October 14, 2018 (Sunday) Sadly, I let myself get too annoyed often and it cut into my enjoyment of life. We rode in the Pilot to the pumpkin patch, all six of us, and I reminded Loren and Lily to… Read More ›
journal writing
The smell of freshly cut grass in mid-October, summer’s scent, a lover’s fragrance. The clouds more like spring than fall, texture of sheep’s wool. The grass is wet and the cat walks upon it daintily. I spilled half my beer… Read More ›
In the last 24 hours, my blog has been targeted by a bot following attack. At first it seemed like a good thing, all these new followers. They come in batches of five or so every hour, about 200 in… Read More ›
October 7, 2018 (Sunday) In the den with the fruit flies on the couch I lay listening to the tic of the clock, the dog shifting, the sound of a jet outside, and nothing else worth noting. We are each… Read More ›
Song to the dark lands
When I look through the trees at the park near our house they are all pretty much the same as when we started coming here—like me, a bit older but still the same, mostly unnoticed. And the kids were so… Read More ›
Red wine and rain (repeat 3x, fast)
Down came the rain like a permanent marker. The permanence of fall, of nature, of flame. And the gutters gasped, and the rain slapped until it made sparks when it hit. And down the panes like a waterfall, the cadence… Read More ›
‘slowdive’
It is the time of moody records and blankets, and nearly the time of candles. Though there’s late afternoon sun it doesn’t have the same warmth and it’s wet, the ground smells, the earth sighs: and we are all holding… Read More ›
Rainer Maria Rilke made me write this
The afternoon sky looks pregnant but it’s too early to tell. And the tall trees reach to tickle its belly with stick fingers drawn by a kid. The dishwasher and drier are running, and there’s a pot on the stove… Read More ›
My name is Bill
I tried to step outside of my name, to look at it objectively. It was a plain name, handed down from my dad—and to him, from his father. It was like all the other things that get handed down, the… Read More ›
Near to fall
And so at last it was done, the book of poems I spent all summer with it seemed. They weren’t my poems, but became mine more and more each day. I sat on a chair in the grass and put… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 