Working for Tomorrow

 
    We have just come off of two busy weekends and finally catching up on some much needed rest. Carol and I went to Democratic State Convention in Worster June 5 to renominate Governor Deval Patrick and Lt. Gov. Tim Murray for reelection. Both gave really great speeches, but one of the best speeches was given by Katherine Patrick, the governor’s daughter who is now working in his campaign.

  We saw Katherine and the governor again this Saturday at the 40th Boston Pride Parade 2010, a three-hour event that was cheered by hundreds of thousands of sometimes rain-soaked spectators. And, of course, those in the parade were soaked as well but the cloudburst totally failed to dampen everyone’s spirit.

 

Carol at the convention in Worster, MA – Governor Patrick arrives at parade – Carol and I rode The Love Boat, our aptly named float at the rain-drenched parade.

  After 40 years, the parade has become a mainstream fixture in Boston boasting contingents from the Suffolk County Sheriff’s Department, Sun Life Insurance, TD Bank, and TJX. National Grid employees escorted a brightly festoon bucket truck. A big part of the story on the parade as reported by the Boston Globe was not so much which politicians and their supporters marched in the parade, but those that didn’t.

  And of course, even those who marched are not guaranteed a vote. That depends on what the politicians say and more importantly, do, and what they do is most often inflicted upon themselves. As I wrote in previous epigram:

 

     The harm we do to others pales
     Against the harm we do to ourselves.

 

Posted in News and politics | Leave a comment

Readers Interested in Cherokee History and Culture

 
  I am getting a lot of questions about the Cherokee as a result of my story, A Cherokee Dying, and I will try to answer as many as I can. But, in the meantime, we are very lucky to have an official Cherokee Nation websife that has tons of information about Cheroikee history, culture and current affairs. All of this can be found at: www.Cherokee.org.
 
 
  As to the question that a number of readers have asked in one form or another (Is this a true story? Did this really happen? Do Cherokee really bury their dead in a basket?) this story is like all such stories, a work of fiction that relies upon culture, history and personal impressions. When I write, I draw upon what I remember, what I’ve read, and what I imagine. And, yes, there are probably things in the story that are drawn from fantasy, but I know in my heart, that there is much drawn from the reality of a culture and a people truly unique and special in the history of mankind–the Cherokee.
 
  And there is nothing of which I am more proud than my Cherokee heritage. If you haven’t yet read the story, A Cherokee Dying, take the time to read it now. Or print it out and make time to read it later. I guarantee you will not be disapointed.
Posted in Short Stories | Leave a comment

A Cherokee Dying

   Tonight, I published a new short story, A Cherokee Dying. Or, to read this and other stories and poems, you can go to my website, Citizen Poet, and click the short story link.

 

  The Cherokee Indian Reservation in the Great Smoky Mountains between Western North Carolina and Eastern Tennessee, which today is home to the Eastern Band of the Cherokee, has been part of a Cherokee heritage for thousands of years, a heritage that can be traced back to a beautiful valley on the banks of the Tuckaseigee River know as Kitawah. The first Cherokee settled in Kitawah more than 2,000 years ago and prior to its discovery by DeSoto in the 1500s, grew into a mighty nation of seven major clan villages, hundreds of settlements, and perhaps as many as 100,000 natives covering 40,000 square miles from roughly 40 miles north of present day Atlanta to just north of the Kiokee River in Ohio.

 

  With the coming of the white man, the Revolutionary War, and the discovery of gold, thousands of Cherokee died from slaughter, warfare, and biological warfare in the form of smallpox. With the gold rush and the national greed for Cherokee lands, Andrew Jackson defied a ruling of the Supreme Court in favor of the Cherokee Nation to forcibly remove the Cherokee to Oklahoma, resulting in a death march in the dead of winter in which more than 4,000 Cherokee died, a march that became known as the Trail of Tears.

