My Distracting Muse

“Hello, ‘writer.’

Her voice was so sultry, even her insults excited me.

“Arabelle. It’s been a long time.

She turned the chair around and sat facing me, legs crossed, her dress holding on to hips that promised the fruits of her hours of research.

My face heated at the thoughts I thought.

She sighed. “So predictable. Are you even looking at how infrequently you’ve written this year?”

“I just did. That’s why I’m writing now.”

She sat on the edge of the bed, looking at me.

“You are too easily distracted.”

My eyes traveled against my will. “It would help if you…”

“I’ll help you.” She got up, walked over to me, and lifted my chin on her finger so I would look at her eyes, but I didn’t quite make it, and she grabbed my chin and tilted my neck until I was finally looking at her eyes.

“They’re up here.”

I pulled away and snapped back. “I was actually writing until you showed up!”


“It’s a start. I can make it not drivel.”

“I suppose.”

“You’re not helping, Arabelle. Go away.”

“Are you sure?”

“You get mad when I pay attention to you, and then when I ask you to leave me so I can work, you ask me “Are you sure”  

“Yes, I’m sure. Go. Away. Arabelle.”

“Can I at least read what you’re writing?”
“You already said it was drivel. Weren’t you watching from…wherever it is your kind dwells?”

It was her turn to blush. “Not really.”

I sighed. “Here.” I moved away from the screen.

She read it, a warmth emanating from her closeness, the whisper of fabric against her body. I pushed my chair further away, and she put her hand on the armrest.

I let her finish, and she turned to me, smiling. “I like it. Considering how few and far between you’ve worked, this is okay.”

“Glad you approve. Now, will you go away?”

“How about if I stay in the background?”

I shrugged. “Suit yourself, Muse. Clearly, you’ve got nothing better to do today.”

She sat on the edge of the bed again, humming.

“That’s not ‘in the background.’

“It’s the best I can do.”

“No, it’s not, and I don’t know why you’re here trying to distract me, but it’s not going to work.”

She smiled enigmatically, and began to swing her right leg as it crossed over her left.

Muses, man…


What Becomes of What Remains?

A clock ticks,

a ball drops,

and fire kisses the

lips of the sky

as lovers kiss on the sidewalk.

It is the hour of dreams

and hopes,

plans and purposes,

love… and its ending.

The rain comes now,

to wash the day’s revelry


In the deluge I stand,

renewed, alive,

and oh-so-very-cold

from a longing, and absence


The sand is warm,

the ocean pulls at it like

a child pulls its blankets up

when the monsters come.

What becomes of what remains?

I hold the warm sand,

but I can’t keep it from

slipping through

my fingers

like a fading dream.

What becomes of what remains?

The sliding sand

seeks its own

and leaves me powerless.

What becomes of what remains?

Of us?

Love is lost in the rubble,

engulfed by flames,

curling in on itself.

It will be reborn another day,

unknown to us, and if it tarries long enough,

unseen by us.

What becomes of what remains?

A history unlearned from,

a human sea of sadness,

or something far better,

and visible on the horizon?

How close can we come to it

without being burned?

What becomes of what remains?

We decide.

And we depart

And travel on

to find out

the answer.



Wisdom in Ruins

In all the rubble

are the books,

reflections of imagination,

containers of wisdom,

capsules of folly.


The silent dust drifts across them

as if selecting their choices.


Here, tales of emotions,

and beacons of reason.


Over there, breakthroughs

and heartbreak.


In the rubble of the halls,

discoveries and inventions,

science and faith.


And in the small fires that yet smolder,

the abandoned belief that

life is precious,

good wins out,



conquers all.


They are all covered now

with the dust and blood of

war upon war upon war,

silent as drowned river stones,

but still abiding,

seeds of spring

along the banks.

Christmas Lights


Luke 2:9

“And behold, an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were greatly afraid.”

A light from Heaven suddenly overtakes you.

In your world, this has never happened. It’s night time, and you’re outside, and suddenly….

We have the gift of hindsight, but the shepherds were afraid. Greatly afraid.

Did they cry out, shield their eyes, maybe even start to run? Yet, the light was not hurting them, or blinding them, or burning them. It was just sudden.

He is the God of “suddenly.”

Remember the conversion of Saul? In Acts 9:3 we read:

“As he journeyed he came near Damascus, and suddenly a light shone around him from heaven.” 

We are admonished to “walk in the light, as He is in the light.” (John 1:7)

May the light of God surround you with peace, and…

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The Inelegant Demise of Parson Brown


For Yuletides untold, Lexi and I built our meadow snowman, and just as frequently, Parson Brown came by in his one- horse sleigh, bells a-jingle.

Lexi would roll her eyes and smile, and I braced for the question he’d been asking since music was first heard.

“Are you married?”

“No, Parson, but you can do the job when you’re in town,” I finally answered.

He stopped the sleigh, and positively ran across the meadow.

“What about now?”

Lexi and I exchanged a look, and she gave a slight nod.

I knocked the parson out, and we dismantled the snowman and built a new one around the parson.

It was more slender and taller than our last, but it would serve our purpose.

We took the sleigh into town, where the children were caroling in the early evening.

I stopped, and Lexi approached the children.

“Hey, kids. Would you do us a favor?”

They turned and smiled at the pretty lady standing among them.

“How’d you like to knock a snowman down?”

Their cheers echoed into the snowy pines.

“Where?” one brave lad stepped forward to ask.

“In the meadow, not too far from here. You should do it now, so you’ll be home by dark.

The lad looked to his group, and they all said yes.

“On your mark! Get set! GO!” Lexi shouted, and they took off pell-mell.


“Do you ever miss Parson Brown?” I asked her the following Christmas.

“Oddly enough, yes.”

We never did get married.