Sep 13, 2009 Posted by admin

A Workshop by Katherine De Lorraine

Write to the Source A Workshop by Katherine De Lorraine Have you ever said, “I want answers!” or “If I only knew for sure…”? Problems and confusion are created by interference: our needs, desires, media, people and our minds’ perceptions (based on the past conditioning). We need clarity, direction, guidance, but how? The goal of this class is to use prescribed writing techniques to facilitate... read more

Sep 13, 2009 Posted by Katherine De Lorraine

Axe Murderer

(Here is an unpublished poem from collection of monologues in progress.) They cut off my long hair, but I don’t care. I don’t need it any more. See, being in this cell has made me smarter. I’m better off here; it’s a damn, crazy world out there. Anyhow, I’ve learned how to play their games—just act insane. “It’s easy to fool fools,” my grandmother always said. But I don’t mean you,... read more

Sep 13, 2009 Posted by Katherine De Lorraine

Market Street Blues

On a bench in front of the theater, he plays harmonica, tin cup wedged between his knees, feet tapping the rapid beat. When he smiles with his eyes, I follow deep lines in his dark face, a maze that leads to some ancient secret. Beside him a blonde man in jeans joins in, trumpet crooning. Soon blues writhes its way through the coffee shop door, circles the floor, sniffing like a coon dog before it decides... read more

Sep 13, 2009 Posted by Katherine De Lorraine

Crow Matinee

A lone crow squawked and cawed so much he caught my after lunch inattention while he arrowed to the ground, swiped an empty ice cream cone carrying it high into a bare tree. As though he held a microphone, his ruckus grew until another crow appeared The caucus balanced their empty cup on a limb, examined it as though it were a cornucopia passing it back and forth between them. So much like politicians in... read more

Sep 13, 2009 Posted by Katherine De Lorraine

Friday Crash for Grace Simpson

I yank off my face, hang it on the doorknob, turn the lock and stop the clock. End of a wicked week that feels like a hangover I don’t deserve, caught like a summer cold. I find myself leaning, almost falling off the chair. I try to sit up straight, but my head is heavy, my brain sliding. I look back at the face for any sign of change. It sags, pleated like a hand fan, mouth agape, ready to... read more