Let your tale, be poured into my ears

My friends, I humbly ask for you to consider the following notions, before you release the swarm.  In conversation, with other human beings that inhabit this world, please entertain the idea that their story doesn’t match yours.  All people, perhaps, have unique back stories, that may identify them, haunt them, or inspire them. The fibrous stands of time are woven together for us all over years and years of experiences.  Yet, the patterns, shapes, and perspectives are vastly different.  Some fabric is cut, some are burned, some have vibrant stories and colors, some depict great tragedies.  Words are not defined by your strings, but by theirs.  Father, may be a word that is equal to the devil.  Mother may mean perpetual anger and criticism.  Please dear friends, I beg you to pause, and allow rumination to take your thoughts on a flight.  High above your own city and town, where events that have happened to you are lost, and the vast landscapes of another person unfold below you.  Become the Hawk, high in the cool breeze, seeking to capture their story, hiding in the rocks.  Swoop down, and consume their tale.  Live, with them in their moment of storytelling.  Listen, learn, and most importantly, love.

 Take the institution of marriage.  Why, to me, it is a fine thing.  My parents stayed married their whole life, as did my wife’s parents.  I watched them endure mighty storms, but they were as steadfast as a rocky shore.  My tale, is my tale.  Other souls may have the word marriage fall upon their ears as a ball of thorns beings pushed into their heart with a glowing orange iron from the fire.  A man may have used his might and authority to foul innocence.  A woman may insult a child because they remind her of the man who failed, and left her alone.  There are thousands and thousands of stories.  Consider, listening.  Discover what life is to someone else.

The swarm of your words, waits like an army.  As the ruler you choose what to arm them with, when you unleash them into conversation.  Will you attack in foolishness, or will you send an unarmed scout, with ready pen and blank page to learn the tale of life, from another.

My friends, please consider carefully concerning the swarm.  For if you attack, for the sake of yourself, you will become a defined agent of pain, and burn another thread of time black before it is sewn permanent into the tapestry of someone else’s life.

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert


Don’t Forget to Walk the Blog


The place I call home is right next to the Rocky Mountains 1.6 km  (1 mile) above sea level.  A semi-arid desert, with thin air.  Many people visit and find it difficult to breath.  I was born way up here so it is my normal.  I take my whole crew on dog walks at the local park.  3 young kids, my wife, and our little brown dog Charlie.  The park is green in the summer, thanks to our ‘desert oasis’ sprinkler system buried in the ground.  At night little plastic shafts rise from the ground, cough and hiss, and water for 30 minutes or so.

Many people go to the park and walk their dogs.  Some people are social, with happy fun dogs.  Others, seem to be walking a guard dog, and patrolling ‘the compound’.  In either case, we enjoy the sun, the people, and the dogs.

Blogs are like dogs.  Everyday, I take my ‘blog’ for a walk.  I try and read 10 posts.  Titles always sell my choices.  Some, I only make it though the first sentence, or perhaps the first paragraph.  The blog growls at me, or ignores my heart, and I move on to the next.  I have a goal to like at least 5 and comment on at least 2.   Someday’s I go over 10 reads, most days, I drop 10 likes on all 10 visits!  I feel inspired, touched, and moved.  I have walked in a lush garden of your writing.  An ocean of ideas sloshes, and caresses wet sandy shores.  I love that moment, when I pause in the virtual park, walking my blog, and meet someone who has a beautiful story to share,  their story of being human.  I think blogging 90% reading and listening.  In the end, my posts become better from interacting with the community.

There are times, when I need to delicately pick up my post with a little green bag, but its alright, because I came to the ‘blog’ park to meet you.


Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert

Dear Writer… (Thought 2)

Dear Writer,

A story may fall from a leaky mind, turn to ink, then trickle and tickle its way to dry paper.  Consider for a moment, dear writer, that the pipeline from imagination, to final draft is clogged.  Debris, trash, and sloppy slush impedes ideas from taking shape into sacred words.  Writing emerges flawed, and saturated with muck.  The triage of story is full.  But, you are writing!  You are in the fight!  Don’t give up!

  1. Draft 1: Severely wounded, ideas are weak and dying!
  2. Draft 2: Grammar Transplant, terminal wounds!
  3. Draft 3: Character Blender, Blood Bath!
  4. Draft 4: Beta Readers, are not impressed…
  5. Draft 5: Draft is breathing on its own…  more bandages.
  6. Draft 6: Plot Surgery, the story crawls…
  7. Draft 7:  The real editing begins…  Limb grafts…

Soon, writing is strong enough to conquer the hearts of the readers.  Eventually the battle to tell your tale, is won!

Critisism, dear writer, may be your friend.  There are 318.9 million people in the United States alone.  Billions in the world.  If your writing, becomes an etched monument in the town square, shouldn’t it be as good as it can be?  If it has 1 million readers, that enjoyed the experience, isn’t all the criticism worth it?  If the seventh book written is the one that makes it, then the heavily criticized and wreckage of the first six, becomes, worth it?  Yes!

Dear writer, there good criticism.  Beta readers that are story inspectors.  They point at flaws, and reveal concerns.  You, dear writer, are the Engineer, Architect, and Mechanic of your tale.  Will you allow criticism to be your flashlight to see the necessary repairs needed?

Remember, dear writer, there is dark criticism.  Avoid it.  If you believe your topic, then write about it.  If someone attacks your topic, then ignore it.  Pay attention to those who would criticize the format and nature of the delivery truck, not the product it carries.  Remember, there are those who attack writers, simply just to attack.  You are in motion, you are in the fight.  You are writing, dear writer.  There will always be more people in the crowd shouting insults, then will be warriors in the arena willing to swing the sword (or pens and keyboards in your case).  Insults of topic and beliefs are not criticism.

When the reader is given a experience and a journey, though a clean and unclogged pipe of finished writing, you dear writer, with good criticism, have won!

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert


Color Wheel of Life

Tar on the pavement, hot and gooey, under the yellow sun.

Sunflowers sway in a warm breeze, yellow leaves, so fragile.

A traffic sign, hanging on a bent square poll, a yellow warning.

Deep in the ditch, beside the road, a mangled yellow car.


She was born, so small, scratch mittens,  boots, tiny and pink.

Her first room, a lady bug, a castle, the walls covered in pink.

That first father, daughter, dance.  Mom braided her hair, with pink ribbons.

I didn’t let her see me cry when she looked so lovely, in that pink prom dress.


My cell phone, wrapped in a black rubber case, rang on a snowy night.

My daughter, was back in town, her black purse, had been empty for months.

Her boyfriend, left her, with much, mush more than a blackened tattoo.

I told her I loved her, as I wrote, “She’s back!”  and showing my wife the black letters.


The snow was thick on the road, the night air was painful, as blue and red lights danced.

“Two occupants both dead”, the officer in blue told me, and wrote a few words in red.

My daughter picked up a hitchhiker, dressed in blue,  his hidden fingers, were red.

Deep in the ditch, beside the road, a mangled yellow car.

Blue eyes cry,  into a bloodshot red.


Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert