Author Archives
Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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Crow call for April
The chicken brined and so did I, in a solution of salt, memories and music. That Easter in France with Rob and Paul roasting the lamb — then the one 30 years ago I had to work at the drug… Read More ›
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Love and work (and when it doesn’t work out)
Crossing into April, Dawn and I were getting ready to be married. But the weather had been so nice every weekend for three weekends straight, we worried our luck wouldn’t hold out. All of us met at a lodge in… Read More ›
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The letting go, again
Like the dog, I’ve started taking morning naps. One of the things I’ll miss most about contracting is these times, taking walks with the dog during sun breaks or running errands on weekdays, staying on top of the laundry. I… Read More ›
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Blurred passage to poem
How the poem appeared an object in the mist I paddled toward and circled round And though it was odd and lustrous, with living things nesting and squirming inside, it was too tall and slick for me to climb. Better… Read More ›
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Sonata for flute and harpsichord
Happy plumes of smoke from the chimney, the log house behind ours. Now that it’s for sale, they leave the lights on all night and day, and it glows through the trees and bushes, happy plumes of smoke like a… Read More ›
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Stormy skies one Sunday
After all the noise from the weekend, it was good to come down to our den and just sit in the morning quiet. Outside the skies looked stormy, and I thought about the porn star and the president, the interview… Read More ›
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Leading the witness
3/24/18 Pulling into Wenatchee on a Friday night just before dark. The Olive Garden family restaurant, a long time since I’d been to one and longer still before I’ll go back. Charlotte, slap happy / punch drunk on two Cokes,… Read More ›
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Moss-petting in Portland (March, ’18)
Signs for deaf children, hand-painted Volvo’s, driving into Portland on a Friday night. By morning the rain had brought down the cherry blossom blooms like confetti, and the children across the street were young enough they could walk on walls… Read More ›
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When the saints go marching in
Softly the deer who live behind our house burrow down in a patch of green at night, and in the morning appear outside the abandoned house next door like figurines. The house has been abandoned for three years since it… Read More ›
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The first of the 7 o’clock sunsets
Sunday, the first day +60 degrees in a long time. In the morning under the trees it sounds like the birds are filling into the auditorium, taking their seats. They all know when to come back and they all know… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 