Dateline: Thursday, June 30, 2022
Location: Rochester, Minnesota, USA, Earth, Milky Way,Sector A1X44.22
In this issue:
New GK Jurrens Novel Available
Another Book On the Way
2022 Coastal Writer’s Conference Update
Life on the Hard
While storms rage all around us, tranquility prevails within our humble bus, as did COVID for a time. All better now.
As we spend some time with family and friends in our hometown of Rochester, Minnesota, we reflect that while traveling and living in different places for a time, staying in one place for a while also has its perks. And, as it turns out, has saved us from potential catastrophe. More to come on that.
Despite a few small health challenges (we self-quarantined after both getting our “COVID genetic update,” which was quite mild thanks to getting all our shots), we remain blessed and grateful to be enjoying a lifestyle of which most can only dream.
This small park features only 33 sites. Since we were the first here, we chose to be next to the “clubhouse.” Nice restrooms, decent laundry facilities, great WiFi for streaming, even 5G for higher speeds. Not much else here, but that’s okay, other than it bugs Kay it’s called a “resort.”
1. New Novel Now Available
Imagine you’re a cop trying to catch a serial killer without traffic cameras, facial recognition, fingerprints, DNA or other esoteric forensic science tools. Oh, and no online police or federal databases—because there is no “online” in 1934. No state police, the FBI is still in its infancy, and you’re just one of three cops in a small town with no police department.
You’re the sheriff responsible for a large county, and you have just two deputies.
Now here’s the rub. People start dying mysteriously the day a rag-bag gypsy circus shows up at the county fairgrounds down the street in your town of Rock Rapids, Iowa. In your county—Lyon County.
What do you do?
That’s what Sheriff Billy Rhett Kershaw faces starting on page one as my new murder mystery novel,“Murder in Purgatory,”kicks off.
Early readers tell me “Purgatory” is my best book yet. This is my seventh published novel, and the second in my Lyon County series. “Black Blizzard” preceded it.
One reader said, “Purgatory’s a helluva yarn, even better than ‘Black Blizzard,‘ and that’s saying something.”
These are the kind of reviews an author lives for! I certainly don’t write for the money.
You can check out a synopsis of all my books here.
2. Another Book On the Way
Are you ready for something completely different? Hang onto your droopin’ skivvies, sailor!
Have you noticed I tend to favor “different?” How about an operations manual for how to read and enjoy poetry? Didn’t see that coming, I bet!
“The Poetic Detective” began as a lark. But believe it or not, I discovered it fills a unique literary niche.
Most folks can’t be bothered with “that poetry crap.” Why? I’m betting it’s mostly because they don’t understand poetry.
This tight little book fixes that in a way that’s fun, with no BS. Just a lean ‘n mean description of the language of poetry, a few case studies to make it clear what each term looks like in practice, and then I include a small collection of my own poetry with an essay for each so the reader (you?) knows what the heck I was thinking when I wrote each piece (some date back forty years).
Read this short book when it comes out in August, and you, too, could get promoted to poetic detective!
I guarantee you’ll never look at any poem the same way—ever again.
Guaranteed.
I’m planning publication for mid-August. Watch this space.
3. Coastal Writer’s Conference
Sad news. Inflation (and a sizable assessment on our Florida condo) compels us not to travel west this Summer. As a result, I’ll either be dialing into the writing conference I am co-sponsoring this Fall, or my dear friend, Judy Howard, will carry on the good fight without yours truly. Time and technology will tell.
Had we not cancelled our trip west this Summer, starting two weeks ago, we’d be paying big bucks to stay near Yellowstone for a month, and we would have been turned away. Was it providence that we cancelled—and were refunded most of $3,000 for eighteen months worth of advance campground reservations? Or fate? Or just good luck? We don’t need to care.
It is with grace and humility that we must accept adversity and diversity, lest we lose our humanity. That’s what I’m telling myself right now, anyway. And I’m believing it.
4. Life on the Hard
We sold the good ship “Sojourn” in 2010 after 13 years of sailing over incredible horizons.
The expression “on the hard” is left over from our boating days.
Not surprisingly, lakes and rivers get very hard in the winter in Minnesota, which is where we once kept our boats. But that’s not the origin of that expression in this context.
I can’t speak to folks even crazier than us who move their fish houses out onto the ice, with their bed and pot belly stove next to a hole in the floor (the ice) where they’ll wet their lines and hooks at will (is that hole in the ice where they pee, too?). I don’t call that living on the hard. To my way of thinking, that’s just a lack of sanity, but who am I to judge? My home has eight wheels, and we’ve lived in 42 states over the last seven years!
In boating parlance, each Fall, we’d pull our live-aboard boat out of the water before everything froze. That can seriously damage even the most stout vessel. Once out of the water, our twenty-ton boat would settle onto its cradle (so it wouldn’t tip over) in the marina’s asphalt parking lot.
Now there was a variety of reasons I might spend more than a few nights on the boat after it was “on the hard.” It would take me days to winterize “Sojourn” from stem to stern. I’d also thoroughly clean her inside and out before putting her to bed for the winter. Often, after a hard day of working on her, I’d be too exhausted to make the forty-five-minute drive home. And sometimes, it was just too darn hard to say goodbye without spending some quality time with her at the end of the short boating season.
That was “life on the hard.” And especially as I aged, it always was a relative hardship, often without power (electricity), limited or no water (tanks were empty), and getting in and out of the boat on the hard always involved a twelve-foot ladder. Since pumping out the holding tanks was no longer possible, when I had to pee, especially in the middle of the night, it was a big deal—climbing down and up the ladder in the dark, hiking to the yacht club to use the facilities…). Well, you get the idea. In that context, hard had two meanings.
Now, let’s talk about “life on the hard” with the bus, which couldn’t be more different. Now, the best RV sites (parking spots) feature level concrete. That’s where we are now. Our leveling jacks don’t sink into muck (like they did at the last spot), requiring constant re-leveling. The motorhome’s exterior stays cleaner than, say, on a gravel or grass site where every time it rains, gravel dust or mud splashes up onto the coach’s body. Not on concrete, at least not as much. I get all warm and fuzzy knowing there is a nice clean level slab of hard concrete about four feet beneath my bony butt right now.
My office-slash-living room-slash-cockpit, all within easy reach of the coffee pot, kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. Efficient and comfortable, baby!
Hardships associated with life on the hard in an RV versus the boat? Not so much. Full hook-ups (electric, sewer & water) allow us the freedom not to think about that stuff too much. When we stay in one place for a good long while, like now, we leave our gray (sink & shower) holding tank valve open so we don’t have to worry about filling up that tank with waste water. Everything else stays hooked up, so it’s much like the convenience of living in stix ‘n brix (like the condo).
We still worry about weather, especially high winds. But no ladders, no hikes in the middle of the night, and no freezing our tukkuses off when the temps drop (or cooking us when they climb). Yup, life on the hard in an RV, especially in a rig like ours, isn’t a “hardship,” or “camping,” or even “glamping” (glamor camping). It’s just… life. Twenty years ago, well, it was different for us back then. We’d tent-camp while touring on the motorcycles and sleeping on the “hard” ground. Now, we enjoy our creature comforts (upon advice of my orthopedic surgeon. Right, Doctor Bob?).
Besides, one of the primary reasons we’re here is to visit family.
Toys!Kids!Food!A family celebration at our son Adam’s campground where he keeps a trailer for the summer.
Now, Kay and I enjoy our protein smoothies in the morning after we meditate together, head to the gym for an hour or two, and return home for a vegetarian lunch. Yesterday, we enjoyed pulled pork. “Wait,” you might ask, “didn’t you say you guys are vegetarians?” Well, let me say this about that…
Mmmmm… smoked pulled pork fried up with onions and mushrooms! Except this isn’t pork, even though you’d be hard-pressed to tell the difference. This is “pulled jackfruit” dressed up and seasoned to look and taste like SMOKED pork. Worth four generous servings! Yes, it’s processed food, but this ain’t no religion, and variety keeps us motivated.
If you’re a vegetarian, and you miss pork, or can’t eat pork for health reasons, this is the best we’ve found so far.
Quite a lot of sodium. Other than that, not too bad.
Ingredients don’t look terrible.
On date day (we prefer this over going out at night), we might have lunch out, possibly a movie, but only in theaters that feature recliners!
Other days, we clean, maintain the bus, read, write, watch TV… oh, and Kay insists on pushing “puppy cookies” into the mouth of every dog in the RV park. That keeps her busy while I write or research.
And there is always the possibility of a hike, a bicycle ride, maybe even an afternoon nap.
Together, we attend AA meetings on Sundays and Tuesdays. Kay meets with her women’s group on Thursday mornings, I meet with my men’s group on Thursday nights.
I need to start thinking about selling some of my books locally, too. It’s on my list! We’re just having so much fun playing! For example, we’re members of a local facility called 125Live. They have an amazing state-of-the-art workout facility. They also offer classes, have two amazing pools (one for exercise, one for laps), a robust calendar of social events, concerts, library, free coffee, a pantry of free groceries available to anyone (contributed by local supermarkets), music jams, a wood shop, volunteer opportunities, anything and everything for “active adults.” That’s a euphemism for ‘old folks.’
“Our Club” is a gorgeous facility adjacent to the Rochester Recreation Center where they hold competitive swim and dive meets, professional hockey games, and I don’t really know what else, but they’re absolutely crushing it.
Though their primary charter is offering activities for seniors, we see young folks there too. I’m looking forward to my July 9th “Pottery Play Date.” Just show up and everything is provided. Gonna take my turn at a wheel (I know Jeff H, old hat to you, my friend).
How cool is this place for just $17/month for each of us? Now if it were called, “The Senior Citizen’s Center,” that might have slowed me down some. But quite frankly, I’m of the age where such concerns are now delegated to younger folks.
Yup, it’s nice to stay in one place for a while. I even splurged for an “unlimited wash club” for the Jeep, a month at a time, for 35 bucks. Goin’ crazy over here “livin’ on the hard!”
So until… and wherever (but from SE Minnesota, for now)…
Gene (and Kay)
I’m thinking my next several novels will be a series of mysteries with a curmudgeonly author reluctantly working alongside a sassy and ambitious homicide detective with a spectacular case closure rate. What say you?
Dateline: April 30, 2021
Location: Southern Michigan
You’re in the right place
for a mix of stories you just won’t find anywhere else…
“Here’s to the allure of the obscure!”
“When bullying April bruised mine eyes / With sleet-bound appetites and crude / Experiments of green, I still was wise / And kissed the blossoming rod.” – Cecil Day-Lewis
In this issue:
What’s With April? (one weird month)
Writer’s Side (thinking like an author)
Moving Back Into Small Spaces (from 2,500 to 300 square feet, again)
Review: A Powerful Bestseller (not my usual read)
Did You Know? (useless but interesting factoids)
Featured Guest (International Lecturer)
Warning: This month’s issue became more lengthy than usual: an action-packed month!
1. What’s With April?
Did you know April is National Poetry Month? Hence, the Cecil Day-Lewis quote above, and I’ll have more to say about that in a moment. Everyone knows April Fools Day, Good Friday and Easter fall in April. How about a few less notable but no less interesting observations about this month? You celebrated all of these, right? Click on any link to drill down, or skip them altogether:
National Sourdough Bread Day (Diana, no more of your wonderful bread, but thank you!)
Jeep 4×4 Day (now relevant to Kay and me as neophyte Jeepsters)
National Nebraska Day (relevant later in this issue)
National Garlic Day(read how you can observe this day, even if you aren’t a vampire hunter)
Lima Bean Respect Day(otherwise known as Kay and Gene’s wedding anniversary day and our ninth sobriety anniversary – appropriate for a couple of buttery vegans, don’t you think?)
