Warm Tea In Mountain Rain

Fall wrapped itself around the mountains in a cold misty blanket.  Rain wept for the lost summer season.  Emily wore her oldest and most comfortable pajamas.  The kids had already gone into school with their rain jackets and rubber boots.  Her husband carried the soft memory of her farewell kiss to start his day.  She was finally alone.   Her eyes now caressed the items carefully placed in the home office.  A small red ball played music on the shelf.  Its black wire finding her ipod.  Norah Jones and Keb Mo warmed the air in the room against the clear cold rain tickling the window.  She took another sip of warm peppermint tea.  The sharp flavor danced with her senses.  The keyboard, and laptop conquered all of the available space on the wooden desk.  She sighed, breathing in the moment as she pulled out her notebook.   A delightful moment of writing drank her up as smooth and focused as the storm outside.

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W. Gilbert


A Writers Building

The words my soul spills, are like bricks and wood.  At first they are laid in a deep hole.  Then covered with cold unforgiving dirt.  A few more words, fall by the thousands.  The structure and composition is better, but fire soon devours them.  I build again, this time with knowledge of writing, an architect in my mind working along side my passion.  The building of my words is strong.  Someone pays me to look at it.  They enjoy the experience.  They smile, they cry, they read.  I look at my structure and I realize I can build onto my skill, better, stronger.  More words, stacking.  This time I build, tear down, rebuild, polish, refine.  Like a cathedral of my work, it is beautiful, many come.  Some love it, some hate it, but it is there to be considered.   Bricks and wood, one by one.   Finite experience is only found within the building.

Copyright © 2107 Zachary W. Gilbert


Dear Writer, about that broken pen

Dear Writer,

Sorry, that I have been away for awhile.  I have been busy on my journey to my first four year degree.  I wont be earning it until I am 41 years old.  Isn’t writing the same?  Why do writers consider failure to be permanent within one failure, and one rejection.  I tried to go to Art College in my twenties.  I learned about story, and character development, but before my junior year was over, and I realized I was spread very, very thin, I quit.  I thought my failure was permanent.  It took years for my to dust myself off and try writing.  Failure is only be temporary, if you get back up, and are perpetually trying.  Dear Writer, your readers are out there, waiting for your tale.  It may not be for everyone, but be assured, it is for them.  Your next project may be your breakthrough project.  Your next submission, might be the one chosen.  I find joy in the act of writing.  I will do so until I die.  As for my readers, I will embrace them when we finally meet.

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W. Gilbert


To un-write the none

Again, it is, that the moon siphons my ambition.

Stories on life support, their pulses faintly scratched in the black book I keep in my pocket.

I have wanted to have a book put together by now.

And yet, I have none.

Blogging, is my daily driver.  To write.  To have consistency.

I have a flash fiction story, in my orange notebook, written quickly in red.  Now it hungers to be read.

Excuses to not write, there are none.

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert


Brain Fuzz

Bacteria spawning in my mind, formulates an anchor.  I allow it to stay, because I think that dark green moss belongs on my drowning rock of a head.  One day perhaps I will stop being cranky and take my rock out of the dark depths of the soured river.  I may choose to lay it in the sun.  The bacteria’s mossy crown will dry out and fall off.  My ideas could then glisten in the sun like veins of lost gold.  I am afraid of how beautiful it might be.  I want and don’t want people to see it.  I sit on the shore and ponder, “to pull a lodged stone out of a river is most difficult only in the beginning.”  Bending down, I wrap my fingers around my brain, and pull.

Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert