Author Archives
Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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The darkening afternoon sky
The sound of my kids upstairs in the morning singing, getting ready for school, the same nonsensical sound as birds in spring, makes you wonder why they really sing, if it’s to sooth themselves. I get to fix them toast… Read More ›
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The moon so close, again the rain
Went down to the den, turned out the lights, waited for the moon. The cat got on me and I cupped her head in my palms, Egyptian, an upside-down pyramid from the tip of the nose, fans out to the… Read More ›
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The moon got dropped like a wish in the well
By the time we got to Saturday I’d run out of things to complain about. Leonard Cohen was dead and Donald Trump President Elect—and it looked like rain the rest of the week, but that’s what you expect from November. Anthony… Read More ›
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Down the end of Clay Pit road
Matted down forest floor, now the leaves have lost their shape and rotting with the rest, the color wicked out no longer distinct, not worth saving in a book. Gray light in the forest, the branches the color of bone,… Read More ›
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The meaning of the word Enthusiasm
In 1993 I made a mix tape called Enthusiasm. It was the Word of the Day that day, one of my favorites. I learned its origin was Greek, you could tell by the way it ended, like Orgasm or Prism…. Read More ›
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Falling asleep with the candles on
Back in Germany, Eberhard was like a floor warden in his vest he was so anal about my mom burning candles in the house. The place is 500 years old and all wood, there is that, and because it gets… Read More ›
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Rain prose, the election
When I got up it was dark and raining. I went outside to clean up dog poop because I needed something to do. The DJ was playing all songs about the election, and it seemed like every word meant something… Read More ›
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Fight Harder
Originally posted on The Green Study:
At midnight, I woke up and checked the election results and began to cry. My first thought was about the conversation I’d have to have with my daughter in the morning. She stood by… -
New luck toy
When Dawn used to go out of town the kids would get into bed with me and we’d watch Shaun the Sheep, about as much maternal comfort as I could offer, a warm body and a laptop. Dawn left for… Read More ›
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The must of memories trapped in jackets
The smell of the book is the same as memories musty, vague— its only distinction is in itself how it sits there unattended: different memories, different books, all smell the same.
Bill Pearse 