National Earth Day(you know, to celebrate the existence of the tiny cinder in space upon which we roost)
This is but a smattering of days celebrated each year during the transformative month of April. Every day celebrates something, which is appropriate since we should celebrate something every day of our lives! But what I find fascinating is the story behind each of these celebratory moments in time, and their history.
2. Writer’s Side
Now let’s talk about that poem I quoted at the beginning of this article, and why it matters to me, and maybe even to you despite what you might think of poetry… it can be a beautiful thing… a fragile flower unwilling to shrivel, even in the cold and the dark…
Poems deliver powerful mind-pictures in brief.
When bullying April bruised mine eyes
With sleet-bound appetites and crude
Experiments of green, I still was wise
And kissed the blossoming rod.
– Cecil Day-Lewis
Have you heard the term,COVID fog? This was a feeling I experienced all through 2020, but never put a label on it until yesterday’s discussion with my brother, Rod (who I hope is also blossoming)! The term resonated.
Sometimes, to combat this isolationist phenomenon and other emotional anomalies, doctors even prescribe poetry as a therapeutic aid. For example, Dr. Rafael Campo, a poet and physician at Harvard Medical School, believes poetry can also help doctors become better providers. As he put it in a TEDxCambridge talk in June 2019, “When we hear rhythmic language and recite poetry, our bodies translate crude sensory data into nuanced knowing — feeling becomes meaning.”
Aside from simply celebrating National Poetry Month, the largest literary celebration in the world, April has been a month of rebirth for my bride and me. With our vaccinations are behind us, I began to win my battle with agoraphobia (fear of open spaces) and anthropophobia (fear of being in close proximity to other people due to the perhaps irrational fear that infected me throughout 2020 and early 2021), we ventured out of our comfort zone to hit the road once more earlier this month after sheltering in place for fifteen months.
I, more than Kay, still felt that “bullying April bruised mine eyes,” with my ongoing personal battles, with cold weather we hadn’t really experienced in over a decade, and with having made a brutal financial decision to invest significant funds in our home on wheels once again. We cast aside concerns for our at-risk selves to some extent, at least as much as our bullied psyches allowed. We had once again slaked our “sleet-bound appetites” that nevertheless felt “crude” after languishing in the tropics, perhaps for too long.
But I successfully reasoned through our decision to once again hit the road after our 2020 hiatus. “I still was wise…” and after a bout of freezing “up north” temps, sleet and a (now) foreign smattering of snow (more dramatic when you live in a bus in the middle of nowhere), we are adapting beautifully as we “kissed the blossoming rod.” Grass never gets as green as it does in a Midwest Spring, or in minds recently unshackled from paralyzing fear! At least partially. Yeah, the season is finally busting out all over, and we are blossoming too.
Another Project…
As an aside, I have thought of myself as a poet for more than forty years, not as some literary titan, but as a humble word player. To me, poems present fascinating and often mysterious word puzzles, a direct tunnel into the mind of a poet – they are wired differently than most earthlings. I find that interesting.
A poem can be simple in its surprising elegance, or sinister in its myriad word pictures that tease and tantalize. But it takes a little effort to read poetry, which turns off many lazy readers, and that is tragic. Poetry represents a dimension to the human experience most will be denied, not by others, but by oneself.
As a preview of my “Did You Know” feature below, did you know that haiku is the most popular form of poetry? If you like puzzles, check this out… from the “poetic detective” chapter in my soon-to-be-published anthology of seventy-four irreverent poems, plus a bonus: a reader’s guide to (all) poetry. In this anthology, you’ll find poems that range from three to three hundred lines.
Brevity is an art form unto itself, one that often escapes this humble scribe.
Mark Twain famously said, “If I had more time, I would have written a shorter letter.”
Poetry is like a reverse puzzle of words. The poet has solved a puzzle for you and challenges you to discover how, while harvesting meaning behind the pictures painted in your mind. Truly an art form. Take the following haiku (actually a senyru… keep reading) I composed decades ago for which I am just now clutching at the courage to publish:
Stunned Stupid
Her hypnotic smile,
A turn of pink cheek and chin,
Man’s mind melts molten.
- GK Jurrens
So what? Just three simple lines of text, right? Did you smile as you read it? Did you think of someone you know? Perhaps yourself if you’re a dude? Well, my dear poetic detectives, listen up. Haiku and Senyru are similar forms of syllabic poetry (based on their syllable count) that originated in ancient Japan. They are elegant puzzles, and if you know the rules of how and why the pieces fit together, you may better appreciate this seemingly simple but sophisticated art form. Haiku and Senyru are:
Non-rhyming,
Composed of three lines – five, seven and five syllables respectively (go ahead, count ’em!),
Seventeen syllables total (although sometimes the syllable count may vary due to translation differences).
Really? What is the point? It’s a puzzle! Now the next time you see a three-line poem, you’ll better appreciate the effort to create it for you, whether or not it is Haiku or Senyru. Cool, huh? The aromatic allure of the obscure, as promised.
In my upcoming anthology called A Narrow Painted Road, I introduce each poem with a piece of Author’s Advice, that is, how best to enjoy the verse that follows. Here’s what I offer as a preamble to Stunned Stupid:
Author’s Advice:
Do you know a man who suffers the effects of a frontal lobotomy when intoxicated by a woman’s beauty? I do. If you are a woman, you get it. Summed up in fourteen words, seventeen syllables, and in just three lines…
I then follow each piece with a short essay of what was on the poet’s addled brain (that would be me and mine) when the piece was composed along with a few insights into the poem’s form. These I call Poet’s Notes. Clever, right? You never need wonder what the hell I was thinking when reading my work. This is unlike many other poets, rightly or wrongly, as I try to remove some of the mystery. You might choose to skip these essays or find them humorous, illuminating, insightful or illustrative, but probably not boring. For example, this is what I wrote about this Senyru (many years ago):
Poet’s Notes:
I created the image introducing this poem featuring one of my favorite female vocalists, Norah Jones, daughter of the famous sitarist, Ravi Shankar.
Composed in the traditional syllabic structure of a Japanese Senryu, this compact poem features the same traditional structure as Haiku, likely a more recognizable name for this type of succinct syllabic verse.
Such short but sophisticated verses comprise just three lines of five, seven, and five syllables respectively. Like Haiku, Senryu do not rhyme. Senyru are humorous or cynical concerning the ironies of life; whereas, Haiku are often serious, concern nature, play with imagery, metaphors, and emotions of the seasons.
This piece offers three one-line acts of setting, subject, and action, which are designed to elicit provocative imagery, and leave much to the reader’s imagination.
This Senryu is just for fun, but true. Yes, I am a man. I’d like to think I am not a misogynistic pig. Although I am subject to the vagaries of my species. Fortunately, I am less afflicted as I age.
One Summer, an attractive young waitress at an outdoor restaurant in Victoria, British Columbia inspired me. She brought to mind all the times stunning feminine beauty has turned me into a mindless hot rock. Sometimes I have placed myself and those around me at risk of foolish behavior. I now have mostly escaped that velvet cell. Unlike some of my ilk, I seem capable of suppressing my lizard-brain impulses, for the most part, constraining them to harmless private fantasies… or to oblivion.
How many other men are like this? Who are we kidding, guys? We are all like this, my brothers. Or we were at one time, to a greater or lesser extent.
One last comment on this art form. Such remarkable brevity requires a unique skill, but more than anything, patience and desire. I’ve never spent so much time writing a verse than when composing Senryu and Haiku!
3. Moving Back Into Small Spaces
We’re back in the bus and adjusting beautifully! The three of us are all refurbished. Where many suffer from their quarantine fifteen (the fifteen pounds many folks gained while hunkered down in their COVID bunker), Kay and I collectively lost over one hundred and forty pounds. So yes, we are refurbished. Not with new fiberglass and paint and lights, oh my, but with new and improved immune systems. But bluntly, moving from 2,500 square feet back into less than 300 square feet requires reacquiring habits from fifteen months ago. Now, however, we begin our travels again without our 200 square foot trailer in tow, that is, our mobile garage, and all that implies. What to do? We adapt, of course!
We are VERY pleased with our bus’s new fiberglass, the re-lighted and re-painted exterior, along with more than a few interior upgrades. Yes, we’re glad we took her to a specialist.
BeforeRennovation (note this is NOT due to neglect, just age, not unlike my own cornucopia of wrinkles)…
During…
Replacing the fiberglass sidewalls and body work on the end caps as they were beginning to ripple and crack the paint. A manufacturing defect in Newmar coaches of her vintage (2004-2007). Newmar subsidized this replacement. A quality company!
Both the nose cap and the tail cap needed quite a lot of body work.
New fiberglass sidewalls installed, ready to go to the Newmar paint shop
After…
The fiberglass roof with all the old caulk stripped, now replaced with all fresh caulk. Old fixtures/cables removed and holes sealed. A new skylight, an old refrigerator vent sealed, a new mount for our wifi ranger/amplifier (supplies the coach with a secure virtual private network), painted air conditioner covers…ahhhhhh!
We love how the new paint seems to glow like melting French Vanilla ice cream when the sun is low in the sky…
This is what the new paint looks like even when it’s covered with a thin film of dust, rainwater spots and is not particularly clean!
The red cayenne metallic almost looks iridescent and matches the color of our toad (towed vehicle). We eliminated very dark colors as they seem all too willing to show off the slightest trace evidence of dirt, water spots, grass clippings or mud.
The shaded gradients are themselves works of art!
The upgrades you can’t see: new, more powerful central vacuum, a new window, a new motor and shaft for the main living room slide-out, doors adjusted to eliminate wind noise, systems to eliminate holding tank odors while underway, new seals around all four slide-out rooms...
New carpeting aft of the bed and a new king mattress aren’t exactly bling, but important for everyday comfortWe suffered from minor wind noise while underway, and a screen door that had a gap up above that allowed bugs to invade. Not anymore. Tight as a drum!
Check out those big, bold, beautiful new mirrors (remotely operated and heated).
New 3D logos are really nice.The new headlights, fog lamps and clearance lights aren’t LED, but they’re extremely bright. We make every effort not to drive at night anyway.
Same is true for the new tail, brake, clearance and license plate lights.
Add a new window awning, and “the house” is done (for now)! If you are questioning our sanity at this point, keep in mind that even with our “pay as you go” investment strategy in this rig, replacing her with a new one would cost seven times as much. Besides, after five years together, she’s an old friend who we know and trust. You don’t give up on old friends.
That’s the pretty stuff. Now we’ve moved one hundred-twenty miles north to Charlotte, Michigan, home of Spartan Motors, manufacturer of chassis for fire engines and for our motorhome. Another specialist. We’re currently undergoing a comprehensive slate of maintenance and diagnostic tasks for our chassis including mundane but necessary items such as:
A full 44-point chassis inspection (they always find a bunch of stuff that needs attention),
Chassis lube (annual),
Drain and refill oil-bath hubs on front and tag (aft-most) axles (every few years),
Rear differential fluid change (done every few years),
Air dryer filter change (for the airbrake and air suspension system),
Transmission and (internal) filter and fluid change (every five years or so),
Internal hydraulic filter and fluid change (we’ve not had this done since we bought the coach over five years ago),
Inspect house jack springs (our hydraulic leveling system uses BIG springs to retract leveling jacks),
Corner weights (they weigh the coach at each “axle end” (six weights) so we can appropriately adjust our tire inflation pressure.