 

  Some Cherokee hid from Jackson’s soldiers and others were spared when the US Army agreed to withdraw if several young Cherokee warriors who had killed American soldiers while resisting the removal surrendered and submitted to a firing squad. The young Cherokee became heroes to their fellows when they volunteered to surrender and end the round up of innocent natives. And yes, they were executed.

 

  It didn’t end the Trail of Tears, but it did end the roundup of Cherokee people, and those who remained behind pooled their money and their resources and over a period of time bought their land back from the government and the carpet baggers who had been given their land. Thus, the Cherokee Indian Reservation, officially known as the Qualla Boundary, became the new home of the Cherokee in the East, the only Indian reservation in the country that was bought back from the white man by the Indians themselves.

 

  The majority of my family, the Speers and the Minors, are tied to the western Cherokee lands, the Cherokee Nation in Tahlequah, Oklahoma (If you want to read some fairly interesting stories about my family, try typing in “Sheriff Eli Spears in Tahlequah, Ok” in Google) but for one reason or another, my grandfather and father were more tied to Eastern Tennessee and Western North Carolina which is where I became aware of me and my heritage.

 

  The story that I have posted tonight is a reflection of many of the legends and sensibilities I experienced while living, working . going to school and raising my own family on the Cherokee Indian Reservation. The characters in the story speak in Cherokee, which of course I speak as well, although not as well as I would like, but I have woven the Cherokee words into the story in such a way that English speakers will easily understand what they are saying.

 

  If you like the story, please let me know. Send me an email. And if you have any questions about Cherokee, please feel free to ask. If I am not overwhelmed and happen to know the answer, I’ll try to respond. Read the story here.

Posted in Short Stories | Leave a comment

A Choice of Words

During an interlude in the Massachusetts Democratic Convention which I attended as a delegate today, I was asked a strange question by a woman who happens to have read one of my books recently and like many fans, is curious about when and how I write. Her question was a two-parter, the first part being self-explanatory and the second, welll it went like this: When you start to write a novel, do you know how it’s going to end? I mean, have you written it in your head and all you have to do is put the words down?
 
My answer: With every book I have ever written, I have always known every word that I used in the book. I just didn’t know what order I was going to put them in.
 
Strangely, she nodded sagely. Anyway, it gave the following idea:
 
Shakespeare and I used words the same,
What changed was the order they came.
 
Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Stealing Integrity

 
In a speech in Alguquedrque, NM, in 1952, Adlai Stevenson said:
 
"Those who corrut the public mind are just as evil as those who steal from the public purse."
 
Sarah Palin tweets that she never advocted deep sea drilling and that the oil spill is the fault of enviromentalists who forced the oil companies to drill in dangerous waters.
 
Lush Lamebrain, Bill O’Reilly, and Glen Beck lie wth impunity.
 
Candidates for office claim military records that never were. Elected officials have sex with staffers.
 
It’s the small lies, the small distortions that hurt.
 
Democracy is most twarted,
By truths only slightly distorted.
 
 
 
 
Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

The Pied Pied Piper of Chi-Chi Town

 
Five hundred days. 500. Today marks the 500th day since Barack Obama became President.
 
The first I heard of him was his speech at the Democratic National Convention. He was great. I told Carol that this man was a comer. And then, I sort of forgot about him. I guess there were other issues, other candidates, other crisis. Bush and Cheney. An illegal, immoral, uncalledfor war. America’s Burden, Iraq. A vague memory that Obama had voted against it. I wasn’t sure.
 
In 2008, I preferred Hiliary. I thought she would be a great President. Still do. But then, Obama came back. Not exactly out of nowhere, but a surprise. He came on strong. And stronger. And so I wrote this poem, a view of a capturing the minds, the imaginations of millions of Americans, millions of new voters, millions of people who wanted a change, who wanted to make a difference, a view swirling in a sea of opposition, of conflict, of conservatives and swiftboat bigots and naysayers.
 
I thought, I hope I captured the impressions of the times.
 
