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Snow Day

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It snowed last night and socked us in,

A gentle reminder from the powers above.

We watched it descend out of the darkness

Into the light outside our door.

I venture out into the dawn,

Wisps of breath curling in the air.

My boots christen the new fallen snow

As I walk into the quiet of the day

Limbs of white lance through trees above

While gusts make snow devils dance below

Deep drifts blur the boundaries of our

Yards, and sidewalks, and the road to town.

As neighbors, we’ll scrape them clean,

Dispelling the peace to resurrect careful lines.

We’ll laugh at the effort and shake each other hands

Our routine restored. Soon, but not now.

Now, I stand in the quiet – alone in the day

Wondering at the calm I find.

It snowed last night and socked us in,

A gentle reminder from the powers above.

Snow Day – By J. Boyce Gleason

If Relatives of Literary Greats Could Tweet

I’ve been learning to tweet.  Which is a very bizarre phenomenon.  It’s like stepping into a scene from The Bald Soprano by French playwright Eugene Ionesco.  In the Bald Soprano, everyone talks – but no one listens.  “It’s not that way!  It’s over here!”

This is particularly true if your followers and followees (?) are writers, bloggers and the media.  Everyone is hyping their own work, a small few are entertaining, but is anyone really listening?  Hard to tell.

Maybe it’s just me.  Maybe I don’t have enough “followers” yet.  Maybe I just don’t quite get it yet.  For my part, I’ve been trying a mix of promoting Anvil (whenever I get a good review or hit a new milestone) and being “entertaining.” (Mostly to amuse myself, since I’m not sure anyone is listening).

At least I hope I’m entertaining.  My first attempt relates to a blog post I wrote earlier called, “What do we tell the children?” about how awkward it was for me when friends and neighbors read the sex scenes from my novel – which I’ll admit are pretty graphic – It was even more awkward with people are related to me.

That led me to wonder what it would have been like to be the relative of a literary great, back in the day.  It must have been doubly difficult.  (For those of a certain age, think Billy Carter, Jimmy Carter’s brother).

What if they could communicate today?  What if they could tweet?

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#IfRelativesOfLiteraryGreatsCouldTweet

“That, ‘to be or not to be’ line?  Yeah, that was mine.” – Bobby Shakespeare

“’Plain English!’ I told him.  ‘No one will understand you.’” – Bobby Shakespeare

“Yeah, Bacon did write a few of them.” – Bobby Shakespeare

 “Midsummer’s Night Dream?  Now, that is some strange shit.” – Bobby Shakespeare

 “He starts using iambic pentameter, and I say, ‘now you’re just showing off.” – Bobby Shakespeare

“I’ll give it to him on diversity. Othello was way ahead of its time.” – Bobby Shakespeare

“I wish he had told me that all the female parts were played by men.” – Bobby Shakespeare

Next:  Nabokov’s son Nick

Autumn Song

Rooted and ringed,
I face the wind
With gnarled limbs and knots
Aching.

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The white of winter comes
Leaden with demise and
Beauty so cruel it is
Careless.

Such an odd thing
The inability to move
When all around me
Beckons.

To begin again, to believe again
In the sun and distant spring.
A useless dream,
And yet…

It rises in me
Hot against the air so cold
Stretching for the sun’s
Embrace.

Autumn Song by J. Boyce Gleason

Men in Space

“What did you guys talk about?”

“Nothing.  We were playing cards.”

“You were there for five hours, somebody must have said something.”

“No…not really.  I mean we bet, raised, folded, you know – card stuff.”

“Are you telling me that seven guys got together for five hours and didn’t talk about anything?

“Pretty much.”

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Men don’t need to talk.  In fact, sometimes I think men communicate better with other men when we don’t.  We are content to simply be in each other’s space, to share an experience together. If you think about our pastimes – sports, watching sports, playing cards, fishing, golf, hiking, boating, video games – there’s not a lot of talking going on.  Silence is a virtue we share in such moments.

That doesn’t mean we never talk to each other, but if we do, it is usually to tell a story, or exchange banter.  Both communicate volumes about what we think is important and how we relate to each other.  If I don’t like you, I won’t bother to chump you down.  If I did, it would just be mean. Men don’t need to talk.  In fact, sometimes I think men communicate better with other men when we don’t.  We are content to simply be in each other’s space, to share an experience together. If you think about our pastimes – sports, watching sports, playing cards, fishing, golf, hiking, boating, video games – there’s not a lot of talking going on.  Silence is a virtue we share in such moments.

That being said, I think men are less verbally challenged than we used to be.  Perhaps it is because our culture allows for more expression – and a broader range of expression – than we used to.  Men are no longer stuck in the rigid macho box we used to live in.  I freely admit to being a romantic slob who gets sentimental (read “cries”) at the movies and at just about every family gathering.  And as I get older, I find myself comparing health and family issues with friends in a way that would have been unthinkable in my parent’s generation.

But, there is something about silence that still speaks to me.  The quiet of an early morning golf game as the mist lifts off the fairway; the hush that surrounds a raise when the table is full of chips, the brief flutter of a sail in a spring wind as it stretches tight against the boom and the boat surges forward.  To share those moments, maybe that’s enough.

The End of This Year

My brother Jim, sent this in, saying that it was a poem that touched him this year.  It sounds like him.

What poetry moves you?

The End of This Year1-first-snowfall-barbara-white by Jack Ridl

The best place to be is here,
at home, the two of us, while

others ski or eat out. It will be
quiet. We won’t watch the ball

fall, the crowd in Times Square.
They will celebrate while here

there is this night. Tomorrow some will start over, or vow

to stop something; maybe try
again. Here the snow will

fall through the light over
the back door and gather

on the steps. We will hope
our daughter will be safe.

She will wonder what
the year will bring. Maybe

we will say a prayer.

“The End of This Year” by Jack Ridl from Practicing to Walk Like a Heron. © Wayne State University Press, 2013.