William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose.
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People’s Poet
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Lost in the clouds
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THIS WAS UNCALLED FOR
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Tag Archives: William Pearse writer
October 21, 2018 (Sunday) Muted mornings of fog, leaving for work in the 6 o’clock hour and not getting home until 5, wondering if it’s going to pay off, this new job. Dawn saw the bob cat again by the … Continue reading
To bait the fruit flies, all we need is apple cider vinegar mixed with Dawn dish soap poured in the bottom of a glass, fitted with a paper funnel, wrapped with tape. The fruit flies appear at the edge of … Continue reading
Posted in Memoir, prose
Tagged addiction, autumn poetry, journal writing, stream-of-consciousness, William Pearse writer
2 Comments
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 … Continue reading
Posted in prose
Tagged autumn poetry, journal writing, pacific northwest, short form, William Pearse writer
8 Comments
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 … Continue reading
Posted in humor, musings
Tagged blogging, bots, journal writing, social media, social media addiction, William Pearse writer
29 Comments
Song for the undoing
How the days went by like the poets said they would, like wild horses over the hills or worse: indistinct and unnoticed, unremarkable, not lived. Let the days be seen for their own worth, wild as horses, mysterious as the … Continue reading
More animal
Pouring boiling water down the sink drain to kill the fruit flies. The look of them in the dark as it spills through, this everyday violence. Remembering what my arm looked like when I cut it as a 5-year-old, running … Continue reading
Posted in musings, writing
Tagged 1984, conditioning, Halloween, horror, Kavanaugh, Memoir, Rosemary's Baby, stream-of-consciousness, violence, Walt Walker, waltbox, William Pearse writer
21 Comments
Down the hill, from green to black
I got the ax out of the chicken coop to split the wood for the first autumn fire. Without ceremony, I hung the lawn chairs in the garage for the season and put away the hammock and lawn furniture. A … Continue reading
Posted in prose, writing
Tagged autumn poetry, nature poetry, pacific northwest, short form, short prose, William Pearse writer
12 Comments
