Lugoff, by Barry Yelton

Copyright 2008

in a broke down little place
just off the interstate
west to nowhere
summer heated sidewalks
burn the soles of small
brown feet
stepping quick
in front of mama
into the laundromat

and dark, seamed faces
stare blank
from the half shaded porch
of a tumbledown grocery
hands of mill and field
of a thousand tiresome yesterdays
and the smoke from cigarettes
curls upward
and aggravates the flies
buzzing slowly
in the dense summer air

seems distant
somehow, he thinks
that long lost past
living in another time and place
when joints didn’t ache
with arthritis
and calloused hands
did hard work all day
and caressed the body
of his woman at night
when energy surged up
and life seemed sweet
distant now
far away in a
wearisome place
a man is too tired to dream of
a lost place
lost in the haze and the heat
years ago

the cigarette burns slowly down
unnoticed
until the sting causes him to drop it
on the dirty boards of the porch

lordy

over yonder in the shade
of a dusty old oak
a flop-eared hound
sums it all up
with one,
huge,
sigh

The Golfer, by Barry Yelton

In a long curving arc
it soars, gleaming in the sunlight
racing over the green grass
the towering pines
and lands
with a splash.

He mutters imprecations at the vile thing,
the day growing darker
and after two birdies on the front nine
and the fruit of a successful wager
dangling like a golden carrot.
He curses again at his fate.
Bogey.
Twelve over par for the round.
The tragedy of it all.

One can only but weep at the sight of
the golfer,
resplendent in his khakis and golf shirt
easing into the soft leather of his Mercedes,
defeat and despair etched on his face.
The day was a disaster,
embarrassed and harassed
a C-note poorer
he slowly drives to his home near the club.

The gardener waves cheerily,
as he comes up the drive,
but he doesn’t see.
The seven bedroom colonial
seems to mock him today,
the polished marble and hardwood
seem cold.
He lost.

Wearily he trudges up the winding staircase,
the crystal chandelier glowing warmly,
fails to lift his spirits.
Booting up one of his five PC’s,
his portfolio he eyes.
The tragedy continues,
down five hundred grand,
almost five percent for the year!
To the liquor cabinet for the twelve year old Scotch,
succor just a few steps away,
the broken man finally
finds relief.

Walking to the window, Scotch in hand,
seeking comfort in the long expanse of lawn.
The azaleas are in bloom
and the songbirds sing sweetly,
but alas his gloom is not broken.
He watches the gardener,
lucky man that he is.
What care does he have?
He did not shoot eighty today!
He did not lose 4.7% of his portfolio this year!
Oh the unfairness of it all!
Look at the man,
working in the sunlight,
cheerful and smiling.

Ignacio trims the hedges just so,
sweat streaming on his brown, smiling face,
unaware of the angry gaze of his employer
from the second floor window
of the brick and stone mansion.
He works with a purpose
for six twenty-five each hour,
living with eight others
in a ramshackle trailer,
so he can send an amazing
one hundred dollars per month,
to his family in Guatemala,
so they can buy rice and beans
and will not starve,
and perhaps Rosita can buy
for the children
some clothes this year,
perhaps even shoes,
so their feet don’t get bloody
working in the cane fields.
He works even harder
and glances at the sun
growing low to the horizon.
Soon to the second job
cleaning garbage trucks for the city,
standing shin deep in the muck
for eight more hours,
scrubbing and shoveling,
but he doesn’t mind.
This year perhaps he can buy a new dress
for Rosita, his beloved,
and he smiles broader at the thought.

But the man sipping Scotch,
no such happiness has he,
for life has turned dark,
he shot eighty today.

Valley of Waters

Copyright 2008
Barry Yelton

In the cool of the evening, by the surging stream
the night wind sings to the canvas of stars
and time slows to an ebony crawl
in the valley where life abounds like raindrops.

I listen to the sounds that come dancing around me like fairies
the flittering bat, the talking water, the mysterious rustle of leaves .
They all tell some tail I don’t quite understand
but know it has been told for an age and more.

And I shiver in delight as the cooling wind ruffles my hair
and caresses me like passion.
The light from the stars dresses the night in elegance
and the animal sounds in the forest seem far away.

I gaze at the canopy of light and darkness and wonder
could this all be by chance?
Or in the wisdom of the great I AM it began with a roar
a burst of cosmic stardust and riotous sound and searing light .

Then settled into this dreamy night on this whispering shore
while a small mortal bound for the earth
marvels at it all and dreams of meeting
the One who brought it all to pass.

