Category Archives: Writing

Distortion

Posted on February 19, 2020 by John Swinburn

Consider how radically different your life would have been if you had been adopted in 1962 by a Chinese peasant couple who traveled to the United States from their rural home outside the tiny village of Zhongxin in Guizhou Province, … Continue reading →

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Structured Thinking with a Bit of Flex

Posted on February 6, 2020 by John Swinburn

A tiny bit more structured introspective assessment, please. Nothing imbued with gravitas, though; let’s keep it light and airy, to the extent introspection makes that possible. Keep it flexible so it can bend the way my mind bends. Mind-bending. Does … Continue reading →

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The Cost

Posted on February 2, 2020 by John Swinburn

Words left unspoken Thoughts never shared Love never given Hearts never bared Hurt not softly soothed Life like a cell Hate freely given Tears never fell Eyes lacking for sight Regret not felt Emptiness so cold Knees never knelt Heartaches … Continue reading →

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Shrapnel

Posted on February 1, 2020 by John Swinburn

The confetti from the explosion filled his chest. There was still room for his lungs and his heart and his liver and so forth, but the formerly roomy spaces were clogged with shrapnel. The wounds in his flesh healed over … Continue reading →

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It’s Over

Posted on January 27, 2020 by John Swinburn

You wanted to tell her how much she meant to you, but you waited too late. You waited until she didn’t mean as much. You waited until her faults flooded your brain and drowned your good intentions. You put off … Continue reading →

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The Bad Poet

Posted on January 20, 2020 by John Swinburn

The bad poet mangles words and scorches meanings, bludgeoning beauty until it resembles a bloated corpse left in the desert sun for an entire season. The bad poet ruins ideas, polluting them with bias as thick as an atmosphere of … Continue reading →

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Doing Alone

Posted on January 8, 2020 by John Swinburn

When friends’ shoulders aren’t there for the crying, when love is a wall made of stone, when life seems a prelude to dying, when you’re lonely and weeping alone. That’s when you create your own salvation, you craft it from … Continue reading →

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Making Music

Posted on January 4, 2020 by John Swinburn

If I could start recording my voice at any given moment simply by pressing a single, easily accessible button, I might have recorded dozens, if not hundreds, of songs by now. Only the lyrics, of course, with no musical accompaniment … Continue reading →

Posted in Music, Poetry, Writing | 2 Comments

Hush

Posted on December 17, 2019 by John Swinburn

I am a dormant volcano. A raging inferno whose fuel, spent in spectacular displays of fire and molten rock, has disappeared into the center of the Earth. I may be, in fact, an extinct volcano, one with no recorded eruption in … Continue reading →

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Someone Else Thinks Inside My Head

Posted on December 16, 2019 by John Swinburn

Several of his friends regularly commented about Skyler’s writing, frequently expressing amazement at how vividly his words painted his characters’ thoughts and physical surroundings. “It’s as if you were there, behind his eyes, recording every detail,” Ophira O’Malley said to … Continue reading →

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Elbow

Posted on December 10, 2019 by John Swinburn

Elbow McMaster stood facing the front door, poised to spring upon the woman the moment she entered. His eyes, fixed on the peephole well above his eye level, noticed a momentary interruption in the light on the tiny circular glass … Continue reading →

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Writing Like a Curative Drug

Posted on December 10, 2019 by John Swinburn

I once wrote, during a period of personal introspection and social observation, Writing is like a drug; it can be a cure or an addiction. A lot was missing in that simple statement. One missing piece concealed the danger of … Continue reading →

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The New Realm

Posted on December 6, 2019 by John Swinburn

“Lance, would you please get the ax for me? It’s getting close to dinnertime and I need to get Little Johnny ready for the roaster.” Lance looked up from his crossword. “All right, Suzanne, just let me finish this last … Continue reading →

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Listen

Posted on December 3, 2019 by John Swinburn

Listen to the sky. That’s not the sky, it’s an echo of your emptiness. Listen to the horizon. That’s not the horizon, it’s a sigh of hope. Listen to the river. That’s not the river, its a murmur of possibility. … Continue reading →

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The Core Within and Other Matters

Posted on December 2, 2019 by John Swinburn

I wish more people would read and listen to poetry. I wish they wouldn’t dismiss it as linguistic egotism. I wish they would try to listen to it without judgement and disdain. Instead, I wish they would try to hear … Continue reading →

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Entanglements

Posted on November 30, 2019 by John Swinburn

My thoughts this morning comprise a jumble of unrelated and incomplete ideas that careen through my mind as if they were running from something dangerous. They stumble and fall and bounce off the inside of my head as they flee … Continue reading →

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Another Try: Wisdom

Posted on November 24, 2019 by John Swinburn

Wisdom involves knowledge, but knowledge alone does not constitute wisdom. Wisdom is the abstract application of knowledge with discernment. That is, wisdom is not just knowledge, it’s knowing what to do with knowledge. As I am wont to do when … Continue reading →

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Living in a Dead Man’s Journal

Posted on November 22, 2019 by John Swinburn

He wrote the following in his journal on November 14, 2009: I wish I could bring myself to reveal all the secrets I’ve kept locked away for so very long. One day, perhaps, I’ll write a memoir, though I suspect … Continue reading →

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The Effects of Fire on Fuel

Posted on November 20, 2019 by John Swinburn

A screed. A diatribe. A rant. An inflammatory evangelical oratory capable of inciting fury. An opportunity to express the ferocity of my feelings without having to defend them. That’s what I’m looking for. An occasion to bitterly complain without offering … Continue reading →

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Honesty

Posted on November 19, 2019 by John Swinburn

Honesty is dangerous, especially when it reveals flaws once hidden. Honesty is ruinous when it shatters trust and breaks the bonds of love. Honesty is a toxin we best not ingest if we hope to stay alive in a world … Continue reading →

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Roller-Coaster

Posted on November 18, 2019 by John Swinburn

A group of people from the Writers’ Club and a few spouses will come to the house this afternoon for wine and hors d’oeuvres and a read-around. We’re expecting to have around thirteen people, all-inclusive. Early this morning (up again … Continue reading →

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Practice Practice Practice

Posted on November 11, 2019 by John Swinburn

“If things had been different, we might have had an affair. Or something even more lasting.” Garrick’s head bowed slightly as he spoke, as if his neck was giving way to the weight of a sigh. Stella’s reply would remove … Continue reading →

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Awakening to Light

Posted on November 9, 2019 by John Swinburn

I can hear slivers of sunlight cracking through the predawn darkness. Daylight is attempting to pry open the edges of a sealed chamber; a cavity in which night spent an eternity blocking the sun’s rays. Once light begins to flood … Continue reading →

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Convolutions

Posted on November 7, 2019 by John Swinburn

Cooksie Sherwood slaughtered his opponents in the mayor’s race. Not literally. At least not all his opponents. But when his closest competitor, Ivory Lambrusco, was found dead in the front passenger seat of an overturned two-seater Mazda convertible, questions arose. … Continue reading →

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Keepers of Private Notebooks

Posted on November 4, 2019 by John Swinburn

Yesterday, I read parts of something Joan Didion wrote in 1968, entitled, “On Keeping a Notebook.”  One excerpt in particular struck a chord with me: Keepers of private notebooks are a different breed altogether, lonely and resistant rearrangers of things, … Continue reading →

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