Wednesday, August 1, 2018

Behind The Axe

My father

Gave me my first axe

When I was 8 years of age

39 years later

It’s my go to tool

I’ve honed my skills behind the axe


Honed its blade!!!

Its weight

Its length

Its handle

Which soaks in my sweat


Sometimes my blood

Becomes a part of me

And me of it!!!

A symphony of

Cutting, slicing, and chopping

Me, the conductor

It, the instrument

The Axe and Cutting Mattock

Have been in my hands

My father’s hands

His father’s hands

His father’s, father’s hands

So on and so forth

All the way back to Ireland, Scotland, and Wales

Back to Scandinavia and The Vikings

The axe is deeply rooted in my blood


Everything that is me

When it comes to working outdoors

One day

When I’m old

And my hands too feeble

Too crippled

To hold my axe

I’ll look back on the lands I’ve shaped

The dirt I’ve churned

The trees I’ve fallen

And remember

My days

Behind the axe

Monday, May 28, 2018

Open Letter to Brandon Graham

Time slips by or maybe
I’m slipping as time goes by me?
Not every day is a drag
But it seems the ones
That involve passing by the TV
When the news is on
Can really bring me down
I’d much rather walk outside
Stroll down the path with my friends of the woods
Like a raccoon named Sugar
She’s so large
So big
I believe from
Eating out of the ice cream store’s dumpster
Down the street from my home
She waddles from the weeds and peers at me with
Dark curious eyes
Then slowly makes her way back into the brush
There’s also a deer I’ve named Brownie
Her husband Buck Owens and their child Jane Fawn-Da
Also come to say hello
A turkey named Loner
He is always alone
And a rabbit named Tag
It runs to me then back away
Then back to me then away it runs
They all seem to be so much more entertaining
Than anything on the tube…
And Brandon
I still wonder how your writing is going from time to time?
I wonder about all of my friends
Who practice the craft of words
Along with my own thoughts of what next to write?
Lizzy Worth is still doing her thing above us
In that far away land called Canada
I’m sure she still scribbles words
Her cat Plumb
Most likely meowing in circles around her
As she pulls words from the air like magic
And arranges them on paper
Illian Rain is up there too
Her cat’s named Leroy
I’m sure he meows
I’m just not sure how much it affects her writing
Whatever the case
Illian and Lizzy are such strong voices
From the land of Canada
And Brandon
I still talk to Lizzie Woodham from across the sea
Emailing words through wires way over there
She’s patient with me and my questions
About her writing
About the places and things that make up Europe
From Scottish Snow Flakes
The Irish Sea
The smells and sounds of the streets of Soho
But most of all she listens to me and my wandering mind
What a friend I have in her!!!
And Brandon
Mallory Smart is still out there somewhere
The windy city I believe
Or maybe the city of wind?
She loves coffee, you know?
She writes and publishes
Publishes and writes
Words swirl around her mind
Like a cyclone
At least that’s what I believe they do!
When I met Mallory
Another person that loves “The Beats”
It gave me hope for the future
And Brandon
I still think of your encounter with Burroughs
It still makes me smile
And Brandon
I still wonder if we, us, and our friends in writing
Will ever have a name associated with our work?
With our lives?
Like “The Beats” or “The Lost Generation”
I’ve pondered this question for years?
So, I will now take it upon myself to name us
“The Holding Generation”
There! I’ve coined it!!!
I feel we are holding onto hope
Holding onto anything
That tomorrow will be better than today
That moms and dads will be able to hold
Their children after a day at school
That the kids will carry books
Instead of bulletproof jackets
Holding onto the thought
That maybe just maybe
People will stop killing each other
Holding onto the idea that society
Will somehow someway get their act together…
But most of all
Holding on
While we continue to write and create art
That’s all I can do anymore

Sunday, April 22, 2018


Between Belbedere and Clyed
The last days of his youth
Were coming to an end
He was born into a world of hard labor
The plow, the axe, and the crosscut saw
Were the tools by which
His family carved out a living
They migrated wherever
The next income could be made
The North Florida farmlands of Hilliard
To the snake-infested waterways
Of the Okefenokee Swamp
Cutting timber and growing crops
Were their way of life
Life was also lived
On the mean streets of North Jacksonville
Was where you went
When all other options were gone
His father grew up on these
Same streets delivering turpentine
From the forest surrounding the city
At the age of 14 in 1906
He would gear up mules
And make the journey alone
On a wagon
His overalls stained with sticky pinesap
With tobacco
With sweat
With dirt! 
Now his son
Was following his father’s footsteps
Work was not all that thrived in Riverview!
On the north side
When the sun went down
With his hair slicked back
His blue eyes sparkling in the streetlights
This young man
Would slip into the night
With his brothers and friends   
Going from honky tonks to juke joints
Anywhere a good time could be had!
When you were a child of The Great Depression
Had seen times so hard
Your parents boiled the seed
For planting that year’s crop
To feed your brothers and sister
To feed you!
Any happiness even if through recklessness
Was excepted
His way of living
On the edge of existences   
Was drifting away
Drifting toward a domestic life
Of a father
Of my father
On a Sunday afternoon in 1952
One last ride was taken
He and his Harley 74
With its
Suicide shift jutting upwards
Its 1200 CC motor winding out
The wind stinging his face
As he blasted through
Florida’s highway heat waves, and humidity
He hit the Main Street Bridge
On the north side of the city
At 100mph
Crossing over
From one life to another
From Harleys to house mortgages
From ‘42 Ford coupes
To station wagons
He would raise his kids
With only stories of the life he left behind
But the promise
That our lives
Would be better than the one he had lived!
The sun set on his wild ways
But rose every day for us
In the figure of our father!
His 82-year-old hands wrinkled and scared
Point here and there in the horizon
Telling me stories
About the places and people
That once were alive!
Yet he can’t find any trace
Of the world that surrounded his childhood
But the world he created for us will live on
For generations to come
All made by a man who was born into nothing
But was able to give us everything  

Saturday, March 31, 2018

Harry Crews Biography

A short time ago I was informed I’m in the new Harry Crews biography Blood, Bone And Marrow by Ted Geltner. I ordered a copy and when it arrived, I opened it to see my name in the index. With a smile, I turned the pages and saw my time spent interviewing Harry typed within. This book is well put together and is a wonderful read. It’s definitely worth the buy. Pick up a copy today and enjoy the life and times of one of the greatest writers of our time!

Harry Crews biography Blood, Bone And Marrow by Ted Geltner