 

The Pied Pied Piper of Chi-Chi Town

 

Did you hear, did you hear, that curiosity

From the City by the Lake, a newly minted man

From the City on the Make, a political man

There’s a new breeze blowing in the City of the Wind

Taking charge, talking change, he’s everybody’s friend

Hawking Garden City hope with audacity.

Smooth and charming in a manner disarming he tells

Of a new age dawning where equanimity dwells,

Weaving spells warming to those thronging to set the crown,

True believers these who put their brains and feet down

True devotees who heed the call: “Come walk with me.”

He’s the pied pied piper

He’s the pied pied piper

He’s the pied pied piper of Duh Shy, Chi-Chi Town

He’s the pied piper of Chi-Chi Town.


Did you hear, did you hear, how perspicuity

Drew true logic from the Loop, and that he without sway

Inveighed against sending troops into Iraq that day.

This exercise of judgment was not an accident;

It set the precedent for a run for President

For a man with messianic acuity.

“Come, my friends, vote for me. Americans, follow me.”

He rolls up votes and he rolls up states, passionately

Pleading his case, raising the stakes despite doubts that grow:

Other than condemn the war, what else is there to know?

Is that all he did? Conga line fatuity?

He’s a one-trick pony,

He’s a one-trick pony,

He’s a one-trick pony, don’t you know, don’t you know;

He’s a one-trick pony, don’t you know?


Did you hear, did you hear, that animosity

Driving swift boats of hostility, they’re resurgent

Searching for bitter hypocrisy, gun-groan urgent;

Questioning judgment of odd associations like

Weatherman Ayers, Rezko deals and Reverend Wright:

Do you choose your words, friends, gods with tenuity?

Grown tired. Obamacans in the Obamanation

Bah, bah, Barack Sheep, an abomination

Come the voice with the ring of Gyges of Lydia

Gone the choice of a messiah’s criteria

From Sweet Home Chi-tizzle, Paris on the Prairie.

He’s a new Potemkin,

He’s a new Potemkin,

He’s a new Potemkin, can’t you see, can’t you see?

He’s a new Potemkin, can’t you see?


–Dan Speers, 2008

 

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Southern Poverty Law Center

 
I got a letter from George McGovern today. Nothing special, a form letter, probably sent out to thousands, but the fact is, I’ve actually met George and shook his hand. Four years ago at the Democratic State Convention where I was one of the delegates who nominated Deval Patrick for governor of Massachusetts, George was our guest/keynote speaker.
 
God, how he loved our state. We are the only state that went for him in the presidential election, of course, but it was more than that. We understood. Then and later.
 
When George came around, so did all of the women of our party, surging to get close, to shake his hand, to get a quick peck on the cheek. He was already older than Plymouth Rock and just as cracked, but there he was, the rock star of Democratic politic, eating it up, enjoying the limelight and the praise of the ladies.
 
You gotta love an aging Democrat.
 
But back to his letter. It was a pitch for Morris Dees and the Southern Poverty Law Center.
 
The Southern Poverty Law Center monitors hate groups and extremists throughout the United States and exposes their activities to law enforcement agencies, the media and the public. They’ve crippled some of the country’s most notorious hate groups by suing them for murders and other violent acts committed by their members. To learn more, please visit their web site at http://www.splcenter.org/ 
 
I started fighting hate and hate groups when I turning 14 and became a young reporter for a weekly newspaper in South Miami, Florida, working for a truly great newspaperman, Ed Seney. He taught me to respect journalism and to be a good reporter.
 
Thank you, Ed.
 
Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Good Response So Far

 

  So far, so good. The responses that I have gotten to my short story, A Letter from Sissy, so far have been encouraging. I know it may take several weeks and a number of different stories to see how it will actually work out, but I am willing to take a chance on building readership, both through a bit of judicious self-promotion and through word-of-mouth references from readers.

