Writers of fiction, poetry, lyrics, screenplays and life stories come from diverse backgrounds. For the past three years a small group has met weekly to write together, offering criticism and support to whoever stopped by. Over 200 different people have dropped by; we learned something from each one of them. Most of the people who found us had already written for years- some even published.

If this is something that interests you, join us! We meet every Wednesday, from 9 AM - 10:30 at the Jesus Center on Park Avenue.



Friday, December 21, 2012

Another Song for My Wife


Another Song for My Wife

Far away from the trouble
The evil and the pain
Safe from the rubble
And the barriers that remain
Somewhere in the country
Where beauty's never vain
Deep by the aisles of corn
That never seem to end
Lives a maiden named Krestine
And she's my best friend

Outside the urban walls
Where evil is unseen
Away from city hall
And the cold bureaucracy
Deep in the fertile forest
Free from the creative blockades
Talking as a woman does
When love is not a masquerade
A young woman named Krestine
Is not about to break

This movie is overrated
And everybody's tense
My neighbor's ego is inflated
And the air between us, dense
Half the world's intimidated
The others take offense
Every deal is validated
At somebody else's expense
My lovely wife named Krestine
Thinks she's the one who's blessed

Alex Rizo Patron



A Man is Still King in His Own Castle


A Man is Still King in His Own Castle

I'm not concerned with empty rooms
I measure my life by the sun and moon
A man is still king in his own castle

People leave and people change
And some people become deranged
A man is still king in his own castle

I don't blame you at all
Even celestial creatures fall
A man is still king in his own castle

It was I who broke the law
A victim of my greed and flaws
A man is still king in his own castle

Though the house is up for sale
I wish to stay under your spell
A man is still king in his own castle

You have the right to feel uptight
But let's make this a memorable night
A man is still king in his own castle

Alex Rizo Patron



Wednesday, December 19, 2012

"Chloe and Salyanna II"

An extraction from 'Cardomon'
a novel by James (Ben) Mielke"
boneyardhound@hotmail.com
This is Ben's third "extraction" from 'Cardomon', Click here for the previous two.

Salyanna tired of talking to wood and preferred standing next to the bunkbed, speaking directly to Mabutu. "You have bruises--did Luvin jump you again?"

"Yeah." He was nearly invisible in the dark, with a blanket up almost to his ears.

"You're bigger than him, fight back."

"I can't, Sal. I'm scared."

Salyanna made an involuntary hiss of disgust. "Eunuchs," she muttered.

Mabutu lay on his bunk quietly, but Salyanna heard him sniffling.

"I'm sorry, Bubu," she said, firmly. "But it's time to stand up."

"He's mean--like the men in the brothel used to be." His voice cracked.

She was still disgusted: "He's just a little kid! We can beat him up."

"What about the others--Synoveh and Marcus? He's their kid; we're strangers here."

"Luenda likes us," Salyanna argued. "She doesn't like having Luvin around Edzelian."

"No, Sal!" he cried, shaking his head vigorously. "We can't go getting into fights."

"I'm not gonna let a little punk mess with you!"

Mabutu resigned to fate. "Don't hurt him too much."

Salyanna barked a cynical laugh. "I won't--just enough to remember us by."

"You've changed, Sal. You're not like a brothel babe anymore." He threw off the cover and sat against the outside wall, with knees up and feet on the bed. He looked directly at his companion's face.

Shadowed against the moonlit window, Salyanna was a shifting shape of shaggy hair and gauzy nightgown, her face was an impression in charcoal. "We're not in a brothel, are we? I'm feeling better these days--lighter."

Thursday, December 6, 2012

Ode to my Shorts


Ode to my Shorts

By Emily G

My shorts smell like me
They are my badge, my trademark
All summer long
Omnipresent
Except when Eva borrows them.

After I take them out of the dryer
They feel stiff
They smell like laundry detergent
I have to reroll the cuffs
And get them just right.

After an hour or so
They relax into me
They shape themselves around me
Like the comforter on my bed
When I sleep.

The days go on and
These shorts take on more
Of the pictures and sounds of my life.

When they are perfectly fused
With my body
Then the washing machine beckons
And I have to start over.


The Bus Ride


The Bus Ride

by Emily G

Sitting in a crowd of strangers for 5 hours.
Not the way a 12 year old would like to pass the time.
I had to think of ways to make the bus ride bearable.

When you sat down next to me I wanted to crawl away.
Oh no! An old man who would bore me with his anecdotes.
Please don’t ask me questions about myself.

You did start and I was very evasive with my answering.
Yes, I had gotten on the bus in New York.
But I was really from Paris where my father was a film director.

I lived on the Left Bank surrounded by poets and artistic types.
I was an actress and had dabbled in writing children’s books.
I enjoyed traveling around America, looking for inspiration.

Hey this was fun! I could wrap myself up however I pleased.
I’d never see this old man again. He’d never know.
I’d start namedropping – Fellini was my father’s best friend.

He’d never get to unwrap this gift and see what’s inside.
He’d only see whatever wrapping I chose to put on.
He could tell his grandchildren what a famous child he had met on the bus.

The five hours flew by quickly. The trip was done.
I shook his hand with a cocky self-assuredness.
His eyes twinkled with the wisdom of his years.

Somehow I knew that I had not pulled one over on him.
He did know what was inside the wrapping paper.
A bored, self-conscious, awkward 12 year old, yearning to be someone else.