark outside so I lay in bed another 20… Read More ›
-
“Found”
In the darkest places of rest the mind finds what’s left in our pockets whether we wanted it found or forgotten.
-
By the time we got to New Year’s
It was cold enough we could use the garage as an overflow for the fridge and I went out there splitting wood, breaking down boxes, consolidating the remains of Christmas pasts and presents—and even though we said we wouldn’t, we… Read More ›
-
Poem for Bukowski on horses, days, the rain
The days ran down the side of the hill the way the rain can, how you don’t notice it’s worn down the surface until it slides right off. Inspired by the title of a Bukowski poetry collection, The Days Run… Read More ›
-
Pledge made in Galway last December
I came down to the lake after I left my job and talked to the unemployment office on the cell phone. They said I was eligible for X dollars but just because you’re eligible doesn’t mean you’ll get it, you… Read More ›
-
Meditation on a nameless day
Climbing mountains you get high enough you can see above the cloud deck, the tips of the other peaks coming through, how the clouds look like soup from above, and in every direction just the land stretching out, no cities—like… Read More ›
-
On Tuesdays they come for the recycling
Then the clouds came down so low they flattened the trees and the rain thickened, the drains backed up, the only color from the dead leaves hanging on like rust, the rest of it graphite gray: and the grocery store… Read More ›
-
On the way to Waterford
We dropped mom off at the airport in Cork, she flew back to Germany, and the rest of us carried on to Waterford, on the southern coast of Ireland. If the country is like the face of a clock, we… Read More ›
-
St. Stephen’s Day, west Cork, ’15
All the UPS drivers have gone home to their families with their shorts and their socks, and the gravel road out front is quiet tonight with no crunching of wheels or deliveries: the grocery store is closed but they’re getting… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 