Friday, April 29, 2016
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
Yesterday I had the pleasure of visiting the Tuesday morning workshop of the Write Group at the Montclair Library in Montclair, New Jersey. This is a long-running and multi-faceted cooperative group of writers who have sessions all week every week at the Montclair Library to workshop, write, and discuss all aspects of craft and literature, in genres ranging from nonfiction to graphic novels to nonfiction, flashfiction, novels, and memoir. If you are within driving or train distance, check them out!
or, for an overview: http://scribbulations.com/the-write-group-montclair-nj/
Monday, April 25, 2016
Sunday, March 27, 2016
April is National Poetry Month: Sign up for your free Poem-a-day!
Walt Whitman, 1819 - 1892
Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night
with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so
quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.
To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.
To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—the
ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?