A good fundamental cause…
Help my little foster girls and many others find their forever home! ♡ PLEASE PASS ON THIS POST ♡
Source: Saturday October 10 Long Beach
Suddenly, I’m an “official” author. My debut novel, Ochoco Reach, is available for pre-order on both Amazon and Barnes and Nobel. When the ebook is ready, it will appear in those places, plus iBooks and the other usual outlets.
If you do order the book, it will be sent to you on January 4, 2016. When you’ve read it, please offer a review. Obviously, I’d love an endless stream of 5 star reviews, but that is entirely up to you, Dear Readers.
Click the Ochoco Reach cover thumbnail to the right and you’ll be magically whisked to where you can order the book.
Jim Stewart, October 1, 2015
Dear Readers,
Guess I should mention that I’ve started writing again on my Life O’Wryly blog. Not sure if it’s writing or rambling. I’m hoping some of it is entertaining. You decide. If you’re following the Narbles, give a thought to following O’Wryly. It won’t bring any more emails to your inbox. Except for today, I would hazard a guess that I will never again post two in one 24-hour period. Heck, two in a week would be an improvement.
Just a thought. And thanks for reading.
~jrs
Laughter of women:
peals cynicism from my
long under-used brain.
(pinterest.com)
In hopes of expanding the circle…
Awake to the dark,
front lobes assessing:
damage minor.
Glee seeps from my brainstem,
revelry managed well;
thoughts slowly connect.
Tendrils of ground beans
snake up my nose,
anticipation warms its hands
around my heart.
Music tomorrow:
lucky me.
(top: forwallpaper.com; bottom: freedigitalphotos.net)
(I just watched a show on OPB about the coverage of the JFK assassination. It brought to mind this old cowboy poem I wrote. Here it is again. jrs)
He gave up in late nineteen sixty-three
with the death of a young president
still firmly caught on a fence in his mind
where the wind fans desire to intent.
The other hands tried to console him,
but they offered their friendship in vain.
He seldom came back to the bunkhouse
and spent the winter outside on the plains.
He’s just too damn dumb
to come in from the rain.
He met her on a bridge in Frenchglen.
He was fishing, she was walking to the store.
Her face let something in him untangle
as an old wind blew through him once more.
He offered her some conversation.
She laughed and made it quite plain
that old cowboys were still on her menu,
it was something she couldn’t explain.
She’s just too damn dumb
to come in from the rain.
So they joined for a walk by the river.
She…
View original post 136 more words
This rumble under my butt
hums, a rising, falling
cadence that seeks and destroys
the walls accumulated
throughout my head.
Each haphazardly laid stone
marries another to channel
my thoughts in a straight and narrow
path of least resistance.
Begone, walls!
Form, as you must, but
leave not a scar as
you tumble asunder
from the deep headlong rush,
through the chord of our passing.
(both photos: colourbox.com)
Changed a line that’s been bugging me since I wrote this.–jrs
Rhinestones on the bushes,
gossamer in the trees,
when you hear her call your name
it drives you to your knees.
The sky will build cathedrals
that rise beyond your sight,
the leaves will show their colors
and lift you with their light.
Her blood as hot as coffee
in a bone-white china cup,
her eyes can light your cigarette,
but you don’t mind burning up.
Her secret skin is buttermilk,
her form too good for god,
her love is like the smell of sea
where glaciers go to thaw.
You are both fallen angels,
that’s what you are,
trying to grasp this truth of bone
so near and, yet, so far.
We are all fallen angels,
above us only sky.
We are all fallen angels,
forgotten how to fly.
(You can hear the musical version of Fallen Angels here: http://jamesrichardstewart.com/music/ )
Borrowed this image from http://rapgenius.com/Angel-us-god-over-everything-lyrics#note-2268286
(With apologies to Bob Merrill, who wrote the doggie in the window song.–jrs)
Who is that drunkard in the mirror,
the one with the waggley face?
Who is that drunkard in the mirror?
I swear I’ve met him someplace.
He wasn’t there this morning,
he wasn’t there last night,
but he’s certainly here this evening,
how did he become such a sight?
It could be the shots of tequila,
it might be the five shots of rum,
did it start with a beer in the morning?
To a demon he must have succumbed.
He’s laughing at me in the bathroom.
He’s howling at me from the page.
I curse him and gather my ego,
my honor will not be assuaged.
(top: ilya-sarkovsky.deviantart.com; bottom: planetperplex.com)
The audiobook is live!
Narble Furt Lives 