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My Writing Workshop
Click link to see writing classes, creative writing links, poetry, art, the beach, free photos, and more. Please visit my other 5 page web page...
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BOUYANCY
everyone builds castles of sand with long
winding moats out to the sea and back
even though they know, the tides are rising.
even though they know, the tides are rising.
THE FISHING RULES AT STEARNS WHARF
I fight the urge to sit with the old man fishing here
on the splintered pier beneath the sign,
‘The fishing rules--No overhead casting.’
A cool fishy smell pierces my nose and
wet muscles cling tenaciously to the pier;
I understand their fear.
Beside him now, I lean in and listen to his story of lies.
His too large weathered hands
spread apart the imaginary fish, sizing it
“The fish, the one that got away,” he sighs
“Damn lucky fish.” Beneath the hot sun,
his eyes form two narrow slits as if he needs
the squint to shape his thought.
Three fish give it up.
Up and over the wood planks,
a silver flash slipping and wriggling
One last slap against the plastic bag
I imagine a gasp, then a sigh….
Humans aren’t so lucky after all;
We bite the hook that lures us.
BREATHE EASY
I listen to my breath
rise and fall
as this wave breathes life
into the shore.
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Join CREATIVE WRITING WORKSHOP
Belong to a writing community, and grow as a writer.
Join MEMOIR WRITING
Write your legacy.
WANT TO WRITE?
NEED A LITTLE SUPPORT?
Not sure where to start? Let your voice be heard in my writing class.
"Creative Writing Workshop" and "Memoir Writing" for a fun and supportive atmosphere.
CONSTANT CONTENT
* BUY ARTICLES
* SUBMIT ARTICLES
POETS ON THE WEB
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RELAX...
Sip a cup of chamomile tea, rest back against the sofa, and stay awhile. Slow down to experience the sounds, sights and smells of life’s journey outside ourselves, of people and places beyond our umbrella.
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SO, WHAT'S THIS ABOUT?
Poetry,
reading,
writing,
art, and
photos
which reflect a healthy lifestyle,
relishing but not worshipping nature,
the spiritual life,
a little jazz,
the beach,
and soothing the soul
in a crazed-maxed out world.
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POETS I ADMIRE...
Bob Dylan
Rod McKuen
T.S. Elliot
William Carlos Williams
Sylvia Plath
Maya Angelo
Theodore Rhoethke
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COMMITMENT
Was it passion, impatience,
or just thestupidity of youth
that destroyed it--
our sweetness of love?
Time has eroded the desire; I'm afraid
the words would stick in my throat like
peanut butter, and I've never liked peanut
butter anyway.
I don't recall you ever asking,
"What is wrong with our relationship?"
When did you stop reading my poetry, and
when did I stop listening to your stories?
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BIO. WHO AM I?
J. Price Brown is a poetry taster, writer, school teacher, former poetry editor, and fellow with the South Coast Writing Project in Santa Barbara, California. She also teaches online writing courses at Universal Class.com. She states that the greatest proof of her sincerity as a writer comes from her overstuffed file, full of rejection slips
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BREAKFAST AT THE BEACHSIDE CAFE
I drink in the ocean mist with a sip of steamy tea.
I soak it in and store it to sustain me
later when I will need it most. Layers of
clouds, white streaks, light blue
and blue gray melt into the sky and
the damp cool air.
In the teal gray ocean,
a school of dolphins breach the surface,
graceful as if bowing before God,
the sea and me.
In and out, up and down, the dolphins carry
Ebb and flow, the rhythms of life
roll in and out with the tide.
Yin and yang, the good and the bad,
we seize the good along with the bad, and
the good sustains us through it all.
This, here is the good.
I look own into my bowl of hot soup rising,
cut celery, spicy shrimp, and pieces of
floating tomato warms me...
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CLAY
On this mountain tonight,silence, stillness reflecting
the awesome Holiness of God
shakes my complacency.
Confronted, faced, I see myself,
my life. I feel the remolding
work of your roughed hands.
The Master Artist sculpts the form that will be created
in His image--A beautiful work someday.
My emotions surface so easily;
Are you keeping the clay soft;
for what purpose Lord?
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AN ODE TO KEATS
Spring wafts through my hair
as I bow to earth
struggling with her wily weeds.
In my garden I seed, feed,
water, and fend. Encrusted bulbs
planted naked with paper
shoulders exposed, gnaw
through black soil, reaching
like a claw to green shivering
exuberance.
Silk blossoms erupt like tiny pink
buds of hope. Ah Spring!
Raucous miracle!
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