A Given

It seems to me that
light plays games
with aging eyes

when reading a computer screen
or sanding a window sill
or driving on a tree shaded road
when the light strobes
and flickers

and darkness and shadow
intermingle
then disperse
with terrible alacrity

and you can barely
refocus
before the next spatter of
light or shadow

attacks your retina
like a windmill
gone mad.

The counterpoint of aging
is the fascination
of the maudlin retrogression
of the human frame,
creating the continual
daily melodrama
of irresistible decline.

So, fellow traveler,
be you eight or eighty
know this

you will and will
fail and fall
sag and settle
wane and weaken


until the reaper
takes your hand
and you lie still
swaddled in silk

through eternal night

And the soul
yet wings toward starry realms
and purest light
where dwells Hope
and renewal
and reunion

on avenues
where abide
the angels.

and Roll

pulsing sound burns out the pain

a river of fire
white hot
and
surging through
in a rush

light and movement high
on a painted ridge
swirling like a dancer

now ringing like an enchanted
bell from a distant cathedral

towering

now sad, now bright
always charged

like lightning.

The Passing of Arthur C. Clarke

Copyright 2008

Gazing at the ebony canvas
stretching unfathomable into nine billion
yesterdays
he stands on the Sri Lankan shore
imagining.

Sitting at the table
creating worlds within worlds
the end of childhood
the rendezvous
the odyssey
geosynchronous visions.

Grasping the ungraspable
thinking the inexplicable
dreaming
learning
living in a quiet place
on a small planet
in an obscure solar system
in galaxy number nine billion and one.

The gift of new clarity,
was laid at our feet and
the hope of tomorrow
by
the majestic seer.

May he rest in peace
with supernova
illuminating his path
to brighter worlds
beyond.

Featured IAG Author

Each week this blog will feature a different author from the Independent Authors Guild group, of which this writer is a member. The people in this group have been extraordinarily supportive of my work and have provided extensive reviews, links on web sites, and other kindnesses. I wanted to return the favor in a small way.

I have read the work of many of these writers and reviewed some of them as well. Many have considerable talent and have not yet been recognized by the mainstream traditional publishers. Some are self published, like myself. Others are published by small presses without the clout of the major houses. All that I have encountered have been sincere and serious about their work.

I trust this new feature will inure to the benefit of both the featured authors as well as the readers of this blog. You may discover hidden literary gems and exciting new talent among this group.

The first featured author is Dianne K. Salerni. Ms. Salerni started a forum on Amazon.com for self published and small press authors of historical fiction. I joined in the discussion and it evolved into the Independent Authors Guild. Ms. Salerni deserves a lion's share of the credit for bringing this group together. Many have become friends. I believe all have benefited from the information, comraderie and sometimes commiseration this group has facilitated.

Like independent films, or indies, independent authors and publishers have to scramble for attention, respect and, yes, sales of their work. It does not come easy. 100,000 books are published each year in the U.S. Only a small handful become best sellers. Only a relatively small minority sell more than 1,000 copies. There are many fine books that never see the shelf of a bookstore.

Conversely, famous authors can put out almost anything and find a broad audience. They don't even have to be writers. They just have to be famous. Witness all the books published for people like talk show hosts, sports figures, celebrities, etc. Few have much value. Even fewer are written above an eighth grade level.

Good writing is an art. It is often referred to as a "craft," as though it is akin to basket weaving. Excellent writing is far more involved, subtle, and creative than craft. It is truly art, because the work, if it is fiction, is created from whole cloth. At its best, it is not regurgitated nor recycled. It is new and fresh and it takes the reader to another time and place.

Independent Authors Guild is an effort to support and encourage the efforts of fledgling writers who too often are ignored by the traditional publishing industry, which struggles for sales in a shrinking pool of readers, and therefore has to ruthlessly select what it thinks will sell enough books to cover the cost of production, printing, and publicity and generate a profit.

They also guarantee the bookstores that they will take back any unsold books. This is very risky and very expensive. That is why traditionals must be so selective. Many receive literally hundreds of manuscripts each month, while publishing only a small handful at best. The rest find the slush pile, otherwise known as file 13. Unfortunately the baby is often tossed out with the bath water. It is not quality the publishers seek, it is broad appeal and salability. And their judgement is obviously far from infalable. It is a terrible dilemma for unknown writers seeking an audience for their work.

Kudos to all those who write, because it is what they must do.