Manic Frustration “If I do not write to empty my mind, I go mad.” ~Lord Byron

There's been an absence of words here, but they're spilling out all over my desk. The floor. Pages and scraps of paper. I've begun work on a poetry manuscript. I've been revising old work and starting new. The season is new. The weather is new. My energy and mind are refreshed.

Busy days. Incredible nights. Weekends are always full of something. This weekend, Prose in Pubs swings back around to Jack's Draft House in Scranton on Sunday. Open mic. The first time it has gone non-invitation. It should be an interesting lineup. I'll be reading some new work. Stop on by.


The manuscript is coming along slowly but surely. It will be some time before I have a rough draft completed and probably some time after that until it is finalized and ready to send out. Then I'll find out that it is not yet finalized. Edit, submit, edit, submit. These are the hurdles of writing.

I've picked up my guitar again. Bought a glass slide to try and mimic Bukka White. It's coming along even slower than the manuscript, but it's a release of energy and creativity. It's needed when I cannot form the words. What better way to clear the mind by making music. Or noise. Sometimes I just like to strum and croon along with the old blues masters.

I've been tumbling some ideas for blog entries around my mind, so bare with me. Be patient. Not that you've been sitting on the edge of your seat waiting in anticipation for me. Maybe you have. I'd like to think you have.

Time to fill the apartment with music and the scent of whatever I feel like cooking. Until next time...

With the new year closing in, many things have been running through my mind. The holiday season is a time of interaction, not only with family, friends and disgruntled shoppers, but with thoughts and memories of the year passed.

I look at the soles of my boots to see where I've been. Toward the mountains to see where I'm headed. I never look too far ahead anymore, though. One lesson I'm walking away with this year is that the future is never guaranteed. Right now, where my feet stand, is the only moment promised. And even that can be fleeting.

I've been remembering back further and further to past holidays. Joyful and miserable. Times spent in the company of family or good people. Times spent alone. Times spent grieving.

All of the memories have a way of  whittling down the excess of the season leaving me with a clearer view of the core. Instead of seeking shinning wrapping paper and disposable like I did as a child, I look for a smile. A laugh. Warmth.

During winter, moments seem to hang suspended like photographs. Maybe we all just slow to take it in. Remember it better. Etch the seconds into our mind to relive time and time again.

Here's to another year. Here's to experience. Here's to life.

This summer marks the 5th anniversary of the Boston Literary Magazine and the 2011 Summer issue is now available for purchase from Big Table Publishing. Two of my poems, "It's Raining Outside This Neon Brothel" and "Fear of Heights", are included among a jam-packed issue.

The issue is $12 plus shipping. Big Table also offers other chapbooks available for the same price or less. I ordered four copies myself, but I'm hoping I wont be the only one reading it. Grab a copy today and get your hands on some great contemporary poetry.

Many thanks to Robin Stratton, editor of the Boston Literary Magazine, for accepting my work and the many kind words she's offered.

Check out Robin's new book "On Air", available at Amazon. It's a great summer read. Watch for a review here.

Property of Dale R Wilsey Jr.

It's not that I don't enjoy the rain. But I've spent enough time indoors for now and I've felt stifled. It's hard to write sitting inside. What I crave is a walk through the woods. A hike to the top of the mountain to gaze out over the valley and watch the Susquehanna wind its way through town.

Maybe a trip to Rickett's Glen or a cruise out to the Pennsylvania Grand Canyon on the bike. Set up camp. Spark a fire and sit roasting my meal over an open flame. Sometimes, I believe I would have been more at home in this world when the major mode of transportation was fueled by grains, hay and the occasional sip from a trickling stream or still pond.

I haven't ridden in years, though. How would I take to sitting my ass back in a saddle after all this time? Maybe it's like riding a bike. Maybe you never forget. Just like jumping onto my motorcycle and firing it up for the first time after a long winter. A few moments and everything is the way it should be. At least I'd be able to ride a horse through the winter. I can only imagine how beautiful a ride through the hills would be as the snow drifted down among the pines and speckled the stallion's mane.

And here I sit. Rambling on as thoughts come drifting through my head. Daydreams. Images and ideas. Products of another rainy day stuck inside. Here I thought the words wouldn't come as easily. I know they're always there. I've just got to open the door more often.

Let the rain come in through the screen in my window. Walk outside. Let it wash down over me. Warm, summer rains. Those are the kinds of rains you can enjoy. Listen to the thunder rumble off over the hills as it splatters the pavement in with its soothing, white noise.

There are some nights where the only thing you can do is sip on bourbon and listen to voices like Junior Kimbrough and T-Model Ford stomp and pluck, wail and moan about much harder times than you've ever experienced. Lots of musicians play the Blues, but there's something about the Blues that enables a listener to decipher the truth from the bullshit.

The guys who've actually lived through seeing family or friends lynched. Who have been to jail. Who have lost everything (if they ever had anything to lose). Or, in the case of T-Model, who have killed a man. These true Bluesmen reach out and slap you in the face. They say, "Look, son. You ain't seen nor been through shit. But, even if you seen a bit a trouble in your life, I know what you're feelin'."

And they play it. They take every bit of heartache and string it across their guitars like sinew. Grab death by the throat and stretch him across a snare drum to beat him down before he beats them. They stomp with heavy heels into pine floorboards in a smokey juke joint on a soggy Mississippi Summer night. Keeping time with every beat of their heart closer to the last.

It's more than music. The Blues feeds off of human sorrow. Devours it. It will suck every bit of heartache and pain out of the listener, chew it up and spit it back out in the form of hypnotizing rhythm. There's been more than one occasion where I've caught myself moving to its sound. Letting it roll down over me like river water, brushing every bit of grime and grit from my day.

Tonight is just one of those nights. A bottle of Maker's Mark, a few Blues albums and myself. I only wish I could be somewhere deep in Mississippi or Georgia. Down some forgotten back road that the tourists don't know about. Sitting at a bar sipping Southern whiskey. Watching bodies dance like hypnotized snakes in the low light of a juke joint on a hot Summer night. Sit and sip the burn while a true Bluesman sweats blood, pouring his life out onto the stage.