Paper soul, face soft as a coin’s on its back, on the pavement Looking out the world from the inside of a jar: We are touching but can’t see, can’t hear, just waiting to be exchanged at face value.
Poetry
If the world could be a sweater and I could try it on before buying it
Titles are important. Like the name you choose for your child, it should match the expectation you have for what’s inside. You have the responsibility to grant the name, but it’s not yours: it’s the story’s, the child’s. You’re just… Read More ›
Since the war I smile more
This is the name of a poem I started after 9-11 but never finished. What bothered me most that day was the knowledge that things would never be the same, that no good would come of it. Instead, more violence,… Read More ›
The sun took my eyes and put them on the moon
The face on the moon is a mask, a caricature, a serial killer, no different than mine: it always looks sad, alone, surprised to find itself so far out there on its own.
Wait Until Dark
To cut out your sight and go inward lets you tune in to the small sounds that make your world. In the green house, the creak of the structure expanding with the heat, the dribble of basketballs and children’s talk,… Read More ›
Chasing butterflies
Broken down shed at dusk, looking west. The birds light up the trees and the sky goes pink. I could take a picture now with my phone but it would just be a postcard, and say nothing of my time… Read More ›
The importance of writing
To sit and wait, To set my telescope across the expanse of night and search for sights unseen To sit and wait like some séance, To hush ourselves and give over to the mystic of old science, of witchcraft and… Read More ›
You brought smiles
Balloon on a string in an empty room Head on the ceiling like any other ghost, Just trying to get out The ribbons lose their luster The cheeks start to sag They’ll find bits of you in the trees, Your… Read More ›
At home with the sea
The tide pushes against my shins and my feet disappear into the sand. I’m anchored here now, against the sea, with sky, sun, moon, mountains. The water curls around me, tugging, saying You are part of this, too.
Sentiment, sediment, and what’s at the bottom of it
Alright, so I am sentimental about people, places and things. I keep old notes in my coats, a mish-mash of crap in my sock drawer, and I’ve been known to haunt dead-end streets where I necked with a girl. I… Read More ›
Bill Pearse 