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.







Monday, November 12, 2012

Frozen

by Andy Hanson

I want to be real, but the truth makes me uncomfortable.
I want to be strong, but strength has its obligations.
I want to be brave, but I have nothing to defend.
I want to be loved, but love is a mystery.
I want to be attractive, but I avoid mirrors.
I want to be valued, but bragging is stupid.
I want to be popular, but everyone I know is an idiot.
I want to be understood, but words fail me.
I want to be kind, but generosity can be taken for granted.
I want to be unselfish, but nobody wants what I have.
I want to be respected, but I hang with the crowd.
I want to hope, but that’s daydreaming.
I want to be admired, but I am indecisive.
I want to know, but I am fearful of what I might find out.

Thursday, November 8, 2012

Hey Riders and Sliders

by Kathleen Kelley

Hey riders and sliders
Burghers and bums
Don't worry we know it
So no need to show it

All Hallowed


by Kathleen Kelley

Today is the day
for tricks and play
a devil or saint
It's never too late
to seal your fate

Demons to slay?
What's to say?
Save the day.

Your Identity

by Michael Long

Your identity lies
Within your deeds.
The life you live
As you sew your seeds.
Who you are
Inside and out
Whether you're silent
Or scream and shout.
A living picture
For all to see
The things we do
Our destiny.

And then it's real when you stop

by Kathleen Kelley

"Take your inner child and kick its little ass Dave told me that We had a good laugh I fought the good fight I know I have righteaousness on my side but I needed Dan's affirmation He supported my songs like a great drummer or the "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy from Company B" I'm not a chorus girl groupie or in the USO i'm in the rhythm.

To me Dave means Dad this is my "father" of course I still rely on science most biology and evolution It can all get along Denying one for the other doesn't make any sense to me "Wisdom is as wisdom does" Thanks Forest be sure to run.

What are we fighting for by the way Don't ask me I give too much of a damn (or darn I should say have to watch it around here)Thanks Daves the seamen and the berets purple hearts I know I've got my own a cigarette burn on my left breast Thanks mother or should I say "mom?"

Hit the brake Dare!

Holiday Jeer

by Michael Long

How I hate the holidays
Let me count the ways
First the stupid Christmas tunes
In my ears like donkey brays.

Commercialism, traffic jams
Dispensing fights galore
Me thinks your Christmas spirit
Has gone out the F***ing door!

Take pity on the lonely
The single and the poor
And then there are the homeless
Who don't even have a door.

Sleeping in the bushes
Shivering in the night
The victims of disaster
Who cares about their plight?

There are good people that I know
They're just few and far between
But each year gets worse and worse
And this is the worst I've seen.

I too be far from guiltless
This also be a synch
Is It any wonder
I'm such a flipping' grinch?

Sing in the Rain

by Kathleen Kelley

Sing in the rain
To drive out the pain
Not to worry
We're all insane

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

And Then It's Real

The Velveteen Rabbit...Winnie the Pooh...Pinnochio...children's books and Disney movies...imaginary friends...theres something in that phrase, "and then it's real", that we are apparently trying to teach our children but I haven't figured out what it is. For some reason, it sounds like a lie.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Leading By Example

by Kathleen Ann Kelley

To lead by example is to be as you are
To be as intended
To "not be" is to transgress
Inspiration comes when it comes
As an arrow to the heart
A pierce
A sword
A pen

A pencil is better
For mistakes you erase
Don't worry about disgrace
If you've already set the pace

Friday, October 19, 2012

Fishing Triptych


The Cathedral
Blue, cloud frescoed dome
Pious cliffs, virtuous trees
Unruffled water

The Question
Sky reflecting lake,
Am I fisherman or fish,
Lake reflecting sky?

The Mass
Solemn children watch
the long knife. Terror stricken
I gut the first fish.

Chloe and Salyanna: Intro

an extraction from 'Cardomon'
a novel by James (Ben) Mielke

Chloe had an eye for good property and stylish living, as well as a talent
for dickering with realtors; Pyteman Daelmeron let his wife find their
condominium and she made a score, securing forty thousand cubic feet three
stories above Rim Deck and overlooking a bustling neighborhood of restaurants
and cabarets where life boiled at all hours. With financing through their
employer's private bank, the unit was actually the property of Glatz
Enterprises, but they garnered a finder's fee and a percentage of appreciation
for as long as they occupied it-deep space real estate never loses value,
it is a finite commodity in an infinite market.

