essays
Fiction takes time. Anything from a short story to a novel, a thousand word something to a hundred thousand word something. It all takes time, effort, and patience. That’s the beauty of fiction. You sit down, and write. At the beginning, the fire drives you, the joy of having
poems
Birth, and death, Death, and birth, Are either two ends of a line, Or, two points in a never-ending circle. Now way to know, to be sure. After all none have come back, From the great end. What lies in between, Is the great green expanse. Life. The one thing,
poems
They killed some more men today, At a place where men kneel, To gods, looking down at men. They killed some more men today, With a gun, a bomb, and a knife, There was a man, a woman, and a child. They killed some more men today, They said it
poems
The past, is like ink on paper. Present. Permanent. Persistent. The thoughts I’d had then, Feel like a different universe now. A universe in which you would have been, In love with your work, and I would have been, Close to you, in your city. But that’s what
writing is
Yesterday was the second day in a row, when I was ridiculed for the stuff I had put up on the blog. Okay, maybe ridiculed is not the best word to describe what happened. Let’s see. I had to go through some pretty harsh criticism, for the things I
blog
This happened yesterday. I received only one response to the post I had scheduled yesterday, and it was this. To quote: You are duplicating now. You keep writing the same thing, that you need to write. And, I am tired of reading the same thing again and again. Guess I
blog
For the past three days, Friday included, I have been making excuses. I’m tired. There’s no time left to do anything today. I should start off with fresh resolve in the new week, starting Monday. I had posted my last blog post on Thursday, which also, was my
essays
There was a moment, between when I had picked up my luggage, and when I began looking for a cab, that I felt this sense of loss, this sadness. I had just returned from one of the four or so trips I need in a year to function. I was
poems
You ask me not to imagine, You ask me not to build, Castles of glass, and sand. You are afraid of what they do to me. What they make me do. You’re right. In parts. I walk in the castle, With my eyes open. I know what they are.
blog
So my sister left yesterday. It was raining as I stood there in the midst of in the middle of blaring car horns, and dark skies. It rained later that day. This was Thursday. Today is Friday. It rained today as well. I’m not sure any of that detail
poems
Sometimes, I wish I were a painter, And not a poet, So that I had a better reason, To sit, and stare, To have you, sitting across from me. You’d be my muse, As you are now, But not just in my head, You’d be out there, Physically,
poems
We build walls. Bricks. Cement. Slug. We build walls, Strong, high, menacing, Forbidding any to breach, Enter our hearts, And minds, and souls. When in need, We go deeper, Inside the shell. Do you know, Why we do that? Why we trust us, More than others? More than those, Who