News: Yesterday, after the full chassis inspection I mentioned above, several items need be addressed, none urgent, but necessary (remember, many of you asked for this gory detail… skip if you’re not interested):
Various bolts and clamps that need to be re-torqued (tightened),
Our dash air conditioner needs various components (we recently had replaced our two rooftop A/C units and they’re fine),
A pair of shocks on the tag (rear) axle (we’ve already replaced the steer and drive axle shocks – these were due),
New serpentine belt on our 8.9-liter Cummins diesel engine and replace a tired belt tensioner,
Replace a leaky coolant sensor and a couple of seals on the wheel hubs,
Some brake work.
Boring, right? Many of you had asked. Like so much on a complex machine like this, we invest as much or more in stuff we can’t see as in stuff we can. Normally.
Geeky fun: As we are comfortably staying in the coach (a COVID precaution) inside the shop while they work in “the pit” underneath the coach, we are reading, binge-watching a few of our favorite shows, reading, napping, more reading… it is glorious! While the crew was out to lunch yesterday, I took the rare opportunity to see some work in progress and to descend into the pit for a unique perspective. Wanna take a peek underneath with me? Ready to get dirty?
Diagnosing our ailing dash air conditioner…Preparing to load-test our starting batteries (only the black ones because the green ones, the house batteries, are brand new). Below the batteries, the filter array (left to right):primary (10 micron) fuel filter, air dryer (for air brakes and air suspension), fuel water separator and secondary fuel filter).All will be replaced.
The big bird hovering over the pitwith her underbelly exposed.
Draining the Allison of its transmission fluid before replenishing it with fresh fluid called Transynd (clever name, huh?)
See those twin round “cans?” Those are for the (very powerful) air brakes.
Check out this monster drive shaft! Looking aft from the transmission to mate with the rear engine (that’s why it’s called a diesel PUSHER).
You’re looking at the bottom of our 32-gallon propane tank. Overkill, since only our 3-burner stove (and the occasional propane campfire) require propane! One tank lasts us 2-3 years.
So it sounds like we’re going to be hanging around here in Michigan over the weekend for the rest of the work to be completed after our warranty company inspects scheduled repairs for possible coverage. We might also need to await the arrival of a few parts. Better here than on the side of the road somewhere. I would say we’re camping here for free, but we won’t be thinking that when we pay the bill !
4. Review: A Powerful Bestseller
Well, I must admit thatThe Four Winds by Kristin Hannah is not within the genres I normally read, but is precisely relevant “research” to my latest writing project. Recommended to me by a bookseller after hearing of my plans to write a 1930s drama, this book is a:
Number One New York Times Best Seller
Number One USA Today Best Seller
Number One Wall Street Journal Best Seller, and,
Number One Indie Best Seller
I must admit I am a bit intimidated by this masterful storyteller who shares her perspective on this pivotal period of American history. With a cast of characters so engaging, I can’t help but feel their pain, their joy and both their strength and fragility. I would hope to capture this essence of America in some small measure as I contemplate “Jake’s Flame” (and yes, I need a different title).
From the book’s Amazon sales page:
“The Four Winds seems eerily prescient in 2021…. Its message is galvanizing and hopeful: We are a nation of scrappy survivors. We’ve been in dire straits before; we will be again. Hold your people close.” (The New York Times)
“A spectacular tour de force that shines a spotlight on the indispensable but often overlooked role of Greatest Generation women.” (People)
“Through one woman’s survival during the harsh and haunting Dust Bowl, master storyteller, Kristin Hannah, reminds us that the human heart and our Earth are as tough, yet as fragile, as a change in the wind.” (Delia Owens, author of Where the Crawdads Sing)
From the number-one best-selling author of The Nightingale and The Great Alone comes a powerful American epic about love and heroism and hope, set during the Great Depression, a time when the country was in crisis and at war with itself, when millions were out of work and even the land seemed to have turned against them.
Texas, 1921. A time of abundance. The Great War is over, the bounty of the land is plentiful, and America is on the brink of a new and optimistic era. But for Elsa Wolcott, deemed too old to marry in a time when marriage is a woman’s only option, the future seems bleak. Until the night she meets Rafe Martinelli and decides to change the direction of her life. With her reputation in ruin, there is only one respectable choice: marriage to a man she barely knows.
By 1934, the world has changed; millions are out of work and drought has devastated the Great Plains. Farmers are fighting to keep their land and their livelihoods as crops fail and water dries up and the earth cracks open. Dust storms roll relentlessly across the plains. Everything on the Martinelli farm is dying, including Elsa’s tenuous marriage; each day is a desperate battle against nature and a fight to keep her children alive.
In this uncertain and perilous time, Elsa- like so many of her neighbors – must make an agonizing choice: fight for the land she loves or leave it behind and go west, to California, in search of a better life for her family.
The Four Winds is a rich, sweeping novel that stunningly brings to life the Great Depression and the people who lived through it – the harsh realities that divided us as a nation and the enduring battle between the haves and the have-nots. A testament to hope, resilience, and the strength of the human spirit to survive adversity, The Four Winds is an indelible portrait of America and the American dream, as seen through the eyes of one indomitable woman whose courage and sacrifice will come to define a generation.
5. Did You Know?
What happens when you have an Army General for a president? Well, here’s an obscure but interesting example: DID YOU KNOW that one of every five miles in the Eisenhower interstate highway system must be straight? Why? To serve as aircraft runways during times of war and other emergencies.I also saw this in the island-nation of Singapore.
More than half of the coastline of the entire United States is in Alaska?
The Amazon rain forest produces >20% of the world’s oxygen supply.
Antarctica is the only land on our planet that is not owned by any country. Ninety percent of the world’s ice covers Antarctica. This ice also represents seventy percent of all the fresh water in the world. As strange as it sounds, however, Antarctica is essentially a desert; the average yearly total precipitation is about two inches. Although covered with ice (all but 0.4% of it is ice), Antarctica is the driest place on the planet, with an absolute humidity lower than the Gobi desert.
Canada has more lakes than the rest of the world combined.
Woodward Avenue in Detroit, Michigan carries the designation M-1, so named because it was the first paved road anywhere.
Istanbul, Turkey is the only city in the world located on two continents.
The deepest hole ever drilled by man is the Kola Superdeep Borehole in Russia: 7.62 Miles. Now that’s super deep!
Thanks to our friend, Jody, for these obscure factoids.
6. Featured Guest
My guest this month is Doctor Graham Mitenko, a friend, mentor and Florida neighbor.
Have you ever met someone who was very different from most of your friends, and that makes them so very interesting? That’s my friend, Graham. A retired professor, of Finance, no less (SO not my forte), Graham is either extremely well-read and articulate on a wide range of eclectic topics, or he has me completely snookered! No small feat. Our morning walks together this winter passed quickly with near non-stop repartee. His easy-going style obviously serves him well as an international guest lecturer and teacher. And we do enjoy verbal swordplay as we take to the streets.
Tell us about yourself, Graham. I’m especially interested in a few of your cultural anecdotes while lecturing abroad.
Absolutely. First, the boring stuff. I was born seventy-plus years ago in Winnipeg, Manitoba. I am of Ukraine descent. Growing up, hockey and curling (Google it!) kept us busy in the winter. We filled wonderful summers with fishing and time spentoutdoors . I am a fishing fool.
School was never a problem, for me; however, it was for my teachers and for my parents. They obsessed over my education. I was a great, good, average, marginal student. To me, a “C” was as good as an “A,” and that seemed to be a problem for them. After high school, I attended the University of Manitoba, a wonderful institution that piqued my interest in stuff I deemed interesting.
After kicking around a few assorted majors, I settled on economics. I graduated and worked my way through a bunch of uninteresting jobs because I thought I could get a job in economics with an economics degree. Oddly, nobody would pay me to draw supply and demand curves. They wanted real results from real work, and someone with a Masters degree.
One career choice became increasingly obvious: accounting. It seemed auditing financial institutions was real world results for which I could get paid. Unlike artistic types like you, Gene, this work fascinated me. I saw the good and the bad. My interest in finance blossomed which gave me a reason to go back to school.
While earning my MBA in Finance from Minnesota State University, one of my professors suffered a heart attack. The school needed someone to cover his classes during his absence. The dean told me in no uncertain terms I was the new instructor for the Introduction to Finance classes. Doubt gripped me. He told me to just “keep one chapter ahead of the students.”
I taught as an instructor for the next couple of years. I loved the students, plus I got the summers off to fish! Higher education drew me in, and I left corporate America behind. But if I was serious about this new direction, a PhD would be essential. So I moved south once more and attended the University of Memphis. Two important life events underscored my time in Memphis. I achieved my doctorate and I met my wife, a forensic accountant, no less. While there, I took a summer job teaching at the University of Southern Mississippi. And that’s when new opportunities presented themselves—the frosting on my career’s cake.
A number of schools in Tennessee, Arkansas, Minnesota and Wisconsin recruited me for summer positions. I taught at Southern Mississippi for two years before settling into teaching Finance at the University of Nebraska. While there, a few international institutions seemed to think I could offer them something unique. After thirty-one years in Omaha, and traveling to teach abroad during many of those years, I retired and moved to Florida.
Though retired, I continue to accept teaching or guest lecturing gigs in Ukraine and Finland. I have just been asked to return to Aalto University’s Helsinki School of Economics this fall for the sixteenth consecutive year.
So what have I distilled from a lifetime of teaching? I learn as much from students and others as they do from me, sometimes much more. Counter to some old people talking, students are just as good or better now than when I was in school decades ago. Higher education is not for everyone, nor is it a guarantee of success, or of happiness. Life is short, so find what you like to do and see if you can make a living at it. Brains are no substitute for hard work, and desire trumps both of those. If you want something badly enough, you’ll get it. Think for yourself! There are a lot of people out there who will help you, but ultimately, you must make your own decisions. Remember, there are a lot of misguided people in the world. Don’t be one of them!
Your readers might appreciate a few of my experiences teaching in Finland. Anyone who has traveled, particularly if you’ve lived abroad for a while, will understand.
The Finnish people, as with most Europeans I have met, march to a different drummer than most Americans or Canadians. I am not saying this is good or bad, just different. The Finns, for instance, tend to be very stoic. They are prim, proper and usually carry a serious face. In the US, for example, it is common to greet relative strangers and ask, “How are you doing?” when in fact, we really don’t care. It is just a phrase that has worked its way into our general English speech pattern. When I greet individuals in Finland similarly,they tell me, sometimes more than I want to know.
The Finns are also very reserved. They do not smile very much, at least not in public. I discovered, however, that they are generally friendly, warm and happy individuals… just without a smile, or without most any other type of expression.
When I taught in Finland, their somber demeanor disarmed me, at least at first. In the US, I received a wealth of feedback from students by reading expressions on their faces. Most of my Finnish students, however, wore granite masks throughout my lectures. This initially threw me for a loop. I was incorrectly reading the situation. They devoured the information, but it turned out I was the problem. I found this akin to teaching during COVID when all the students wore masks, but even then, the eyes reveal thoughts and understanding. It’s just a harder read.
Also, Finnish students very seldom volunteer answers. In the US, when I throw out a hypothetical and ask for an opinion, students invariably volunteer answers. In Finland, if I ask for their opinion, I am greeted with deafening silence. Sometimes I just wait them out, or call on individual students by name. One student explained. Most Finnish instructors never engage their students in such an open manner, and students generally never answer for fear of embarrassment or answering incorrectly. When I run across such reticence, I ask one student–by name–then turn to another student and ask for their opinion, then another and another, etc. This gets the whole class involved, and eventually, they overcome the stigma of responding in class. Sometimes they even carry their brave new voices into other classes. Other professors jokingly accuse me of creating a monster!
