Brother Coyote Publications

     A portion of my writing is poetry, as poetry was the first thing I began writing, even befor3 creative writing courses in college. A very young man at that time, with very progressive social feelings for the time. The rebel thingy, wearing the freak flag of shoulder length hair and audacious bell bottoms. I as affected by the social issues of not only our time but of my parents and grandparents time. Not that I have lost those insights and feelings.      When I wrote poetry back in that time the poems were about how I felt about the things historical and current that were socially destructive. Twenty years later when I was traveling and living in Mexico with my future wife, the collections of poetry were about what I was seeing, and feeling in a foreign land. In the late portion of my life the words I put to paper now are learned insights of such things. The human condition unfolding. Over and over.  Message to a Son ~ First Lesson  While I...

 I tend to feel a tinge of guilt for not posting daily, words flowing like pond water. Life keeps adding things to the list of doing. I'm fairly certain it isn't libidinal resistance to the task, or stepping on the loogy someone just hocked up, to realize you're bare foot. No, the story continue to come to life with the addition of characters whom will likely torment the hopeful one, as those things tend to happen. What can one expected with the name Wendell Wankerman. I've called in the little Muse, and we're working out the particulars to the deal, having crawled all the way to Mu on hands and knees, being it's so cramped down there. I'm still slightly sore being on the knees, at my age anyway. There was a time though....

  So much is going on in my life at this time, things pushing and pulling for attention. The shape to my first novel continues to evolve. I write satire. What to do with a story about a dreamer working to create a special photographic gallery of high repute. Hope. The elixir of dreamers, the thing that holds the door of perception open just sufficiently for a peek into how a dreamer fares when hopped up on hope. I'm thinking one Wendell Wankerman might be just the right guy. It is also at this time that my twenty year poetry itch; give or take, has returned. That itch is infectious, and has begun. I was given a blank book wrapped in thick, luxuriously soft leather, that folds over the blank pages and has a leather strap to wrap around and tuck in. the type of item that might well be seen in an Elizabethan setting, some years ago. I love that book, and pick it up sometimes just to smell the leather, inhaling deeply, an aroma that puts me in a grand place. Being poetically tuned m...