They worked together as Transient Business Paraprofessionals, a job title unique
to the corporation. They were specialists in quelling incipient resistance to
the company and operated covertly; bribery, extortion and the occasional
assassination were their tools. They came to Crossroads Station on assignment
to break up a budding union among the staff of a cargo transfer facility.

It was an easy job, finished in under two years after the 'accidental' deaths
of nine organizers; and an even dozen others were en-route to prison, caught up
in a violent scandal involving narcotics traffickers and a huge cache of stolen
armaments. Everybody proclaimed innocence, blaming a mysterious black haired
woman the authorities never found. Pyteman and Chloe had performed brilliantly;
they drew the attention of the highest echelons in Glatz Enterprises.

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

The Door

by Charlie Gage

I found a place I thought was safe,
To do some work that needed done.
A place to take myself apart,
And find out just who I'd become.

I listened to the One's who knew,
The guiding One's who've been before.
And as I looked into the glass,
I begin to open up the door.

Inside was shambles, torn and tossed,
Things were scattered on the floor.
I saw the places they had fallen,
Love and hate and even more.

I started picking up the pieces,
Looking at them one by one.
Hanging them back upon the wall,
In places they had fallen from.

I know that some are not in order,
But even so I'm in the house.
I left the doorway standing open,
So the wind blows in and out.

The wind, it brings new things to me,
And lets inside the warming sun.
Things to hang upon my walls,
To help me be my Father's son.

RIPPLES

RIPPLES
by Michael Dean Long

Like Stones thrown in the ocean
Are the actions that we take
Never even imagining
The impact that we make

The feelings we evoke
The course we blindly chart
In the ever changing landscapes
Of the human soul and heart.

Fort Bragg to Gold Beach Oregon: 271 miles


Monday, 24th September
50 MPG

Fatigue the night before had misguided my assumption that the Oceanview Inn & Suites was merely shabby, not dirty.  In the morning light I discovered the detritus of past guests piled up all around the base of the bed.  As I checked Mother’s room for forgotten items, I found a Mini Oreo residing under the wall furnace.  For all I know it could have been years old---its preservatives protecting unknowing guests much like a mothball.
As I wrote and got ready for the day, my husband went for a walk---returning with a beautiful Brugmansia sanguinea blossom he found on a very large bush.  He promised to show me where he found it, but after we took an extensive motor tour of the side streets he could not relocate it.  I told him in ten more years he’ll call me from one of his wanderings, hoping I can find him.  The blossom resided all day on the dashboard, hardly showing any fatigue from the drive---amusing, since the plant itself is rather insistent on having cool, moist temperatures.

It was a pretty morning---misty sunlight playing over the fields and coves.  We stopped a couple of times to take in the view around Westport before turning inland and twisting our way up to US 101.  The mileage sign mentioned Rockport being ten miles away---and then another soon mentioned NO SERVICES IN ROCKPORT.  Upon arrival one finds nothing but trees, so it seems a case of CalTrans not keeping up with the times.

Shortly after the site of Rockport the back entrance to The Lost Coast appears.  Usal Road looks like somebody’s dirt driveway save for a plethora of warning signs that would alarm most suburban drivers.  It’s also the back entrance to Redwoods Monastery, a group of nuns related to the boys at New Clairvaux in Vina---some forty miles north northwest of Rancho Notorious.  We’ve toyed with the idea of visiting the nuns sometime, taking the more conventional route from Garberville towards Shelter Cove, and then south on Whitethorn Road, which is paved before eventually petering out into Usal Road.  Not that Patsy hasn’t forged over the Lost Coast’s dirt roads before---as recently as the 2nd of January of this year.

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

To Regret the Past


by Nick B.

To regret the past and be fearful of today
is the entity of sorrow that I've chosen to convey.

I've sought comfort in nothing, got nothing in return
leaving a void and a lesson to learn.

I have presented a mask for any given task,
and I've been known to take something before I even ask.

And gazing into the mirror into my dark blue eye's,
it does not take me long to realize
that they’re not a window to my soul, but a storage for my lies.

I'm dying inside. A spiritual demise
I should have seen this coming, but it's really no surprise.
I fear I've lost the yester me in the peelings of the past,
but even then I knew that nothing good would last.

I've now done everything I said I’d never do—
always me, never you.

Learning slowly but falling fast,
I haven’t got the memo that you can't change the past.