I hope to continue our walks together next winter, Gene.
We traditionally celebrate the month of November for many reasons. Among others, we revel at the change of season into magnificent Fall colors (north of the Mason-Dixon, that is), or allow balmy breezes to tickle us once summer’s southern anger surrenders. But most of all, this month is a time to give thanks with family and friends, and yes, with an eye toward Christmas.
This year, we could lament what we do not have or are denied, which compared to so many less blessed than us, would be frivolous, wouldn’t it?
For those less fortunate, we pray.
What are youthankful for this November?
Kay and I are feeling particularly blessed this month. Indulge me. You will relate to a few of these.
While we chose not to physically get together with our family or friends this Thanksgiving–for everyone’s safety and peace of mind–our love and friendship remain stronger than distance. For that, we celebrate ongoing, even though I may have to upgrade my cell and zoom plans.
Recently, Kay suffered from morning headaches, nausea, a general soreness, and fatigue. We created a narrative in which she had either contracted COVID, or she was pregnantat a youthful seventy years of age.
We convinced ourselves of the improbability of the latter, and began worrying about the former, like so many others around us, that she had been infected.
I arranged for her to be tested at a drive-through site outside a local CVS Pharmacy. Then we chewed our emotional nails for three days. Finally, we received her results in her online portal: totally negative.
We concluded she’d been visited by a less-complicated strain of flu. What a relief! She feels much better now. Again, we brimmed with gratitude and thanks that we had access to a local test site and health insurance that paid 100% of the $139 cost. We are also blessed to have had the cash had that been necessary.
New topic. I’ve been visiting the bathroom three or four times each night for months. Some characterize me as a youthful (but balding) Caucasian male, six-one, 160 pounds, in general good health, and approximately 65 years of age, to which I reply, “Thank you!”
In fact, I’m a few years older than that, and until recently, lived far to the north of a rotund two bucks. As an alleged member in reasonable standing of the male species, I am statistically prone to prostate cancer. It was time to venture out of my COVID bunker to seek a diagnosis. Off to the local VA in my mask and gloves (that is another COVID story). After two visits for blood draws, I subjected myself to a full physical last week–a “digital probe” and scoping lungs are still not feasible via Zoom.
Yes, I have an enlarged prostate, but no cancer! So says the science. Again, we’re oozing with relief and thanks. After the doctor examined me, she even declared, “Mr. Jurrens you are a model of good health for your age,” to which I replied, “you shoulda seen this hot mess a year ago!”
Imagine that: me a model, despite my lack of a monster ego that still yearns for a long-abandoned youth! I will not go gently… !
So our year of living dangerously has paid handsome dividends. Isolated from the gym, other than our own meager facilities within our trusty bunker (condo), we still manage a reasonable exercise regimen.
I regularly patrol the perimeter of our sixteen acre “yard” on the shores of Charlotte Harbor. Plus, we hit the elliptical and free weights a few times each week (Kay more than me).
You may know Kay and I have enthusiastically embraced a vegan lifestyle. For us, it’s about fearlessly exploring alternatives.
I lost 65 pounds in the first half of 2020, maintaining that weight now for six months. I can almost hear my aging immune system whispering thanks. Miss Kay is doing even better! But that’s not my story to tell. Yeah, you guessed it… we’re thankful.
At my age, I celebrate each birthday as a dividend, a pleasant return on my ups-and-downs investment. Having achieved yet another year of memories, my portfolio has expanded one more year. I remain vertical (mostly), I still take nourishment, and we plot yet another trip around the principle star in our solar system together. We celebrate the opportunity to conjure more memory-accumulating adventures. For us, it’s more about what we do than what we have.
As of the writing of this paragraph (November 20, 2020), and barring untoward circumstances, in 16.5 hours, I will have achieved the youthful age of 71. Yup–a thankful, grateful and blessed septuagenarian who gaffs memories with the tip of a sharp pencil for fear of them descending into the abyss of forgotten dreams already achieved. That’s one reason I write, but there are so many others.
2. Another New Book
If you’ve followed me for a while, you know next month my paranormal sci-fi trilogy will publish (barring unforeseen delays)…
But here’s something I haven’t yet told anyone, not even my bride of fifty-one years. As a loyal subscriber, you are the first to hear of this! Ready for the big reveal?
Now you may not care about this news, but that is a different matter. If you’ve read any of my books, you know I am not afraid to confront gargantuan risks as an author. If you are a published author, you get it. Putting myself out there, naked for all the world to see, requires a unique brand of foolish courage. Especially for a book like this.
One of my mentors describes me, in a literary sense, as “fearless.” Personally, I think she’s being polite. I looked up that word to see if it was a synonym for “stupid.” Alas, I was spared that shame. At least for now.
An early draft of the cover art.
So the big news? By January 2021, I’ll publish yet another book, this anthology forty years in the making. “A Narrow Painted Road” represents my most radical departure yet from mainstream commercial literature. Are you ready for this? Am I?
“A Narrow Painted Road,” a compilation of images, poetry and essays I’ve been creating most of my adult life, represents a legacy. One more item on this old bird’s bucket list.
I jump right in with “that poetry stuff” just inside the front cover with the compulsory disclaimer, although it’s probably not entirely legal. Guess what? I really don’t care:
While barristers dismay, should I neglect this little tome,
That decries any connection to real places, folks, or home,
I faithfully echo these silly words so prescribed,
Lest anyone think I’ve fallen to taking bribes,
Or spuriously slandered he who takes himself too seriously,
And rends his savagery upon this scribe far too furiously.
Should anyone object to this tome rendered in said verse,
I say to one and all, pound said sand and be so cursed.
Amen. That’s all.
This book came to be both serious and frivolous, different from most books of poetry. I precede each poem with one of my original images, some of which are award-winning (the one below is merely original and unpretentious).
After each poem you’ll find a brief personal essay that explores the mental machinations of the mad poet who composed the verse (that would be me).
And a bonus: like or hate my poetry, the book includes a fun and easy-to-read “Poetry Reader’s ‘How-To’ Guide” that both novice and advanced readers of poetry alike may find a useful reference. I culled this guide from dozens of masterworks that study the craft of fine poetry so I could voice my own approach to the enjoyment of reading this quizzical verbal art form.
This guide, of which I am particularly proud, includes my own technique of “solving” a poem. Wouldn’t you like to become a poetic detective? Or are you satisfied remaining a complacent “civilian?”
One playful piece I wrote not too long ago pokes a bit of fun at a novelist who is so bold as to think he can also craft fine poetry…
“On Verse Versus Not”
I am much more prone to pen verse, versus prose, these days.It fascinates me to taste the myriad wayspoets must say so much more with much less,I’d like to think no more cleverly obsessedthan me… or than you.It’s curious what draws me to this unique brand of insanity.Is scrawling my novels at length as dubious a vanity?Why not, I say loudly to you? Is it frivolous to thinkthat songwriters, like singers, don’t tread close to the brinkof light… or her foe?Look, my obsessed friends, don’t you gaze hypnotized,as a haunted scribe writes, and you drink, still surprisedof terse verse that slams you with rhythm or some rhyme, that sustains, so immune to razor ravages of time,of heart… or of trivia?Re-joiceourvoice!
Partial Notes That Follow “On Verse Versus Not”
I come from a tradition of writing prose. Composing a compelling narrative in prose is complex, poetry even more so, and I believe the latter may be the ultimate written and spoken art form. That’s what prevents the page from gulping my ink like a glutinous puppy slopping water all over the kitchen floor. Is it not wondrous? Especially for someone as naturally verbose as me?
The wonder of it all consumes me. Let’s poke around this piece. Note that quotes from the poem you just read, along with some of the sexier terms of poetry’s anatomy, are italicized below and can be found in the handy reference, “Making Sense of the Language of Poetry” in Appendix B. This is your deep dive where I render explicit the mysteries poetic language offers after the introductory Appendix A: “Poetry Reader’s “How-to” Guide.”
I learned as much as I could about the craft of poetry. I now allow enduring imagery to magically flow onto the page with enduring sharp contrast and high drama. Examples: “Poets tread close to the brink of light… or her foe; gaze hypnotized; haunted scribe; grabs you; razor ravages of time.”
As I wrote this and all the poems in this book, constant vigilance demanded I eliminate the few clichés to which I fall prey as a sometimes-lazy scribe. For example, in this piece, “dear friends” became “obsessed friends” and “the passage of time” became “razor ravages of time.” You can see and hear the dramatic difference, right?
Poetry also differentiates itself from prose with an array of powerful sounddevices in the poet’s tool box. You can peruse a more detailed treatment of these and more in this book’s appendices if you like. Try a few examples on for size:
alliteration (prone to pen; verse versus; rhythm or rhyme),
assonance (taste ways; cleverly obsessed; brand of insanity),
consonance (prose… days; gaze hypnotized) and,
onomatopoeia (slams, scrawls).
Yes, I have fun painting with words, crafting a puzzle for the mind of an astute reader. You? My wish is for you to have fun reading these carefully crafted word puzzles, and to appreciate clues to solving these puzzles.
We also see words or phrases echoed for dramatic effect. For example, “Poets must say so much more with much less,” and “than I… or than you.” Used with care, such echoes just sound good, don’t you think?
I keep the pace of this piece moving quickly by using words with back-end-emphasizedsyllables called iambs and anapests (see Appendix B), combined with short lines of short words. Can you feel them brush by like a fresh breeze tickling your hair? The notable exception is the third stanza…
Oh, and did you notice the not-so-subtle rhyme pattern (aabbcd)? But remember, not all poems must or should rhyme. I just felt the first one in this section, “Of Poets and Other Dreamers,” should rhyme, but that’s just me slinging artistic license.
Is that not a lot packed into a little poem about poetry? “Smile. It don’t hurt!” Take a chance, buy the paperback in January 2021. Then I can spring for a basic breakfast at Denny’s. I’ll come up with the tip on my own.
3. Featured Guests
Before I introduce you to a fascinating couple, latch onto this word: serendipity. The dictionary defines serendipity as “the faculty or phenomenon of finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for.”
Now I did not seek a relationship with my two new friends and their charming family, but as you read the story I am about to share, I’m convinced that like me, you’ll find this story an agreeable and valuable thing.
As a preamble, Kay and once owned a small ship that defined a good portion of our adventurous lives together. We lived aboard and sailed a few thousand miles in her during the fifteen years that she was in our lives.
The good ship Sojourn even made it to the pages of my debut thriller, “Dangerous Dreams” as a heroic character in her own right.
The good ship Sojourn before we sold her in 2010.
With no small degree of consternation, we sold her in 2010 as we decided to try our hand at “land yachting.” Now we live and travel much of the time in a 43′ bus (motorhome).
Recently, I received a text from an unknown party proclaiming they had just purchased Sojourn. After a flurry of subsequent texts and a phone conversation, I learned that Sojourn’s new owners were a uniquely fascinating family.
This is their story and it intersects with our own in an obscure but serendipitous fashion.
I can’t do justice to their entire worldwide sailing adventures in this limited space, but I found their story uplifting and inspirational, not to mention incredible.
But I will tell you the vessel within which they sailed from Florida to Europe to Russia, and all over the Baltic and North Sea before they cruised the South Pacific shares just a glimpse of our common history. Serendipity. Maybe synchronicity too: “meaningful coincidences if they occur with no causal relationship, yet seem to be meaningfully related.”
