This week I have considered and discarded so many topics for the The Rag, that my head now feels a bit like an overstuffed Victorian couch. Sadly, no matter how many blobs of idea gum I threw at the monitor, none of them stuck. Mostly because I couldn’t stop thinking about this weekend.

This weekend the Serivilous Panerians are holding our first annual writers retreat at Miss Caroline’s Bed and Breakfast. Notice, I say “Retreat” rather than “Conference” or “Workshop”, and I use the term advisedly. We are determined to retreat from the world a bit and just, well, write. The purpose is two fold: 1) critique the entirety of each member’s current work in one block and 2) give ourselves some uninterrupted writing time. (Our thanks to Jim Wilson for the idea.)  There are no seminars or workshops. Just  intensive critique sessions, optional writing challenges and substantial blocks of writing time. Oh, and the Murder Mystery Dinner Theater, but that part isn’t my fault, it just sort of fell into my lap at the last minute. We are there to do serious work. The Retreat is not meant to be “for fun.” Honest.

In the spirit of the Retreat, and in order to avoid an epic fail in the blogging department, I humbly offer the following in place of the usual Rag:

Vic’s Place

Vic's Place

 His hands made this place

As a gift for his family,

A place to meet & read & eat &

Talk to God.

He made it well,

Concrete & porch rails &

A roof overhead,

Thick begonias &

Deceptive marigolds &

The vine trumpeting gold.

It is not a cathedral but

God hears us here

As we watch the spiders run

From the lizards &

Listen to the birds &

The rain tap dancing on the roof.

I remember him there

Rocking gently in the dark,

Cigar like a scepter held casually.

But it is only his memory

I see, the rest I

can only touch

When I sleep, so until

He is home I’ll wait,

& rock & write &

Talk to God instead.


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