Writes With Pencils

fiction, memoir, essays and poetry

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I Me Wed

Revisiting an old poem with new perspective.

Writes With Pencils

photo (86)

Tomorrow is my wedding day,

there were no invitations sent

no dresses sewn

no favors wrapped

no banquet laid.

Tomorrow is my wedding day,

there’ll be no flower girls

no ring bearers

no maid of honor

no best man.

Tomorrow is my wedding day,

there’ll be no carriage at my door

no petals strewn

no smiling guests

no officiant.

Tomorrow is my wedding day,

there’ll be no groom to meet me

to hold my hand

to hear my vows

to accept my ring.

Tomorrow is my wedding day,

there’ll be no husband to kiss my lips

to feed me cake

to toast our love

to waltz with me in joy.

Tomorrow is my wedding day,

I have rewritten and revised my vows

made each verb reflexive

tried on a dress of aubergine

and reserved a quiet, sacred spot.

Tomorrow is my wedding day,

I will pick orange dahlias for my bouquet

put on lipstick…

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Bookmark Quote #125



You can’t enjoy art or books in a hurry.

-E. A. Bucchianeri

Read the story of 1000 Bookmarks.


Recently I wrote a poem about dandelions. This piece is a sensitive mastery of poetry I aspire to. Depth and beauty in words.

Adrian G. R. Scott : A Poet's Faith

Those wonderful Dandelions, nature’s punks are up and out!

Long before those
showy spring delicates,
the Lupines and Delphiniums,
are any more than shoots
for slug and snail to chew,
the anarchists of the plant
realm are up and ready
to bloom. Those yellow-headed
punks with spiky hair
that quickly peroxides white.
Their seeds follicled into the
spongy scalp that balds to
a stream of flying stars constellating
the next boundless generation.

No amount of toxic compound
can eradicate these
anarchic collectives
with their callous disregard
for law and ordered lawns.
They have even
persuaded children
to play at telling time,
wafting their seeds to
the whipping wind. Such
power in the dandelion,
to reflect the returning
sun and question our
compulsion to control
when we, like them, were
made for wildness and abandon.

There is a story
of weeds and wheat
in which only the
moss-encrusted God sees

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Meditation 324

Here’s an essay I wrote for my restaurant’s blog.

A Table Shared

Caracolillos 2

For the past two years we’ve had a couple of different talented pastry chefs at the restaurant and I haven’t been working full time baking in the kitchen. But I still fill in for vacations or go in early to make jam or can cherries in red wine. One of my favorite tasks is to make the croissant dough near the end of the week for the weekend’s brunch pastries.

On those Thursdays I arrive in my sleepy kitchen before 6 o’clock, key in the code to the beeping alarm which assures me I’m alone, and turn on the lights. The first hour of my meditation requires a patient waiting. I assemble milk and yeast, honey and sea salt on the utilitarian stainless steel counter across from the stove. The copper pots, polished with coarse salt and lemon juice, are lined up in ascending size on the shelf above the…

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