 

  I you like the story, then be sure to tell your friends and send them a link. The more readers, the better. And if anyone would like to write a review, then please do and either send to me or post as a comment. I would love to hear from you.

 

Thanks everyone.

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Beginning a Publishing Experiment

 

  I published a short story, A Letter from Sissy, on my web site last night as part of an experiment in publishing that I am beginning this weekend.

 

  As Citizen Poet, I have been writing daily epigrams, PunDitties, and poetic aphorisms that a lot of people enjoy. I have a little over 2,000 fans who get my daily email blasts that forecast whatever poetic burrs or barbs or humor that I plan to publish that day. I get emails and IMs and screen messages from fans and foes alike. My social network fans, including those on Twitter and Facebook, are very loyal and I suspect, highly intelligent. I am, of course, no Martial, but I like his style and a little emulation can never hurt.

 

  As a writer, I make my living from books. My latest novel, Master Spies Die Laughing, is an incredibly funny satire that is almost universally acclaimed by everyone who reads it. Hell, I even laugh at my own self when I read it. My short satirical look at one of the major sports icons of this century, Tiger Woods: Ten Ways to Play the Lie, sells for one reason and one reason only—it’s funny (and cheap). Buy the way, if you haven’t read either one of these books, spring for the change and treat yourself. They’re worth every dime.

 

  I will, of course, be writing other books. In fact, three are pretty far along and I’ll be making announcements about those in the near future. One is a political satire that combines poetry and art, one a book of epigrams, and one a new novel. These represent (if they sell) future income.

 

  With the advent of the internet, a host of new marketing opportunities have appeared. Of course, the most obvious is to use the medium as a way to promote traditional publishing and in a way, that’s how CitizenPoet came about. I wanted to showcase my poetry as a means for attracting readers and enticing them to buy my books. And to some extent, it works. Some of those who visit my website actually buy a book.

 

  Which brings me to my experiment. I love writing books, articles, short stories, and poetry. The problem is not the writing, but the publishing. Finding a home for what I write is easily triple the time it takes me to write it in the first place. When I write a poem, whether an epigram or an epic, I formerly had to send it off to some existing publication, a literary journal, poetry contest, or specialty publisher. With my site, CitizenPoet.com, I can publish the work instantly, get rapid feedback, and attract potential marketing and/or sales.

 

  For example, my daily epigrams attracted the attention of a publicist for a major resort chain in America that caters to corporate clients who conduct sales and marketing meetings who contacted me for a syndication contract. As a result, I have a small but steady income from clients who publish newsletters for resorts, special occasions and sales and marketing events and who use my epigrams as daily inspirational blurbs to entertain their members.

 

  And, of course, there are the T-shirts and coffee cups and occasional greeting cards.

 

  But none of these are either reliable or substantial, and while there is probably little in any writer’s life that can be relied upon as steady income, there is always the potential of something new, some approach that satisfies both the writer’s ego and purse, or at least, provides enough largesse to allow the writing process to continue for another cycle of writing and sales.

 

  So here is my plan. I am going to create an online publishing empire. Oh, yeah. Scoff. But I’ve got poetry, satire, novels, books, and short stories.

 

  Let’s start with short stories. Instead of marketing my short stories through the usual channels of magazines, literary journals, contests and mimeographed flyers, I will publish them as a new feature on my web site where they can be read by all at no charge, and where those who like the work and who are willing to contribute to the arts—or at least, my art—can make a small contribution or donation by way of approval.

 

  I plan to publish a new short story about every week or so, depending on the revenue, so we’ll see how that goes. As of the moment, the first short story has only been up for a short time and while I haven’t yet posted the news on Twitter or Facebook, or sent out a blast to my email epigram list, I have already had two donations, one for $1 and one for $2. Statistically, that means one reader considered the story twice as good as some other reader.

 

  I wonder if there’s any change a Saudi oil prince will love the story.

