Pardon dear friends and humble readers for my coopting of the Shakespeare
title extraordinaire, but today I am at a loss for serious subject matter, yet
feel chatty. So, this is going to be a collage of sorts. I'm starting out
talking about my feelings, and closing with some masculine poetry.
Feelings: I am in the midst of several writing projects that are moving
at a snail’s pace. I'm working on a Steampunk science fiction novel, cleaning
up and editing the sequel to Mad Cows, writing the next (and most likely last)
In the World of Hyboria story, and toying with a novella that will be my fan
fiction to H.P. Lovecraft. So, in short I'm feeling rather busy at present.
But, that is a copout isn't it. The feeling is scared - yes, I feel scared that
I might not finish any of them and slip into obscurity. Although, I am pretty
obscure as it is - and thus it might not be much of a change.
If you haven't visited my web site, take a moment to trip on over to
www.boarerpitchford.com - it's like
LSD, but different. You'll find information about me, my works, where to
purchase them, see some examples/samples, and so on. You can also drop me a
line if you like in the contact section.
Okay, as promised. Here is a sample of a poem that I did many years ago, and
is part of a collection of poetry that I've amassed over the years, but is not published as of yet. If you like
it let me know.
Longnor Hall
There upon lacquered table
Sits a smoking pipe of maple
A fire throwing yellow hues
Behind the chair that is my muse
Once within the thought
Brandy in snifter brought
I stare blankly away
Considering events of the day
And with shaken hand, raised as such
I linger with life in a deathly clutch
Cold winds blow outside my door
Like lofty days of lore
Whose only job it is so bold
To come in and share the cold
Laughing saints of years since lost
Dance like fairies in the frost
Outside my window closed this night
To protect this fragile firelight
Then the brandy, drained from glass
And smoking pipe held with class
Do present the smoky spirits look
With fractured moments from a book.
Copyright 1996 Lawrence BoarerPitchford