Mark and Yvette bought our boat, Sojourn after selling (trading) their boat, Bear, in Australia at the end of their extended multi-year voyage. Now here comes the serendipity–maybe synchronicity.
Their boat was built by an engineer who worked at IBM in Rochester, Minnesota toward the end of the last century, as did I. He moored Bear (Linda Marie, at the time) at the same exact spot on the same dock in the same marina in Lake City, Minnesota exactly where we later moored Sojourn for thirteen years before piloting her to the tropicsourselves.
But let’s ask the world-sailing Wirta-Clarke crew to share with you a (small) piece of their story in their own words…
***
From left to right: Jenefer, Maya, Yvette and Mark
Gene,
We are grateful to be home in Florida after an epic adventure spanning eight years, 25,000 nautical miles and 24 countries.
We arrived home October 2018, leaving our steel-hulled sailing vesselBear, our 53′ cutter-ketch, for sale in Sydney, Australia. There is no conceivable way to digest all that we have experienced in this short introduction; however, we are happy to report that the world is indeed a beautiful place and mostly full of kind people striving for peace, unity, adventure and friendship.
In 2017, after returning from our European voyage (Ireland, Scotland, Scandinavia, Estonia, Russia, Germany, Holland, England, Spain, Portugal…) which began in 2011, and after completing a two-year refit of Bear, we sailed from Florida and headed toward the Pacific.
Our stops included Key West, Cuba, Cayman Islands, the San Blas and through the Panama Canal, then Columbia, Galapagos, Marquesas, Tuamatos, French Polynesia, Tonga and Fiji. There, we placed Bear into a literal hole in the ground called a cyclone pit for the storm season and took off to tour New Zealand.
We purchased a van and fitted it out for camping at our newfound friends, the Peterson’s of Auckland, whom we met cruising. The 10,000 kilometers of land travel through the North and South Islands that followed revealed to us some of the most beautiful landscape we have ever experienced. We interspersed our camping with Air B&B stays which added enormously to our experience, staying with local super-hosts who shared their enthusiasm for their country.
We returned to Fiji, launched Bear and rekindled boatyard and cruising ties. We joined a plethora of “kid boats” (boats traveling with kids, like us), enjoying their camaraderie in the Fijian and Vanuatuan waters. We relished a short layover in New Caledonia as we set our sights on Sydney, Australia.
Our landfall was 200 miles north at Coff’s Harbor, where we weaved through whales migrating their way north. Heading south from Coff’s proved to be some of the hardest sailing we had encountered.
Once in Sydney, we rented an Air B&B for a month, were lent a car by our cruising friends and readied our 38-year-old steel boat for sale. She was a safe, comfortable and seaworthy boat and will always have a place in our hearts.
Coming home was an adjustment. Mark and I are both retired and fidgeted about, not used to looking towards the horizon without a journey beckoning us. There are lots of projects around the homestead to keep us occupied but are just not as fun. I did receive a new right hip in October of 2018–a result of my rheumatism–which I am determined will not curtail our future adventures.
Our daughters Maya and Jenefer have assimilated well to life ashore. They reconsidered their initial desire to join traditional school as home schooling (after years of “boat schooling”) continues to serve their needs. Besides, the independence gained from world travel at their age was hard to relinquish.
They rejoined the rowing team and in doing so, delight at the social exposure to like-minded youths. One of the many perks that we found traveling in close proximity to our children was the pleasure of sharing their company and being their captive audience. As they branch out and away, we’ve adjusted.
Speaking of which, we adopted another family member. After ten years of canine abstinence, we picked up our Portuguese Water Dog puppy late 2018 in Gainesville, Florida. We so enjoy having a dog in our lives again, one of the few things we missed while traveling the seas.
Now we’re excited to begin fresh coastal cruising adventures aboard our new vessel, Sojourn, between Florida and Maine, perhaps elsewhere! We were equally excited to connect with Gene and Kay who obviously made Sojourn an important part of their lives, as she now will be in ours.
We wish you all the best health and happiness in the year to come and beyond.
Peace.
Yvette, Mark, Maya and Jenefer
Bear in Bermuda
Bear in Russia
Maya and Jen in the Galapagos
That’s it for this month. A host of thanks to our featured guests. If you haven’t already subscribed to GKJurrens.com, please consider joining the tribe. Namaste…
So are YOU invincible? I am not. And contrary to what you might believe, neither are you. So PLEASE stay home if you can. And if you can’t, protect yourself and those around you. Practice reasonable pandemic etiquette.
I’ll make a deal with you. I won’t infect you if you return the favor. Fair? Just remember, none of us is invincible. Expect the unexpected.
Beware! April is National Poetry Month. And I write poetry sometimes, so I thought I’d share one of my poems with you. Don’t worry. It won’t hurt.
I created the following poem in late 2017 and published it a year later before most folks included the word “pandemic” in their daily vocabulary–well, at least in their (our) thoughts. But this might help distract and entertain you now. Yeah, I accidentally reread it this morning and had to share… nothin’ too heavy. Promise.
Even though you might not like poetry, check it out anyway. Below you’ll see an excerpt from an anthology of poems I published early last year. I’ll be relaunching the 2nd edition of “A Narrow Painted Road” in the coming months–a collection of my best poems, original images and essays. So here we go.
Ready to “Cowboy up?”
Get Back Up
September 9, 2018
Author’s advice: Just enjoy. Feel your own best rhythm. It’s a rather simple piece, but it’s fun figuring out the slight rhythm variations as you read. Read at least twice, hopefully once aloud and proud. Get your cowboy on. Go ahead. It’s fun (says this kid from The City). Then go palm a big apple for your favorite Dapple Gray before reading the brief essay that follows.
A lone rider’s one reborn companion, beside
the road, is born-again pain, from just one more short ride
of another cantankerous bull. Standing tall… in
reflection near the pens, stomps a bull with a grin.
One cocky young rider hums one thin sweet memory
of his young love back home, his time drifts in reverie.
Now one thing: young riders seem dead-bull’s-eye clear:
at no time does he have much time for dark fear,
he might choose a less bumpy path, he would declare,
but to ride a desk? A real God’s-truth awful scare!
The circuit’s in his blood, like his daddy’s before.
What else would he do, could he do? And what’s more,
why would he? What could compete with the roaring
bright Sunday night lights and eight sweet ticks of glory?
Naw, bull ridin’s a blood thing, along with the rest
of the life. Drinks always free, but friendships are tested:
the hardest. Them eight seconds just ain’t enough,
but more’n that? Salt-sweaty, leathery, tough!
The time for reflection is long past, 'a course.
Cinch up, boy, ride glory, collect the damn purse.
Reachin' some sky, for that high glory catcher,
but Bull puts him down hard now, no getting up after.
This here ride’s your last, young busted-up drifter,
your sweet love will mourn you, may be grown bitter…
You’re now on the sky road, alone you still ride.
Her arena now hollow...
She’s died dry inside.
Poet’s Notes:
This city kid met a cowboy poet who was also a cowboy action shooter (don’t ask… it’s fascinating, but scary). This is different planet stuff, but he inspired me to write this playful piece. And when he read it, he grinned big!
In the introductory image, I painted a rodeo competitor in watercolor stretching his (her?) sore back muscles. Faceless, but we can relate, especially if we’re well-seasoned life-riders ourselves.
BT Blade and his partner Pam are from St. George, Utah. We met at a star party, a component of the Southwest Astronomy Festival on the summit of Cedar Breaks National Monument in Southwestern Utah. The night was so very dark up there at over 10,000 feet, but the conversation shown brilliant.
As we pursue our passions in life, there is a price to be paid. Sometimes the price is a loss of relationships, sometimes the price takes a physical or spiritual or emotional toll. We may feel we have few or no choices in life, but we always have a choice, however small. Sometimes it’s a simple matter of facing our perceived fears and conquering them. We are able to muster the courage we’ve demonstrated elsewhere in our lives. We just need to conquer our doubt.
The story is simple. A young bull rider is good at what he does. He gets hurt and doesn’t survive his injuries, leaving his young bride behind and alone. A simple story with straightforward characters deserves a simple rhythm and rhyme structure. Toss in a bit of country vernacular, et voila! A cowboy poem in anapestic tetrameter.
In case you’re not aware, the reference to, “eight ticks to glory” speaks to the eight seconds a competitive bull rider needs to stay astride to remain in the running for the purse.
A few metaphors and symbols drive home a few other points. For example, “a less bumpy path” suggests a less violent and less physically punishing career. “Sweet” and “young” echoed throughout the piece symbolize youth, exuberance, and a sense of invincibility. “Alone” and “lone” heavily echoed through the poem brings sharp focus to the solitary nature of the rider’s chosen profession. “Time”symbolizes the temporal nature of our brevity on this Earth that can end when you least expect it… maybe when you’re feeling your most invincible.
Finally, the mood journeys from hopeful, to doubtful, to dismal, even existential. But hey, most cowboy stories end badly (“hurts so good”).
So keep on keepin’ on, brothers and sisters! And stay off that bull!
I was inspired to explore a different medium for my published works–audiobooks.
My experience may serve you well too.
This post is not a comprehensive how-to article for publishing audiobooks. Rather, it is only the briefest of surveys on the topic. But if you like to listen and/or learn, whether you’re a reader, a writer, or both, just ask your favorite search engine to deliver to you a cornucopia of info on “audiobooks.” Have fun!
While haunting the aisles of a bookstore I stumbled across a book entitled, “The Guide to Publishing Audiobooks: How to Produce & Sell Audiobooks.” Bedtime reading of this book inspired me to give the medium a try. The theory? Enable yet another sales channel for my books and increase sales.
But I must admit, another motive drove me even more. I love to learn. Plus in a previous life, I enjoyed a short tenure as a recording engineer. Half a century ago. Some things have changed!
I offer you a few thoughts to tickle your fancy, and then I encourage you to listen to a sample of my home-studio audiobook recording below:
With more smart devices like phones and tablets, not to mention iPods and older MP3 players, and with more people than ever on the go with buds in their ears, the audiobook market is expanding–a lot,
Some books just beg for this medium. My sound clip below might be evidence of that,
Free cloud services that also offer “Pro Plans” abound. SoundCloud is one of the more popular. And SoundCloud allows you to insert a “Buy Link” for your audiobooks in the posts for your clips. My buy link on SoundCloud for the clip below is a link to the Kindle edition for the entire book, “A Narrow Painted Road…” Sneaky, huh?
Audiobook publishers and libraries also abound. The most popular isAudible, an Amazon company. So if you already have books on Amazon, this is an easy add. There are countless others, such as Audiobooks.com. If you love to read, why not give one of the audiobook retailers a try with a free trial? Most will gift you one or several free audiobooks to see if this medium is for you. If you’re an author, I encourage you to listen to several top titles as the benchmark for your own efforts. If you’re into free (as in public domain) audiobooks, or are looking for a comprehensive list of audiobook sites, check out Audiobooks.org,
With a minimal investment in a microphone with a computer interface and a little software (some of that is free), independent authors and publishers can create their own quality recordings. A higher quality product will require more study and more investment, but you do so at your own pace under the guise of a self-imposed schedule–my favorite kind of self-induced crisis,
Clips such as the one included below make a terrific audio book trailer that can be a useful tool for publicizing your books if done with some style. Besides, audio is cheaper to produce than video. I have no data to back this up, and I can’t promise I have achieved success, yet, but I will throw myself on the mercy of your court of public opinion. I can say without doubt that I am energized over this medium,
Just like regular books, you can produce audiobooks either in hardcopy (CD, etc.) or the equivalent of a Kindle Edition (a simple download),
Producing simple clips like the one below was a lot of fun! As in writing, editing is also a significant part of any quality audio workflow (ain’t nothin’ for nothin’). I can imagine producing an entire audiobook will be a lot of gratifying work. And like many independent authors are prone to do, this can be a do-it-yourself gig, or the audio stuff can be contracted out. I like this flexibility.
