Vivid scrolls,
in tantalising yarns,
fantastic that reveal,
exotic envelopes of vista,
that have me transfixed,
and transported,
my brown hazel eyed,
gladsone gaze,
oe’r lush depiction,
bold brushstroke of,
myriad science fiction,
vibrant character snapshots,
that dispel monotony,
douse mundane patterns,
gap-filler of trite,
vacuous daily plod,
as I clasp otherworld,
enchantment in a dash,
novelists who exude,
endowed flourish with,
pockets of fly plots,
misleading labyrinth,
convoluted and intricate,
shady, cagy, fly-by-night,
side routes veering off,
adding riddles shadowy,
step by echoe’d step,
in hair-raising soundscape,
rushes of exhilaration,
stoke and fire,
iridescent wonderland,
escape into mythic mists,
entwined flames of romance,
laced with sumptuous,
dream moon flotillas,
a swooning heart march past,
yet I bystander engrossed,
by segue after segue.
Sacrificial
Actors
Trying
Anything
Negatively
Scientists
Attacking
The
Abnormal
Nations
Souless
Anger
Thrown
At
Novelists
Sadistic
Animosity
Treated
As
Normality
Swatting
At
The
Accessable
Names
Mike Bayles
Get Well Card from a Writers’ Group to a Friend in a Physical Rehab Unit
What is important is what we lay on the table.
Poems and stories we write find new life
on the third floor of the library in Muscatine.
We read our works, listen and make suggestions.
We argue and laugh, but we’re just trying to help
every writer make their work better.
each night
We are working or retired, poets and novelists
sharing our lives and points of view. We have
driven highways and city streets to be there.
Every third Tuesday of the month we sit at the table.
in quiet skies
You are the eldest, many books written
and every meeting we look to you.
We look for revelations and for how
the pieces speak to us. Works shared
bring us together.
a shining star
*Braided Haibun Form
A Poet is not like other writers …
all narrative be damned
Charging and fusing each word with a spark
redundancy to ban
Poets and Novelists both drawn to the fire
their kindling looks the same
The differences clear when striking a match
— poetic verse rising in flames
(Dreamsleep: January, 2024)
After school Ali wrote outside in her favorite perch
Inside the protective branches of her favorite oak
Stories, songs, riddles, jokes, they flowed here
She was prolific her mother told others later.
At the time she was too shy to share her work.
No one saw it until years later, and this suited her.
She became a novelist, but remained humble
Remembering her favorite perch with pure love
They are raging with excitement; one is twerking. I ignore it.
Their voices are increasing in volume now, it is the weekend.
Enthusiasm keeps their spirits high; they are thrilled it is Friday.
Higher and higher their voices sing the joyful Friday afternoon song.
So many sounds from twenty-four excited fifth-graders.
Borderline shrieking; it is amazing to hear. I watch, thinking.
Future novelists are silent, organizing books in their heads.
Future screenwriters and poets are creating scenes in their minds.
The busiest ones are not the loudest and proudest.
They are not the ones twerking and shrieking.
They are the ones listening silently,
Studying and learning what human nature looks like.
CATS AND CATS
At night all the male cats
they are gray and the female cats
suited to them ...
OVERPOPULATION
The earth has 7 billion
inhabitants and plus those
the novelists and filmmakers
create ...
MY DAUGHTER
She loves men as much as
the horses ... and have them on the short bridle
as you do in the trot ...
PS my adaptations to the epigrams
from my friend the french poet
Barbara Botton
Spring comes
Quietly--
Not with the bleating of lambs or
The tweeting of birds or the
Beating of butterfly wings
Spring comes
Silently--
Celtic through the Neolithic stones,
Unheralded by peering shadow-seekers
Rummaging around on the Second of
February, and unannounced by a
Banner on the front page of the
National Enquirer…
Unpresaged by pregnant April
Showers,
Spring comes--
Alive
Nota bene: This is one of the few pieces of juvenilia I have preserved. It was written when I was at college (the University of Florida), in 1979, when I was in the English Department High Honors Seminar. We had an assignment to write a poem about Spring, but to try not to fall into the usual cliches. I thought it might be fun to mention some of those cliches ironically. We had one-on-one tutorials with a number of well-known novelists and poets; one of mine was with the poet Richard Eberhart. He told me he liked this poem and that it was a good one, so I have kept it these four decades.
Favourite Novelists
Of all the American writers I knew of
some favourites remain, like Theodore Dreiser.
