tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41358244843516114812014-10-14T14:45:25.001-05:00the official website of writer and poet Scott A. NicholsonScott A. Nicholsonnoreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4135824484351611481.post-67013511538628184082013-09-13T00:44:00.001-05:002013-09-13T14:07:26.313-05:00

There is no road without a destination,For on the track of no approach to endAdorned in signs for traveling instruction,That has not even slight a curve or bend.Yet distance grows and shortens by the lengthDependent on the method which it's measured,Instead of being led by what's the horses strengthOr how the trek from point to point is leisured.The waxing lights that skate around the asphaltRise

Scott A. Nicholsonhttps://plus.google.com/113189941348318302413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4135824484351611481.post-83358191600290117382013-04-18T13:19:00.001-05:002013-04-18T13:19:06.959-05:00

The river curls A trembling glow upon her surface She wraps around the city as a smile The river's warm And charitable in her relief Of shivering replaced by numb desire The river holds my cheek And gives me all the strength to be Adrift forever in her wake The river's deep Reveals to me her darkest keeps The further way we get from light

Scott A. Nicholsonhttps://plus.google.com/113189941348318302413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4135824484351611481.post-33816588601827483962012-09-10T16:49:00.001-05:002012-09-10T16:49:57.365-05:00

Most of the water came from the sink A mockery of the apron to the jeans and T-shirt It was sworn to protect The shoes: dull leather spreading From toe to-- he(a)el Stand down Roll a cigarette and lean Against the door post Soups on An herbal mash of leaves and twigs From whatever trees were up the street Twelve or so blocks down Will the water leave welts Or red in the shape of the hand of

Scott A. Nicholsonhttps://plus.google.com/113189941348318302413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4135824484351611481.post-16373257435526466172012-09-08T15:35:00.000-05:002012-09-08T15:37:08.492-05:00

The stranger went all through the house And turned off every light Even those in use His excuse: He was trying to sleep He was well into the next morning  From inside they still hollered and bustled Trying to take home the end of last night The unreasonableness of each at their plight  But prodigal or not the sun returned And the house became flat and tepid Those still within growled and

Scott A. Nicholsonhttps://plus.google.com/113189941348318302413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4135824484351611481.post-49539993057551822752012-08-16T18:17:00.001-05:002012-08-16T18:19:16.628-05:00

It’s hard to remember when Beaux walked into the courtyard at Bacchanal, his voice stern with more than just a small concern as he shouted between songs that the harbor police were just outside the establishment handing out parking tickets like they were handbills for the next big backyard party. It was the beginning of a year-long offense by the city against this proud wine and food gem at the

Scott A. Nicholsonhttps://plus.google.com/113189941348318302413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4135824484351611481.post-86110834353299720052012-08-11T16:09:00.001-05:002012-08-11T16:09:20.078-05:00

It’s pretending to rain now And you can see the huddled crowd Beneath the tree-branch awnings As they retreat to dryer surroundings; Or so they pretend The drops they feel, Splashing, Touch the faces That look toward the heavens And pray for a placebo. They are scavengers Looking for the scraps of faith Others left behind, And with their crumbling hands They pick the city dry. It’s pretending

Scott A. Nicholsonhttps://plus.google.com/113189941348318302413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4135824484351611481.post-22823220107205731272012-08-11T14:22:00.000-05:002012-08-11T14:23:52.176-05:00

When not enough is left to utter The syllables it takes to say, Goodbye-- Disassembled and developed, Laid upon the ground, Like the girded gridlock On your smog befitted brow... Goodbye. And what if I said, hello? What if I said, good day? Would it change your sunken body And repair your sullen clay? Your borrowed whispers, Stolen, used, and pawned-off ways. And in the middle of the murk In

Scott A. Nicholsonhttps://plus.google.com/113189941348318302413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4135824484351611481.post-81746564223724021762012-08-04T16:27:00.000-05:002012-08-04T16:27:02.457-05:00

About two years ago I heard the soft, muted sounds of the unknown calling for me to embark upon a journey of discovery and adventure, which I would document if not for the distractions awaiting me at every step. I have known times of work and I have known times of play, and somewhere between I have battled with pen and notebook their whispered beckons at no small loss. For too long I have ignored

Scott A. Nicholsonhttps://plus.google.com/113189941348318302413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4135824484351611481.post-17797418041678276202010-06-09T15:19:00.000-05:002010-06-09T15:21:31.823-05:00

In se’enties style serenading strutA passin all the pretty birds in kin’,The feathered Stetson ‘clipsin crimson suit,A whistlin Dixie blues ‘cross county-lines.I got yo vice, I go yo virtues covered;Jus’ gimmie sumtin beautiful in turn.I’ll take all forms of major credit card,Cash, IOU, or how ‘bout them sweet burns?The color of his skin’s irrelevant,He changed from black to white, from white to

Scott A. Nicholsonhttps://plus.google.com/113189941348318302413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4135824484351611481.post-66635110058161446172010-06-09T15:12:00.000-05:002010-06-09T15:13:26.706-05:00

Aside from it being horribly poetry-centric, with my soon-t0-come move to New Orleans, the bio displayed here is in perilous jeopardy (is there any other kind?) of becoming obsolete. So it is with further ado that I am announcing the open anti-contest to write a new, up-to-date, short (one paragraph) biography. Rules are as plentiful as contest prizes: nil. Post your entries as comments to this

Scott A. Nicholsonhttps://plus.google.com/113189941348318302413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4135824484351611481.post-91474414095331611392010-06-09T14:31:00.000-05:002010-06-09T15:12:38.865-05:00

A blog! Bask in all its glory.Blog is for novel excerpts.Blog is for new fiction.Blog is sometimes for non-fiction when the mood suits.Blog is not for internal use. Keep out of reach of children. If child asphyxiates on blog, do not consult blog, but close blog and dial 9-1-1 immediately. Ask your doctor if blog is right for you.Directions: Read for temporary relief, never exceeding maximum

Scott A. Nicholsonhttps://plus.google.com/113189941348318302413noreply@blogger.com2