I mentioned earlier that I recently published a book of poetry and essays called, “A Narrow Painted Road Seems So…” This genre seems ideal for not only producing and offering an audio clip as a sales device, but also a wonderful candidate for an entire audiobook publication. Perhaps more than any other genre, poetry benefits most from reading aloud. So the clip below is me dipping my metaphorical toe into the audiobook pond.
PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT WHETHER YOU THINK AN AUDIOBOOK OF THIS BOOK’S KINDLE EDITION WOULD BE A GOOD IDEA. YOU ARE MY “STREET TEAM.” I DEPEND ON YOU FOR FEEDBACK. WILL YOU DO THAT FOR ME? Thanks in advance.
Take a peek at my humble “studio” below, in the limited space on my desk in the bus. If I can do it…
This is the rig used to produce the WOT clip above. Humble, yet effective. Assuming you already own a computer (who doesn’t?), add a microphone that connects directly to your USB input, or for more flexibility, insert a mixing board between your microphone and computer. I use a Yamaha MG10XU mixing board with a USB computer interface built in, and the ubiquitous but cost-effective Shure SM58 microphone known to be a good mic for vocals. I’m currently using the free Apple software called, “GarageBand” as my DAW (Digital Audio Workstation) for recording and editing on both my iMac and iPad. I don’t have much space in our home–a motorhome–but I WOULD like to add a mic stand that clamps onto my desktop to provide some acoustic isolation (like a shock absorber). I’m tired of holding the microphone, very still, to avoid unwanted noise. There is a great deal more to setting up a workable studio space and to creating quality recordings, but that’s beyond the scope of this article. Use the force, Luke!Her name is Lady Goo-Goo Actually, I prefer a search engine that doesn’t track my every move and pummel me with micromarketing ads. It’s called DuckDuckGo.com.
With pen in hand, microphone in face, headphones covering ears, and the old Mighty iMac eagerly awaiting input,
Not to give too much of my new book away, because after all, I do want you to spend five bucks to buy your own copy in order to support my extravagant lifestyle of living in a three hundred square foot bus, I thought I’d share with you the very first poem and its format from “A Narrow Painted Road.”
My intent with this book is to educate and entertain and provoke, but we start light.
I call this, “an adventurous collection of provocative poetry as a colorful social art form.” I know some of the poems in this collection will challenge your perception of what is normal. Are you up to it?
Each of the seventy-one poems in this collection follows this format (advice, image, poem, essay) after sharing a brief “field guide” to understanding poetry where we explore poetic terms and italicize them wherever they’re used in the remainder of the book.
By the way, I realize nobody reads a book of poetry in a single sitting, no different from how most people take days, or even weeks to read a novel.
Poems are bite-size chunks of literary license that make for sensible reading in bed or on the throne. I get it, and I’m okay with that.
Someday someone could carry this little book to another planet while starting a new colony. This might even become the pivotal encyclopedia of human vagaries. I’d be okay with that too.
This first verse begins chapter one (of eighteen) entitled, “Of Poets and Other Writers.”
Please remember you’re supposed to be enjoying this. Otherwise, go do something else. Please.
On Verse Versus Not
No, this is not Pierce Brosnan, nor do I resemble him. Note the coffee stain upper left? Meditation is good. Caffiene is also good.
Author’s advice: Let’s have some fun by kicking off this collection with a poem about poetry written by a novelist. If you read or write prose, you know poetry is so very different.
If you are like me, you will delight in poking at these differences with a curious finger, and your eyes might then lead your brain to do the same—to give you the curious finger.
I had fun penning this verse, sometimes with my tongue embedded in my cheek (the left one).
Before proceeding, might I suggest you grab a properly steeped cup of English breakfast tea? Or perhaps you prefer something stronger. I like coffee—strong.
Ready? Go!
On Verse Versus Not
I am much more prone to pen verse, versus prose, these days.
It fascinates me to taste the myriad ways
poets must say so much more with much less,
I’d like to think no more cleverly obsessed
than me…
or than you.
It’s curious what draws me to this unique brand of insanity.
Is scrawling my novels at length as dubious a vanity?
Why not, I say loudly to you? Is it not frivolous to think
that songwriters, poets, like singers, don’t tread close to the brink
of light…
or her foe?
Look, my obsessed friends, don’t you gaze hypnotized,
a haunted scribe writes, and you drink, still surprised
by terse verse that slams you with rhythm or some rhyme,
that sustains, so immune to razor ravages of time,
of heart…
or of trivia?
Re- joice our voice!
Poet’s Notes:On Verse Versus Not
I practice Transcendental Meditation. TM helps me tap creative resources that would otherwise remain inaccessible. The image that introduces this poem captures my resonant optimism as I emerge from a deep meditative state. Did you notice the coffee stain? Caffeine helps too. More to be said about that later.
I was meditating early one morning outside Newport in coastal Oregon, thinking of my new friend and acclaimed poet, John Sibley Williams, my muse of verse.
I come from a tradition of writing prose. Narrative is complex, poetry even more so, and I believe the latter may be the ultimate written and spoken art form. The wonder of it all consumes me.
So I wanted to play with asymmetry in stanzas and typography. For example, the last stanza reflects and reinforces the extreme brevity of poetry versus prose, and that poetry provides unique advantages over prose, such as the art of the line. Content integrates with form.
Likewise, the first three stanzas do something not possible in any other word-based art form: they explore the shape of words in lines—every last line of each of these stanzas comprises precisely three words, and each line preceding those, just two words, fading into ellipses. What does that mean? Ask that of your own imagination. Perhaps it satisfies a subtle desire for spatial symmetry. I don’t know for sure. I just work here.
Poetry, at least some if it, is fun to read or listen to the sounds it creates. It can be even more fun to write if you’re motivated and willing to take risks with a quill, a pen, or a keyboard.
I learned as much as I could about the craft of poetry as I allow the imagery to flow onto the page. “Poets tread close to the brink of light… or her foe; gaze hypnotized; haunted scribe; grabs you; razor ravages of time.”
What’s preventing the page from gulping my ink like a glutinous puppy slopping water all over the kitchen floor? Is it not wondrous?
As I wrote this and all the poems in this book, constant vigilance required I eliminate the few clichés to which I had fallen victim. For example, in this piece, “dear friends” became “obsessed friends” and “the passage of time” became “razor ravages of time.” You can see and hear the remarkable difference, right?
Poetry also differentiates itself from prose with an array of powerful sounddevices in our tool box. You read about these in Chapter Two. Examples of alliteration (prone to pen; verse versus; rhythm or rhyme),assonance (taste ways; cleverly obsessed; brand of insanity),consonance (prose… days; gaze hypnotized) and onomatopoeia (slams, scrawls).
We also see words or phrases echoed to craft an effect. For example, “Poets must say so much more with much less,” and “than I… or than you.” Used with care, it just sounds good, don’t you think?
I keep the pace of this piece moving along quickly by using back-end-emphasized words, iambs and anapests, combined with short lines of short words. Can you feel the words brush by like a fresh wind tickling your hair? The notable exception is the third stanza which begins with an emphatic trochee – “Look, my…” Yet notice that the third stanza, uniquely, is one long sentence as if while asking the reader to slow down at the start of the stanza, then asks her to rush through to the final brief stanza, which further rushes to a celebratory conclusion.
This piece embodies some fun literary devices too, like a simile(“songwriters and poets, like singers…”), and metaphors (“tread close to the brink / of light… / or her foe?”). This suggests that not unlike other art forms, the poet takes risks in choosing subjects and how to portray them.
Also, the double-negative here (“Is it not frivolous to think that songwriters, poets… don’t”), combined with the preceding boisterous declaration (“Why not, I say loudly to you?”) signifies that fine poetry, at least mine, trends toward high drama.
Add a pun or two (“Is scrawling my novels at length as dubious a vanity?”) where “at length” could refer to either the lengthy passage of time or a lengthy work of prose, and a little personification (“light… or her foe?”).
Finally, although I apply a liberal use of anapests (ta-ta-DAH) and tetrameters (four beats or feet per line), this foot and meter are muted by liberal substitutions of other feet and meters, frequently returning to anapestic pentameter (five beats per line) as our “home base.” This is my way of not treating myself or the topic too rigidly.
Oh, and did you notice the not-so-subtle rhyme pattern (aabbcd)? But remember, not all poems must, nor should, rhyme. I just felt the first one in this book should rhyme, but that’s just me slinging artistic license.
Is that not a lot packed into a little poem about poetry? Smile. It don’t hurt!
The solitary image below stands on just one leg. While beautiful, it seems ill-defined with a shadowy and a finite cool color palette. This creature is unsure of himself, looking within his hollow heart for answers to arrive at some conclusion about his inflexibility. We must find this ironic as others have always viewed him as flowing and flexible, until now.
This poem, though using metaphorical imagery, is self-evident. Even so, I will offer you a few insights why I used some unusual phrases in the brief essay that follows the poem.
“Hollow Heart” by GK Jurrens
A Profile in Personal Courage
A solitary soul stands alone so preposterous,
no longer a mere reflection, now a beacon.
A cacophony, their platitudes ring so boisterous,
bounce around him like so many who have weakened
to temptations of easy mirrors grown squalid,
he’s polished his keen vision to a deep stained-less screen,
their certitudes still echo behind, he greets a less solid
footing, slipping and sliding on a cellophane sheen.
Poet’s Notes:A Profile in Personal Courage
First, I’m proud of the image used to introduce this poem. It captured a blue ribbon (first place) in the 2011 Florida Council of Camera Clubs statewide competition in the Creative Photography category.
This poem ponders a man with a closed mind, listening only to that which supports his beliefs, but an unspoken event occurs to open his aperture. We do not know why. Maybe he doesn’t either. Let’s explore the rationale for the language used.
When we follow what we are certain is true, that is the time to challenge why we are so sure of ourselves (“no longer a mere reflection”). That stand may isolate us from our peers (“A solitary soul stands alone so preposterous”). We may do so despite the surrounding noise to the contrary (“A cacophony, their platitudes rang boisterous”). We may even share our discoveries with others (“now a beacon”). Even though the strength of our newfound convictions may cause others to see us as feeble pariahs we remain strong (“bounce around him like so many who have weakened”).
The simple path of the benign follower (“to temptations of easy mirrors”) no longer draws our hero. In fact, they have become a sordid taste to his evolving social palate (“grown squalid”). He has, for an unspoken reason, clarified his view of himself and the impurity of his earlier motives (“he’s polished his keen vision to a deep stained-less screen”). With the old platitudes haunting him (“their certitudes still echo behind”), he second-guesses his new attitudes (“he greets a less solid / footing, slipping and sliding on a cellophane sheen”). End of poem.
So is that it? What else? As in real life, some applaud someone for taking a stand if he’s transforming himself, but we do not see the entire story. We cannot peer into the future, nor can he. The rest of the story remains a mystery. This is where your imagination takes control. Go wild.
Oh, by now, you will have observed an abab rhyme pattern. Mechanics cleverly contrived.
***
You will have noticed all poetic terms and quotes from the verse are italicized.
