Stories & Poems
Alan Abrams
PEACE PIECE
Peace Piece Ode to Bill Evans Peace may be within you find the peaceful easy feeling when you love hate is easy love is hard without peace in your heart Peace you can’t have if you can’t give peace you
Alan Abrams
I COULD FORGIVE HIM
I Could Forgive Him “When the night talks to you, you gotta listen… Look at that moon. Listen to that desert.” ~Robert Boris, Electra Glide in Blue I was not made for abuse, no, I was meant for a
Alan Abrams
Stone on Stone
STONE ON STONE “Caw caw caw crows shriek in the white sun over the grave stones…” ~Allen Ginsberg, Kaddish Headlights lit in the middle of the day we follow the man (who I’d now call young)
Alan Abrams
The Poet’s Secrets
It’s late, Li Po, but I’ve some questions, as the moon rises behind a veil of mist– shapely, yet demure: how did her silvery light guide your pen? And–if I may dare to ask– how many lovers did your
Alan Abrams
WHY MY WIFE GETS NERVOUS WHEN I DRIVE AFTER DARK
…Mike Goldberg is starting a painting. I drop in. “Sit down and have a drink” he says. I drink; we drink. I look up. “You have SARDINES in it.” –Frank O’Hara, “Why I Am Not a Painter” Because when Frank
Alan Abrams
CRACKERS
Crackers was a dog who never knew a leash. I’ll get to his finer qualities, but first—I must admit that I am not a dog person. And I’m really not a puppy person. I don’t like their smell, and I
Alan Abrams
WHERE YOU FIND IT
It’s not much more than a mile to McGinty’s, to which I walk when Janet’s away, often passing by a troop of blissed out Buddhas nam-yo-ing on the sidewalk by the Chic-Fil-A. The burgers are thick and juicy at the
Alan Abrams
THE MAN ON THE SIDEWALK
The opium eater reclines with rigid head and just-open’d lips… You all know how hard it is to find a good parking place in a busy town. Well, we lucked out—or so it seemed— while running an errand yesterday. I
Alan Abrams
BLOOD BROTHERS
My father knew his knots and splices, and how to wind a hose in even loops without a kink. These were skills he learned in boot camp, before shipping out across the often fatal seas. Now, with a house, a
Alan Abrams
To pilfer from Old Tom Jefferson, Abrams is an old man, but a young writer. After dropping out of college–fifteen credits shy of a degree and one step ahead of dismissal–he worked as a motorcycle mechanic, carpenter and construction honcho, and later in his career, as a bootleg architect. Abrams ranged up and down and all around the country on his motorcycles, and when they failed him, by his thumb. Although he has spent most of his life in the DC area, a six year sojourn in the boonies of northern New Mexico provided the time and the environment for him to chill out and gain a little perspective. He was always good for a page or two–an opinion piece for a local newspaper, a book review for a technical journal, or a scrap of doggerel. But now in retirement, he writes somewhat more seriously. The stories and poems that are posted on this site are among those that have been published in those literary journals that may either be less discerning or more needy. Abrams’ preferred style is freebooting and conversational, using simple, direct language, as though talking to someone he met at a bar. Occasionally he writes in more structured form; in rare instances, he waxes lyrical. A novel is in the works, and a 90% complete screenplay has been languishing for several years. If you care to know more about him, read his stuff–like most of us, his life is his own favorite subject. If you enjoy it, let him know. If you hate it, tell him why. He really ought to know…
Stories & Poems