Casey's Just Sayin'

this is his view Stones rolling Waves humming Salty breeze caressing Sun blossoms across the uneven waters The boats stroll in leisure across the horizon Ghostly islands hang across the azure sky Bare feet in thick grass along the patio A sweating glass of ice and spirit Subtle sound, voices of peace and joy His view Always and ever more His view We will cherish it for you now Dear man As long as our hearts can bear it

Is it just me or is social networking, in fact, being overrun by bots? I hope it's just me, but I fear the truth is more of the internet version of War of the Worlds or Invasion of the Body Snatchers or maybe even Predator. Here's the problem: We are all communicating with each other without actually seeing each other. I saw an episode of George Lopez yesterday where the boy Max is chatting with a girl from Chicago (I'm pretty sure this episode was to promote a doomed sister sitcom.) George and the father of the Chicago girl are convinced that each kid on the other side is a sick pervert pretending to be a kid. Of course there's no pervy happening anywhere except in the fathers' minds. Having a father's mind, I know how they feel. The point is it doesn't take much more than the luke-warm imagination of a sitcom writer to come up with this scenario.* Folks with less moral stamina, more greed and maybe a bit more time on their hands (no kids?) have used the ev

In my arms You are safe. Rest On my shoulder. Your fingers Hold my arms Holding you. I was given Long, strong, massive arms. They lift and swing. They push and pull. They are sure and fast. But all else they do Is just coincidence. Because they were built Only to keep you safe. And hold you close. Thanks for reading, off to write! Cheers, Casey

So, so so so It's off the edge I go Pounding my drum as I drop Fall much more and I'll wind up on top My, my my my If I flap these wings I fly I scream and all the birds laugh Their easy disdain going to cut me in half Do, do do do You have to go there too One of us should stay behind And I love you too much to let you find Sigh, sigh sigh sigh Feeling good, don't know why Don't pull the plug before I arrive I'm looking down and getting ready to dive So, so so so... Casey Note: After reading some of your excellent replies regarding poetry analysis, I've decided to leave off a title to this one save the first line. Interpret how you will. Second Note: The cliff in this picture I took is about a mile from where my mom went off a cliff in her car and was killed 38 years ago. So to me it's more than just an interesting rock.

Quick Programming Note: I am honored that one of my bestest and longest online friends and a superb writer, Diana Brandmeyer, let me guest on her blog! Diana and I have been friends since Prodigy as part of a small group of people (still in contact) known as the Aspiring Writers Club. That puts us dangerously close to two decades of friendship! Anyway, she asked if I'd like to talk about one of my favorite subjects. How could I refuse? Cheers, Casey

(picture taken, coincidentally, from gethurt.com) I believe most of us react first and then try to explain later why we did what we did, both to ourselves and possibly to others. We’re instinctual creatures. At least I am. I’ll try and resist the urge to speak for everyone. For me, this is absolutely true in my writing. When I’m “thinking” about what fiction to write, I don’t sit down and say, “So I want to focus my audience’s attention towards poverty in the U.S. I need to create a story that will accomplish that.” Instead I think of what characters I’d like to animate, settings I would paint around them and situations I think would be original and rewarding to write... and hopefully to read. I often see opportunities within the story to say something I consider important, but that is coincidence… or serendipity. When I’m “thinking” about a poem to write, I normally don’t start by thinking of a structure, meter or form I want to use. I usually start with an emotion or visual image, w

Fact: All bloggers are writers, but not all writers are bloggers. I think that’s a true statement. I follow maybe three dozen blogs and I can say with some certainty that all of them would be considered writers by nearly any definition. hmmm… definition… Oh look! Here several are now from Dictionary.com: –noun 1) A person engaged in writing books, articles, stories, etc., especially as an occupation or profession; an author or journalist. (It says especially, not absolutely, so even if you don’t do it for a living, I think it still qualifies.) 2) A clerk, scribe, or the like. (“or the like” - I need to use that in a novel, I think.) 3) A person who commits his or her thoughts, ideas, etc., to writing. (Hello BLOGGER!) 4) (In a piece of writing) the author (used as a circumlocution for “I,” “me,” “my,” etc.): The writer wishes to state…. (Really? Did this warrant a definition number all by itself? Talk about yourself in the third person and all of a sudden you are creating dictiona

The moon she shines so clear tonight So large, lustfully bright Reflecting back through our own eyes Takes breath through our own sighs We hear, each look to her in turn From our own night we yearn Our minds leap forward, dance across Before the silver’s lost As all restraint and fear departs We show our sinful hearts We tell our story to this gem In sweet embrace of whim She gives, this sphere, to us tonight Sweet song she sings her sights Of all the souls she’s held in sway Before there starts the day And then the fleeting dance is done There comes too soon the sun And we recall with sad delight Thus gone is Luna’s night Casey Freeland 2011

My blog has evolved (or devolved) several times over the years and I've enjoyed each incarnation. I've reached the point where I feel it is time to put Naked Toes to rest and move forward. Welcome to Written in Blood, a place to talk about this work I do, the books I read, the writers I admire and the virtually endless barrage of realities that seem specifically created to keep me from my keyboard. I'm a writer in nearly every sense of the word... I was first published in the fourth grade. (Thank you Mrs. Barnes.) I've written several hundred poems, dozens of short-stories, several novels, a screenplay. I wrote daily radio copy for nearly twelve years and I've written financial narratives for the last nine years. I'm approaching 200 blog posts here. Braggish? Yeah, I guess. However I think I'll leave it to help hit this home. Written in Blood may not turn you on. If not, that's cool, but at least I told you up front. Writing