Playing With Dragons.

 Hill King’s Mantra.

Spread your wings and feel your fire

burning brightly in your chest.

Know your spirit.

See your power.

Grip the stone on which you rest.

Clear your throat and let your voice call.

Great green mountains,

there your kingdom

rises up to meet your presence

in the early morning light.

Stand and strut fourth proudly

as your arms embrace the thermals.

Run headlong into the sunrise

over hills so high and green.

Great, green mountains

now below you

fine, white mist upon their crowns

Flowing slowly over forests

there to lie upon the downs.

May the greenwood stand immortal

over all that lives and dies,

May the white hot rush of sunlight

Meet the fury in your eyes.

Raise your head and raise your talons

To the bright and hazy sun.

Clear your throat and let your voice call

With my kingdom

I am one.



I’ve seen it on the edge of town,



 across the ground.

Oozing up

through sidewalk cracks,

gnawing holes

in wicker sacks,

souring high

on warm winds rising,

racing fast

 in tunnels deep

it’s stirring in the air we breath

and watching

– waiting –

when we sleep.


no man wants to hear,


many others fear,

winds that raze the widest wall,

a rushing tide that conquers all,

fires fiercer

then my soul,

waters deeper,

roar and roll,

and it lies

beneath these skies.

Outside these doors,

a dragon roars.

Its voice is louder then a siren,

warning of felony

or fate

and those who’ve stood

beneath it’s shadow

Can not help but stare agape.

For no man’s plan

it walks.

For no mans pride

it talks.

It lives for no mans table,

and is Neither fact or fable.

Yet we long for but a glance.

Forsaking peace and quiet

to say we’ve stood beside it,

and at our destiny arrived,

say we’ve seen it,

and survived.

If only for an instant.


(Note; every time one of these poems is read aloud, a dragon will get its wings.)

. . . and before any of you say it, yes –

I am full of crap.

and proud of it. 

Welcome to the Outer Reaches of La La Land

Greetings Everyone,

I am a writer of – preferably fiction – and hope to entertain people with my strange and exotic creations. So let me know if the entertainment is malfunctioning – I will do what I can to fix it.

If you feel the need to offer a suggestion, try to be specific. Comments like “I found it confusing . . .” don’t help nearly as much as comments like – “You should have said . . . ” Examples give me a much better idea of what others like and what would make them feel more comfortable reading my stories.

I am also an artist, a sample of my orignal work is posted above, as well as on the meet my art post. I’ve been told I should write comics, but so far have been wary of pouring too much effort into projects that might not yeld results.

My interest in non-fiction usually involves animal facts, as it’s hard to find human interest stories that are nearly as bizarre, but they are out there. (SSShh -I am currently hunting Bohemians.) I don’t much care for inspirational pieces – as they all seem to do the exact opposite. I tried to remedy this by writing my own, but a friend advised that I should market them to horror fans instead.

I am an armchair explorer and not ashamed of it. I’ve traveled a little but prefer to do research, as I am unable to pay for trips long enough to satisfy my curiosity.

Other authors may kill characters off. I prefer very often to kill them on. I like art that shocks me. I like creatively monstrous creatures. I like things that used to scare me as a child. I like ruins. I like mystery. I like adventure. I like cheering for the underdogs. I jump the gun. I eat the garnish. Life is too short to waste it on the straight and narrow. I wanted to walk all the paths  but they wouldn’t let me so I go nowhere, and like it.

I long to be the one who looks

when others look away.

I long to be the one who stands

outside at the close of day.

I long to be the wolf in sheep’s clothing

the lion beside the lamb.

I long to be the iron roots

tearing up through the roads of man.

I long to be a force primeval,

the sea from which one is saved.

I long to be winds out of the west,

mother nature unpaved.