 

  I have three novels in the works. One, Boxes Lie Waiting, won an Amazon Breakthrough Novel citation and will be published as a print book later this year. The second, Something Weird in Massachusetts, I am shopping for a publisher. The third is a science fiction novel, Hydra Song Blue. My plan is to publish Hyrda on line as an interactive subscription offering.

 

  Here’s the plan. I will publish the first three chapters on line for free. The format will be similar to a blog. A chapter will be published which anyone can read, comment, on and offer whatever criticisms or opinions they like. Of course, the readers won’t know where the novel is going, but they will know what’s happening at the moment and are able to offer opinions and comments. After the first three chapters, readers must subscribe to the remaining chapters.

 

  I am considering 52 chapters, one per week. The first three chapters will be free. The charge to continue reading and commenting will be 50 cents per week if subscribed to on a week-to-week basis, or $18 total if the entire book is pre-purchased for the year. Readers will be invited and enticed to predict how the book will end. There will, of course, be a grand finale at the end of the year when all of the various plot twists are resolved. The subscriber who comes closest to guessing the final resolution will win a prize. In the event of a tie, the final winner from amongst the tying contestants will be chosen by lot. And, of course, all subscribers will receive a paperback copy of the final print book.

 

  Let me know what you think of this publishing plan. I may be crazy, but who knows, I may be on to something as well.

 

  Now, go read A Letter from Sissy and make a donation. I’m counting on you.

Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

An Idea for a Short Story – 1

 

This weekend, I am starting a new feature on my website, www.CitizenPoet.com. Tomorrow and continiuing on certain Sundays in the future, I will be publishing a short story. I love writing short stories, but unfortunately, I don’t always have the time that it takes to create, write and edit an excellent tale. And the market for commercial short stories these days is not the most lucrative.

 

I hope you enjoy these short stories and help me build an audience by telling all of your friends. There is a marketing model to all this. The stories are published for all to read for free, although there will be a Contribution Button for those who are inclined to support the effort financially. You may print out a personal copy to read at your leisure or on the train into work, but of course, I retain full ownership and all copyright and reprint rights.

 

In addition, from time to time I will share some of my short story ideas in my Poetry Blog. These are ideas that I think would make a great short story, but I haven’t had time to flesh them out. I get hundreds of ideas. Hardly a day passes when I don’t have one. So what I will do is share some of those ideas with you.

 

And yes, should you feel inclined to use the idea in a short story of your own, go ahead. I would love to see what you can do. No charge, no obligation. It’s just an idea not a compositon. All I ask is that if your story is a success, you give me a nod–a tip of the author’s beret, so to speak. And with this being said, here is my first short short idea:

 

 

A Small Piece of Rock

 

On the day that Jason Brown planned to commit suicide, he trekked up the narrow path that led to the ledge overlooking the bay and gazed out at the sea. It was the last thing he wanted to see. That and the frothing waves around the rocks below that reached out to him speckled white diamonds of eternal bliss, calling his name.


Which was why the sight of some bum on a boat rowing toward Jason’s own private hell was truly disturbing. What the hell right did anyone have to interrupt Jason’s last grand gesture?


This is a short story: about how a man, Jason, whose life has been a series of disappointments meets another old man searching for a place to bury his ashes. The searcher is an old man who only wants to buy a small piece of land overlooking the sea for an eternal monument. The search is coming back to a seaside cliff he used to see in this youth and shared with a young woman he loved and married.


Jason gets to know the old man and discovers a life with strange parallels to his own, only the old man made certain choices that perhaps Jason should have made, resulting in the outcomes that Jason really wanted but did not achieve.


Although Jason had planned to jump from the cliff, it turns out that there was one more choice Jason could have made but had not. What he learns from the old man about his choice affects Jason’s own life and future.


And yes, in the end, he sells the old man a small square of land, a piece of a rock as an eternal resting place for the old man’s urn of ashes.


And yet, in the end, there is still one question. Who finally is buried under the small piece of rock?

Posted in Short Story Ideas | Leave a comment