John Dos Passos, John Steinbeck and
Ernest Hemingway. I mentioning him the last,
although I admired his writing, still does
immensely, he was a master, like Dos Passos,
in short sentences, but I disliked his theme
often about hunting and shooting, personally
I think he was a big softy never killed
A thing in his life. These days if I read a novel
I rarely do – lack of patience- I prefer
the way John Steinbeck wrote.
I`m thinking of writers using the English
language, I find some English writer like
Martin Amis practically unreadable as he
appears to need to impress
readers with his erudition; in all should know I sit
down and read I would prefer an American
novelist
WOMEN CAN’T BE COMPASSIONATE
Women can’t be compassionate, or their reputation’s dead
Can’t comfort the lost tourist, he’s the surrogate lover
As he sits on the theatre steps, wearing loud red
Checks and braces, bewildered when the play is over.
Women must be professional and never huddle
In doorways after rain, like an angel in a stupor
With life’s rejects, looking for a cuddle
Sad casualities of money, or of having worn Lee Cooper*.
Women can’t be friends with male novelists, or film-makers
Or poets, who want to define mistresses, and wives,
Leaving creativity to the movers and the shakers,
Taking dignitas and money out of women’s lives.
This narrows the field to the tycoon, or the bore –
Feminists – choose death first! Webster’s honest whore.
*Apologies to Lee Cooper – I couldn’t resist the rhyme, in fact their jeans are as good as anyone else’s – at one time they were very cool indeed.
from IN MEMORY OF HER, 2004, 2008
to those that think they're 'real' writers
'real' poets'
'real' novelists
riddle me this:
why are you posting your master pieces on a site that any tom, dick of harry can?
reality check:
'real' writers
'real' poets
'real' novelists
have 'contracts'
with 'publishing companies'
they get 'paid'
real 'money'
not monopoly
and could care less about glory
so say what you will
write what you like
feel how you want
and be all you can
but keep that ego in check
because after all
we are just hacks
Log cabin in the woods
Curly rugs and wood fire
Your with the one you love
Wonder what will transpire.
Steaks in the fridge ready to cook
Potatoes wrapped up with foil
Your favourite novelists no.1 book
Libido starting to boil
Which will come first, book or bed
Come now its holiday time
Get those boots on lets get out the sled
Fresh air will cool you down
A roll in the snow face all aglow
Smiles from ear to ear
Its fun letting your hair down
Acting like children without fear
Tired muscles hungry bodies
Climb back to the hut at last
Bubbling jaccuzi and hot toddies
Sleepy, happy and relaxed.
At this moment in time
There are moms giving birth,
While gravediggers shovel
A plot in the earth.
At this moment a plane
Is preparing to soar,
While a soldier’s blown up
In a far-away war.
At this moment some people
Confess all their sins,
While the gamblers assess
All their losses and wins.
There are folks who are sleeping
Or cooking or reading;
Shoplifters stealing
And knife victims bleeding.
Actors rehearsing and
Bar patrons drinking.
Cars crashing crazily;
Novelists thinking.
Knitters are knitting
And lovers embracing;
Criminals learn of
The sentence they’re facing.
Capture one moment
And measure the arc.
Everything happens –
The light and the dark.
Here in this moment
Some journey from home,
While I sit and ponder
And jot down this poem.
The daylight appears, bright and beautiful,
Night, dark with a glimmer of twilight in the distance.
Characters of divine nature,
Novelists of intrigue.
The day continues enamored by a neighbor of excellence,
Now and then blessing the day with friendship.
Foods that delight the soul,
To discover traditional old-fashioned values again.
Living in a time zone,
That is complex all the while simple.
Pioneers of retirement,
To be with those we care about and love.
Distant from friends we used to know,
Always reverent, tolerating the humanness.
A moment where you transcend beyond your limits,
And are praised and recognized.
Honourary days chosen by the Lord,
Blessings and praises.
Disappointments you don't comprehend,
A vision from heaven,
To be loved and exist in God's kingdom,
Sacred passages to be respected.
Author: Gwen Meyer-Erlach Schutz
Novelists and Nobodies
Ah, now this my domain, the library
Where cultures collide.
Men of leisure reeking from their latest dumpster dive
mingling with men in leisure suits studiously swimming in their work.
And me, in my disguise?
I'm hidden between both,
Like bookends.
Where else can a man of my means
In my situation loiter all day
and still look poignant -
Though I've really no place to go.
Like the man from the street
and the man incomplete,
I am simply another book on a shelf
waiting to be read.
R. Biffany '09
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