So what do you think of the format? Each poem in the book is preceded by some “author’s advice” and one of my original images, then followed by a short essay to explore what was on the poet’s (my) mind as the poem was composed. I’d appreciate your feedback. Thanks in advance.
Have you ever heard the old expression, “The two best days in a boat owner’s life is the day he buys his dream boat and the day he sells it?”
Writing is like that too if you adopt the right attitude.
The day you receive an invitation for your full manuscript from a respected publisher feels great. But don’t forget to also celebrate the thousand rejections that are likely to precede that positive acknowledgement of your work! This signals I’m growing as a writer.
Last year I studied the sophisticated craft of writing fine poetry after a lifetime of merely dabbling… That was when I seriously “bought in.”
I spent a year writing and editing my own collection. With no credentials in this genre, I wasn’t sure what to expect. I still don’t. But like writing and publishing anything, whether traditionally or independently, we’re writing and getting our work out there. That was the day I started selling my poetry and myself in earnest, but it is taking longer than selling my boat. Enter attitude.
Today is another good day. I received yet another rejection “slip” from a prestigious publisher of fine poetry. Another milestone! Yes, rejections are to be celebrated for at least three reasons:
Rejections demonstrate we are serious about not only writing for ourselves, but for others,
Each rejection frees up a submission to either submit elsewhere (if exclusive), or to publish independently and guilt-free (it is good form to inform a pub to which you have submitted that you are withdrawing because you’re publishing elsewhere),
These darn rejection slips keep our monster author egos from running away with what little remains of our humility, an attribute I would assert is essential to connect with the most readers (and my wife).
There is something spiritual, even liberating, about one’s work being rejected by the prestigious “American Poetry Review.” Huzzah! Remember, some of our greatest authors felt the sting of rejection countless times before they scored big. Never, EVER, quit.
After independently publishingtwo novels (thrillers), I recently publishedmy first anthology of outrageous original poems, each of which includes a piece of original artwork and an insightful essay. I had earlier also submitted several poems to highly respected publishers listed in “The Poet’s Market” published byWriter’s Digest Books. This is one of the definitive references that provides contact information, type of material sought, circulation (for magazines, e-zines), estimated response time, and an encapsulated cornucopia of other useful info for each publisher that authors of poetry will find useful.
Amidst a library of other books that aid authors, Writer’s Digest also publishes “The Writer’s Market” that helps authors of prose and freelancers find a broad range of publishing opportunities. Shop around. WD now even offers a combinationWriter’s and Poet’s Marketin a searchable online subscription.
For a few bucks more you can order the premium edition of several of their books. These hardcopy editions include a full year of access to their online offering called WritersMarket.com for which you’d otherwise pay a monthly or annual subscription fee. This provides you access to more resources including a somewhat useful submissions tracker (you do track your submissions, don’t you?) and a useful search engine to find just the right market (publication) for your unique work.
If you’re seeking traditional publishing, these comprehensive reference books are also a good source for seeking representation by literary agents (although there is another volume dedicated to just that purpose).
Writer’s Digest books aren’t cheap, but “you don’t get what you don’t pay for.”
If you are an independent author you’ll also find ample inspiration in articles on how to write and promote your labors of love yourself. And insights from peeking over the fence at the traditional side of our industry can never hurt.
BUYER’S TIP: If you’re considering these “market” books that are re-published annually, or are just curious, but aren’t sure about spending thirty bucks a piece, troll the used books stores for editions that are a year or two old.
A lot changes occur from year-to-year, but these “pre-loved” editions are cheap research before spending more. Go ahead. Use them too. Submit a few poems, articles, or short stories as an exploratory measure. It feels good. You can start collecting your own “badges of courage.”
Should you be motivated to purchase your own copies of one or more of Writer’s Digest reputable reference books, you might consider starting your spree at the Writer’s Digest Shop here.
So now we have that “rejection thing” handled, are you interested in reading what “The American Poetry Review” rejected? If so, here we go – in the same format as found in my latest book, “A Narrow Painted Road Seems So…”
Where Goes Mercy?
Author’s advice:
Make sure you’re on dry land when you read this piece. If that’s not possible, I recommend taking refuge in a well-protected anchorage. Or secure your vessel to a stout dock if the weather isn’t too playful for kissing immovable objects.
Sip a stout red wine (in plastic only please, if the deck is dancing) and nibble at a brownie. But be sure not to spill Red Zin on the foredeck. And pick up your crumbs, Mate!
1
Serene white sails, with some red, caress me with reckless
top-heavy breezes, lamenting of portents, not soft, unseen, feckless.
Our sleek little ship embraces her flourishing winds while keening
around lazy jib, mizzen hard and main braced, as if casually leaning
on a cabin’s rough door frame, awaiting the sleepy-eyed watch’s
apologetic invitation to pass smoothly through for a stroll.
The night remains hopeful, confidence high, with steep seas convening…
2
More tender puffs all about us, we shout to the ship for more canvas.
And still she presses insistently onward, bow dives toward blackness,
slower now until microbursts surge and bluster, silk briny-slick
topsides, a foul leaning on quarreling waves, until lurching quick
to leeward, with a dubious but playfully slantwise glance that’s
flush, flirting with grace and soft fury, unfurling contempt kicks…
3
an uproarious force somewhere draws in a deep ominous breath,
that exhales extreme. Still serene, white and red, stay the sails’ heads,
sharper shapes angle in, at once smooth, not a wrinkle, canvas filled.
Ship’s naïve lean ripening to calamitous ill-fortune, dives troughs,
Threatens bursting to gentle dead shreds, no quarter given nor asked
under a gun-metal sky. Her twilight breath screams so meekly until…
4
Now crackling impertinence, impatience, embraces, accelerates —
countered by her tormented keel’s bitter twisting—soon decimates.
This innocent good ship surrenders to such sweet cloying brine,
too much cloth held captive aloft, drives back and far down, climbs
her punctilious way, locked in a lethal embrace with ill-fateful grace,
but for arrogant Spring gales impassioned, a drum-deadly affair…
5
This will not end well. As on a hard-reach, she’s down on a whim,
her heart to be ripped out, wet-holed in dark places, this to be grim,
unless ill-advised quicksilver action best taken in haste,
before drowning in desperation, last-minute gasping, choking faces.
Water I can’t drink fills air I can’t breathe, clear horizons I can’t see,
as a door, with no hinges calls me in to a peaceful, angry embrace…
6
“That vast southern blow did not spank us with rancor after all, did
not visit devastation to ship or our crew, dear-hearted ladies, forbid
that a course by my hand not taken to warm unexplored waters, turned
our stem so sternly to our new course: cold, sharp shoals, confirmed
a path, imperiled our frail little futures, our day’s undoing. So
my lasses, we find deep chilly peace… somehow. We are turned…”
7
Our doomed little ship, serene sails, painted white, a bit of paled red,
now gray and a bit black, cloaked hope just beyond a freshly bled
gun-metal horizon, so ripe for a fight—there’s no match, this ordeal,
a cruel prank that bitter North wind vows her soft granite zeal,
who’s caress felt enchanted, now murmurs into ears that can’t hear,
sings to me a chant so devout, clear passage no longer genteel…
8
Steep tolls extracted, we dared a kiss on her blushed coral cheek.
Soon enough, with innocent guile, will lovingly murder, and wreak
sweet havoc, plunder souls and ships, bright deck to barnacled keel.
Invisible melodies so honeyed, a siren’s transparent white-ballad veil,
from brief lives to grave death, clear passage now clearly denied.
All the while, night, air around us gently crackles. She kills as we kneel…
9
Where goes mercy, as Spring gales rage, with no wholly reason?
When sails honed hard as stone by brutal wind’s forge, bids disbelief
that a thin aging mistress stalks gray sails, all shatter, frail as filigree,
bent iron sheets mashed flat, savage doom ever looming, we see
splits rigging, decks splintering, and three souls aboard. But for me…
10
… before surrendering to our vengeful mother, now a vile menace —
mere courtesan to a bitter grandfather spoiled pious and jealous,
or so it seems—this helmsman, I thought so thoughtful and wise,
by gripping this wheel so firmly to a frayed bitter end, am despised,
frozen in crystal wonder, a bewildered buffoon ponders all creation,
while destruction by this hand, doom pends, still thinking of why’s…
11
Our impulse, winked instants, serene like gauze phosphoresced, as
lungs find briny sorrow, kneel on deck, rest assured, new plans
for conceivable joy that is now near impossibly expressed, we
remember our forlorn regrets, made decisions in tart briny haste, she,
mistress-mother calls, we trusted snow-white mercy, strolling in light.
Five days later the sea’s gravest sanity prevails… serene…
12
So finally, all cast away except white and red tatters, caught
rare flotsam yet floating, and all else that never mattered, floats not.
My helm and both lasses, afore the downed mast, now all promoted
for fate-laden errors swallowed, best intentions in haste, broken
our bane to endurance just dutifully, befittingly unfurled:
helm for poor trim, and doomed crew, trust misplaced, just eroded…
13
None, under splintered hull, bark reprisals, too late condemned,
forgetting those white and dull red admonitions of tempests instead.
Only still-earthbound mariners reflect, may relish with dizzy dismay,
where goes mercy, indeed? Drifting with flotsam on a turbulent sea?
Where newly dead sailors now loll—rest insincere all the day?
Grim gales’ omens flare, as if by accidental bloodthirsty calamity…
14
Desperately serene, our spirits aft the transom, gently descending,
still fathom thin hopeful dreams abandoned—never unending.”
Poet’s Notes: Where Goes Mercy?
Note: A review of all technical poetic nomenclature is offered in the first two chapters of my latest book, “A Narrow Painted Road Seems So…”
The image featured for this piece is a watercolor painting I completed in 2015. I based its mood on my experience from traveling and living aboard sailboats for decades.
This painting embodies emotions conjured from voyages where we, captain and mate, headed into inclement weather on big water, but only when we had no choice. I now dwell on what might have happened.
The image also illustrates too much sail aloft, and for a night passage, no less—an ill-seasoned recipe for quick-changing disaster.
My experience with near-lethal weather weighed on my mind as I composed this piece. Memories of my days as a member and team leader in the US Coast Guard Search and Rescue teams consumed me. After that I drew on my decades of experience as a civilian yachtsman and licensed captain at the helm of my own little ship.
Still vivid in my mind as I labored with high emotion over this piece were those crews on distressed yachts, several of whom never returned to shore. Almost a half century later, some nights I still dream of retrieving bloated and sun-shredded corpses. I often imagine what must have gone through their minds in their final moments on Earth. Bitterness? Futility? Hope? Guilt? Surrender? Some of each? I’m not sure, and I am not that curious. Yet.
However unlikely to expect any ethereal emotion like mercy in moments of crisis from a raging power greater than ourselves, the best of our humanity expects just that. Rational thought notwithstanding, and likely abandoned, this might be the best thinking our distressed lizard brain can muster at or near the end of our tissue paper life.
Through the narrative of this poem, we journey from fair winds and following seas through eroding weather into vicious headwinds. Then we journey onto a foul bottom that holes the ship, killing captain (“helm”) and crew—two young ladies.
Leadership has consequences. Honorable leaders accept them with grace even though they may not understand their larger context.
Offshore sailors understand the most hazardous phase of any voyage is landfall. A recent visit to the Columbia River Maritime Museum in Astoria, Oregon also inspired this narrative. My passion to write this piece intensified after a lengthy hike to the lighthouse on Cape Disappointment, Washington. This volatile coastline is one of the most hostile Winter shores in the world for mariners.
