ART: The Song Of The Lark

“Quartering the topmost branches of one of the tall trees, an invisible bird was striving to make the day seem shorter, exploring with a long-drawn note the solitude that pressed it on every side, but it received at once so unanimous an answer, so powerful a repercussion of silence and of immobility, that one felt…

Who Owns Time? The Writer Does.

Writers own time–temporarily. People own time temporarily and if you don’t believe in an after life then it makes perfect sense to speed on the highway and flip out after getting behind an old lady at the grocery store who only fishes for her checkbook at the very last minute. My parents made lists to…

Manhood: He Did Not Need to Advertise It

Sam Evans was that sort of great man noticed in his small circles and forgotten by history.  While others in his regiment fell out with sore feet and heads Sam marched on. His peers knew him as the man who took new recruits under his wing. Sam spent his spare time putting his blacksmith skills…

Soil in the Garden of Eden

In the beginning was the Garden of Eden and then we blew it. God said, “Yep, I gave you guys free choice, so have at it in the real world. But, you know, because of your pride it’s gonna be kind of a pain to grow things the way I did for you–and you’re welcome,…

Quarterbacks and Chickens

The holidays have come and gone with hours spent on the couch “marathoning” Friday Night Lights with my teenaged kids (we’re obsessed). My husband hasn’t quite been sucked in. He says: “I don’t have to watch a show about football; I’ve lived it.” It’s funny how in fiction a paralyzed high school quarterback looks glamorous–even…

THE WOUND-DRESSER. walt whitman

1 An old man bending I come among new faces, Years looking backward resuming in answer to children, Come tell us old man, as from young men and maidens that love me, (Arous’d and angry, I’d thought to beat the alarum, and urge relentless war, But soon my fingers fail’d me, my face droop’d and…

Freedom

Army Boots  Winslow Homer Waiting before the front gate was a man on horseback: Maj. John Baytop Cary of the 115th. With his silver gray whiskers and haughtily tilted chin, he appeared every inch the Southern cavalier. Butler, also on horseback, went out to meet him. The men rode, side by side, off federal property…