Author Archives
Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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Can you picture what will be, so limitless and free
I miss the mornings, when there’s no one around. When I would buckle my belt as a state trooper would his holster and start my day sharp as an arrow, aimed at the center. But there is no one to… Read More ›
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Pink suns
The August meteors were back, and with it memories of being in the Austrian alps by the farmhouse where we stayed, on my back on some dirt road watching for streaks of light across the night sky, making wishes. Bit… Read More ›
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On my way to the woodpile
The spider by the woodpile was the size of a magician’s hand and moved as quickly out of view. How wild it was when you went outside! Life or death! All the bushes and trees hanging on for dear life…. Read More ›
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Split screen soliloquy
I don’t have cause to look in the mirror much but when I do, it’s more like checking in with an old friend. How’s it going? How’s it really going? I look deep into my eyes for the real answer…. Read More ›
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To burn or to fade
The flowers are wilted but give off some color still. The morning is damp, the first time in 50 days. You can hear the earth drink, the birds cry, the gutters trickle. All is still, a bough dips under the… Read More ›
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Kite song
He turned stiffly and with great caution. He meted out portions of his day with a butter knife grimacing as he did. He was an old man well before he’d earned it in years. But being an old man was… Read More ›
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Making for a living
And the craftsman tries not to look while the customer eyes his work. But in that moment it’s like they’re at the animal rescue debating should they take one in, give it a home.
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Someday gold
The grass is so dry now it’s mostly brown, a brown you would call golden if you looked at it right. And what’s to stop us from calling it gold? This stretch of life resigned to a form of living… Read More ›
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Broken antenna
My phone says good morning to me, beside today’s temperature there sits a happy golden sun throwing beams like an Egyptian glyph. Past my phone, outside the window, the sun plays on the tall trees where invisible birds peep and… Read More ›
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Paperboy
I had never met or seen the people who lived in the houses I delivered to, but here was this girl I’d had a crush on and now I knew where she lived.
Bill Pearse 