I used the anapestic pentameterrhythm structure with a loose aabbcbnear-rhymepattern. A few lines feature six feet instead of the pentameter’s five. I meant this to symbolize two things. First, six is an important number at sea. It is a unit of measure (of depth or length) called the fathom. Second, every offshore sailor remains vigilant watching for the rare and lethal rogue wave. The occasional longer line suggests those rare dangerous waves.
In the final couplet, as a pun, once again, the number six floats near the surface. Recall a fathom is a measure of water’s depth—six feet. It is also an expression of comprehension.“Our spirits aft the transom, gently descending, / still fathom thin hopeful dreams abandoned, never unending.” And the expression, “aft the transom, gently descending,” paints the morbid image of overboard bodies trailing behind the boat. The boat sails on without them sinking to their doom. Maybe they’re still tethered to their ghost ship, being dragged until all sink together. I know. Grim.
Despite lengthy pentameters (five emphasized syllables per line) in most lines, the narrative keeps pulling the reader forward with a tumbling staccato as if eager to end.
I also meant to moderate the pace of the piece and to add interest through the liberal use of dactyls and trochees. They subdue an otherwise overpowering anapestic and iambicrhythm. Like rogue waves, these variations reflect how a turbulent sea might behave—rough, unpredictable, and choppy. In this way I broke up what otherwise could have been monotonous and hypnotic regularity.
And finally, I’ve made liberal use similes and metaphors throughout the piece. Such is the power and the beauty of poetry. While some phrases might seem strange, don’t be afraid to Google obscure nautical terminology, or just let them wash over you. Don’t forget… you are an advanced reader.
There you have it. Great work, but just not exactly what APR needed at this time. I’m once again free to share this work!
Don’t get me wrong. I will keep submitting, but I feel like this rather substantial piece of work is once again mine to do with what I please.
Can you tell I have mixed feelings about publishing traditionally. That’s just me. I do what I must.
Having said that, never get discouraged by any aspect of your own writing. Why? Because there is only one you, and if you don’t do you, nobody else will.
Rejection “slips” are a visceral reminder that you’re out there in the slugfest, and you are no quitter!
If you found this article useful, you might enjoy others in this blog designed to help other authors and provide “writing life” insights to readers.
I’d be honored if you would consider subscribing to this blog. Thank you!
With pen in hand,
Gene
My publishing company’s logo
Cover art for the anthology of seventy-one poems, images, and essays, now including the nautical ode, “Where Goes Mercy.”
I’ve finally published my latest book, more than thirty-eight years in the making, my most ambitious and risky project to date.
“A Narrow Painted Road Seems So…” is now available worldwide in its Kindle edition. For your copy, or to “Look Inside,” just click here. I also offer you a sneak preview below.
I call this collection of poetry and accompanying essays a provocative and colorful social art form.You will be surprised. You’ll love some and you’ll hate some. That’s why it is provocative and adventurous, both for you as a reader and me as a poet. Are you up to it?
Wait. You don’t like poetry? That’s like saying, “I don’t like books.” If true, I wonder why you want to read this or any book, however tragic that would be.
No Kindle device? No problem. Read anywhere with Amazon’s free app! It is very good.
Don’t forget to download your free and robust Kindle reader app so you can read Kindle editions like this one on ANY smart device. See the Amazon screen grabs below…
To get the Kindle reader app from Amazon, click on “Free App” on the site as shown above…You have several options to acquire your reader app as you can see here. And it works on any smart device.
Even if you’re not a fan of poetry, my most ambitious literary effort to date is sure to intrigue you once you start reading this book. Each of the poems in the collection is its own journey, including:
• Title (the set-up),
• Author’sAdvice (how to squeeze the most from the poem),
• Image (one of my original complimentary images by way of introducton),
• Poem (the good stuff),
• Essay entitled, “Poet’s Notes” (a peek behind each poem’s purple curtain).
Explore just eighteen chapters that group the seventy-one poems and essays into evocative topics. Or you can treat each poem as its own bite-size destination.
The new book’s premise:
This book is a collection of my more provocative—even daring—poems. Some are simple or playful verses fun to read to yourself or aloud.
Some, however, treat seriously what I consider important social issues. All are meant to provoke you, to elicit a thoughtful reaction. A response. Maybe even to anger you or to evoke empathy. You will remember some of these poems.
You may agree or disagree with their messages, but I promise you will be thinking. For that, I commend you on the adventurous journey you are about to begin.
But that’s only the beginning.
Excerpt from the introductory chapter entitled, “Why This Book?”…
I don’t enjoy watching basketball, perhaps because I don’t understand the game. The same can be true for many readers of poetry. Maybe a lack of understanding the basics even has you fearing some of the greatest literary works in history or of today because you don’t understand how to absorb them.
So while I think my poems are good, I can help you enjoy them and all poetry more by exposing their more shapely curves to your naked eye.
If you’re an aspiring poet or neophyte reader of poetry, you will most certainly find this chapter and the next insightful and educational. I’ve condensed key learning points from more than a dozen texts on the topic of reading or writing fine poetry with an informed eye.
If you’re already an analytical reader of fine poetry who hungers for more insight, you too should find these short twin chapters a concise and useful review. You’ll know when I break the rules later in this book. And you’ll learn soon enough I am an irreverent rule breaker. Then decide for yourself when that works, and when it doesn’t.
If you are an accomplished poet, you might find some new ideas you can press into your own service.
Have you ever seen the movie, “Strangers on a Train?” That film untangles a tale of deceit and murder. A conspiracy is born contrived by two complete strangers thrown together by circumstance.
This poem is not about murder or conspiracy, but imagine how the environment described below could become fertile ground for planting the seeds for such a tale.
I wrote this poem thirty-eight years ago when my vocabulary impressed me more than it did anyone else. See if you can get past the fancy words and phrases. The essay that follows tries to make sense of the obscure madness that engulfed me back in the throes of my immaturity. I include this poem along with a few more recent observations in this collection for your amusement.
Perhaps this eighteen-line verse is more relevant than ever almost four decades downrange of its inception. Does it represent more than weary folks riding a train?
Commuter Morality
Loneliness was always the most intense
amidst a crowd so indelibly cold.
Distant at arm’s length, they took offense.
So often, it seemed my soul had sold
for a measure of cheap jealousy, condensed.
No matter how I felt, I was ever seen as too bold.
Or perhaps I just thought I would certainly fail
when others threatened me with what they were told
of my shallow indifference to their echoed inadequacy,
or their perception of my periphery so tightly rolled
into an understated, cancerous, and trite indelicacy,
to pillage and burn my fragile affectations. So droll.
Is it fitting and appropriate, their ineffectual apoplexy,
in the midst of indefinitely infecting my shallow soul,
are pretenders of honor, of innocence as their prophecy,
yet armored with their careless anonymity as a whole,
for the last time, every time, mildly careless mendacity
at my onerous expense? A sentence without parole?
– by GK Jurrens
Poet’s Notes: Commuter Morality
First, let’s analyze the simple mechanics of this verse. Poetic terms reviewed in Chapter Two are italicized and quotes from the verse are bold and italicized. Line breaks are represented by a slash (/).
I had a simplistic view of composing poetry in 1980 as a naïve and cynical thirty-one-year-old. As I analyze this poem now at age sixty-nine, I include it in this collection because of the transparent reflection of my younger less-complicated self. Other than my annoying use of flowery language, I still managed a simple and loose rhyme pattern (~ababab) reminiscent of a train rattling the rails.
Likewise, the imagery seems adequate, focusing on people instead of the setting or a narrative. I somehow avoided clichés, and included adequate alliteration, consonance, and assonance. My diction wasn’t that great, but this poem has stayed with me through more than half my life. Curious.
There is enough variation in this anapestic (forward pulling) tetrameter (four feet or “beats” per line) to make for a consistent rhythm. I enjoyed the sound of this combination of words.
Its form seems consistent with the content of this short triple sestet (three six-line stanzas). I must admit this happened by accident. It did not spring from my personal fountain of young adult knowledge.
As for the image that introduces this poem, I captured a busy urban street in Athens, Greece several years ago while waiting to board our chartered sailboat. The blur caused by using my camera’s slow shutter speed conveys a sense of perpetual motion appropriate for this verse. Daily commutes can seem perpetual.
Contrary to what I’d wish to see, commuting in any of the world’s major urban areas has become a hostile battleground driven by creeping financial and emotional distress. That declaration makes no sense to you? Allow me to explain a rather cynical but all too frequent scenario.
While exceptions exist, living expenses in large urban areas have grown too costly for all but the wealthiest. For example, as I found in greater New York, more folks have found it necessary to travel farther away from their jobs and the city to seek affordable housing. That means driving or riding longer to and from work. Mass transit, as an affordable and sound mode of commuting, has become more popular and more accessible than ever in these areas.
There are countless advantages to mass transit and myriad disadvantages. For example, commuting from Grand Central in Manhattan to the bedroom village of Brewster, New York is an hour North by train punctuated by several tedious stops. Brewster’s park-and-ride is only a few miles from the more affordable city of Danbury, Connecticut. Much can happen in an hour on a train, and often does, if tensions ride high. This is frequently the case after a ten- or twelve-hour stress-filled workday in the city.
I had imagined isolation on long and crowded commutes. “Loneliness was always the most intense / amidst a crowd so indelibly cold.” Everyone needs space. Sometimes companionship and solitude are both unaffordable and inaccessible, even unacceptable. “Distant at arm’s length, they took offense.”
Many commuters padded their emotional armor by scoring fistfuls of martinis in to-go cups on the platform at Grand Central in anticipation of the long ride home. Such high-octane flammables often fueled animosity. “So often, it seemed my soul had sold / for a measure of cheap jealousy, condensed.”
The closer we’d get to Brewster, the vaporous atmosphere would threaten spontaneous combustion. “No matter how I felt, I was ever seen as too bold.” All who shared this crowded venue understood the slightest misunderstandings often mushroomed from innocent conversation to something more combative. “Or perhaps I just thought I would certainly fail / when others threatened me with what they were told.”
When retaliation was called for, I was ambivalent but still demonstrative in a quiet way. “Of my shallow indifference to their echoed inadequacy.”
Despite my best intentions, I’d sometimes react with what some might call an inflammatory response. “Or their perception of my periphery caught tightly rolled / into an understated, cancerous, and trite indelicacy.”
But in general, I avoided confrontation. That was my superpower. This sometimes elicited an indulgent smirk instead of a blow to the head. “To pillage and burn my fragile affectations. So droll.” Ain’t diplomacy grand?
In response to this quasi-normal daily commute ritual, I grew numb to the hum. “Is it fitting and appropriate that their ineffectual apoplexy, / Who, in the midst of indefinitely infecting my shallow soul…?”
Those who professed to be the most self-righteous were those who would show their muddy stripes the soonest. Sometimes, those stripes ran in weird and not-so-pleasing directions, not always consistent with their cooler heads. “Are pretenders of honor, of innocence as their prophecy.”
They would be the ones apathetic to anyone’s desires other than their own. “Yet armored with their careless anonymity as a whole, / For the last time, every time, a mildly careless mendacity.” Too often I observed anonymity obscuring or even erasing personal accountability.
Such is the plight of some commuters subjected to the vagaries of their own volatility when facing a tunnel that ends only in a distant darkness. “At my onerous expense? A sentence without parole?”
That was then. So I eventually moved to Southwest Florida. When necessary, I found commuting by air more civilized though no less onerous and no less happily remembered.
Now I am retired and look back at these time-displaced impressions with amusement.
Those were the days…
So I invite you to journey with me. Hear me roar… Thanks for giving this book a serious look.
