White Ravens…And More Stories

Posted on October 9, 2018 by

Coming October 31, 2018 to your favorite book source from Word Hermit Press:

White_Ravens_Front_Cover

(Cover design: Vinnie Kinsella Book Publishing Services)

This is a collection of tales set in the modern American West with characters who somehow dispel the rugged individualist myth, while at the same time giving it new meaning.

Jim Stewart says: The first edition of White Ravens was self-published via Smashwords, just to see if I could pull it off. The editing was not rigorous and the whole concept of doing it yourself was fairly new. It was a great learning experience and I’m grateful to Smashwords for the guidance and encouragement. Then, Word Hermit Press offered to publish my novel, Ochoco Reach, and I was very happy at my good fortune. The original version of White Ravens And More Stories languished with very little attention from me or anybody else. I also self-published a short story single called Early to Rise because it made the rounds of literary magazines with no takers. Editors who said they liked the story told me the awkward length of it handcuffed them. So, I included it in White Ravens for this edition. Willy Hayes, one of the main characters in Ochoco Reach, makes her first appearance as a fictional character in Early to Rise.

Appearing for the first time anywhere is the story Bleeding Alder, featuring a young Mike Ironwood, the forthright hero from Ochoco Reach. After White Ravens comes Joshua’s Tree, the second Ironwood novel. It should appear in 2019.

Release: October 31, 2018
Publisher: Word Hermit Press
ISBN: 978-0-9982794-9-7 (paperback)
            978-1-7327508-0-7 (hardback)
Paperback Price: $16.99 (library discount available)
Hardback Price: $27.99 (library discount available)
Kindle Price: $5.99
Pages: 85
Distribution: Ingram, B & T
eBook Distribution: Kindle, Nook, Kobo, iTunes, Barnes&Noble
Publicity Contact: StewartInk Media

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The Road Takes a Break in Nakusp, B.C.

Posted on August 17, 2018 by

The breeze off Arrow lake
sways the curtains in my room,
robbing the ghosts of places to hide.
The fan blurs the ceiling where
peeled wallpaper casts vibrating
shadows, like insect wings
stuck to my leather.
The confused air stirs
this book on my knees and
my eyes flutter closed
to again see today’s road.
The fan circles my sleep as
the hot room strokes my sepia skin.
I am utterly still.
The ghosts will not let
those demons find me here
in the Leyland Hotel.

arrow lake

(Upper Arrow Lake: Kerry Oxford)

Posted in Action-adventure, Art, Bedtime, Consciousness, Dream, Gratitude, Harley Davdson, Life, memory, Motorcycles, Poem, Travel, Uncategorized, Vacation | Tagged , , , , | 2 Comments

Another Redirection

Posted on August 12, 2018 by

Ha. Life O’Wryly has another new one.  jrs

Posted in end-of-life, Life, Life O'Wryly, Uncategorized, Wildlife | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Redirection

Posted on August 9, 2018 by

Okay. Today we’re pointing to https://lifeowryly.wordpress.com/

I’m beginning a series of pieces written for ancient mariners like me.

sacagawea pointing

(painting inset: starszz.org)

Posted in Aging, Life O'Wryly, Uncategorized, Writing | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments

Companions

Posted on August 1, 2018 by

Thank you for my companions:
this journal; this pen;
this heart full of my blood;
my blood in the hearts of others;
my heart in the hearts of others;
the quivering guitars;
the gift of music holding me fast;
this love of the world, this brutal
beautiful world,
where life and death hold
one another in enraptured embrace.
I am more than the sum of my companions.
That is my contribution.
My gift to the world is the part of me
where there are no words,
the part I attempt to describe each day,
when I thank my silent companion,
brave Disappointment,
for not allowing despair.

companionhead

(photo: matrixnutritionllc.com)

Posted in Absolutes, family, Friendship, Gratitude, Home, Hope, Humans, Life, pals, Poem, Uncategorized, Universe, Wisdom, Writing | Tagged , , , | 4 Comments

Visceral Musing

Posted on May 21, 2018 by

Here Poemy, here girl, here boy,
hweet, hwheet, wheet…
c’mon—atta girl, atta boy, c’mon.
Bronkbuster’s muse is a dominatrix—
demanding, abusive, beautiful,
alluring, cruel, and
dripping wet—smelling
of sea and sagebrush.
Mine is on cat’s feet,
shifting shapes and sometimes
howling at the moon—
her edge cuts my heart
with fear and hope
I bleed on the page.
She, too, smells of sea,
torrentially wet
with lust and intent, crying:
“Coming through, get out of the way. Do your job, Lens Boy!”

for Paul Zarzyski

sagebrush

indian-beach

(top: USDA Forest Service; bottom: Fine Art America: Craig Tuttle)

Posted in Art, Beach, eroticism, Home, Ocean, Poem, Poetry, Uncategorized, Writing | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments

Haiku–Talent

Posted on April 26, 2018 by

Talent don’t mean shit.
It’s what you do with it to
make the world better.

biglittlehands

bookhead

(graphics: CCO Creative Commons)

 

Posted in Art, Baby, family, Haiku, Humans, Uncategorized, Universe, Work, Writing | Tagged , , , , | 5 Comments

Under the Rug

Posted on April 20, 2018 by

Unbridled sadness sweeps
me under the rug
on the floor of oblivion,
where cringing and
standing tall are the same.

My oceans are vast,
my salmon are few,

swimming with me under this rug;
my heart is
a defiant afterthought.
Fear, anger, despair, hope:
indulgences all.

Salmon_at_Willamette_Falls

under the rug

(salmon at Willamette Falls: Wikipedia; rug: Home Design Ideas)

Posted in American history, anger, Humans, Uncategorized, Wildlife | Tagged , , , , , , | 3 Comments

Reading Admonition

Posted on March 16, 2018 by

Reading poems–
a bronkbuster, a recovered drunk,
a morning iconoclast;
all tell me:
write something with velocity,
not half fast.

 

(Paul Zarzyski: Gordon Stevens; Richard Hugo: Hugo House;  William Stafford: American Academy of Poets)

Posted in Absolutes, Bedtime, cowboy poetry, Drunkenness, Humans, humor, Narble Furt, Oregon, Poem, Poetry, Uncategorized, Work, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

A Poem Comes

Posted on March 2, 2018 by

My impatience
robs me of my observance,
but sharpens my pen.
I slice my ego
into quivering hunks of
silvery fatback,
sputtering in the
skillet I heat with my heart.
Shame fits me too well.
I am only as good as
my efforts allow.
Some days I work hard.
Some days I don’t work at all.
Bless the days I work.
If a poem comes
I have received a gift
given at my birth.

Sheaffer_Pen

Posted in Absolutes, Art, birth, Humans, Man, Poem, Poetry, Uncategorized, Universe, Work | Tagged , , , , | 1 Comment