Just took a chance and posted an old piece on a site I came across.  The piece is the one about what it would have been like if the ancient Egyptians had used corrupt construction trade unions to build the pyramids.  The site is 'http://www.ebookmall.com/americasnextauthor America's Next Author.  Could be fun.  A lot of short stories to read and review and perhaps win an I pad, and if my piece is well received, could get $$.  Who knows?  It's getting stuff out there.

Portrait of Artists by an Old Man

      Sitting in the town square on a lovely autumn day waiting for my car to be serviced, began musing about how many artists of all types call this little town home (Leonardtown, Maryland).  In the short time I have lived here, I have made friends who are involved in painting, photography, writing, music, theater and dance.  Pondering; does being involved in these activities give you the license to call yourself an "Artist"? And having recently reread James Joyce, this happened.

Portrait of Artists by an Old Man 

           Art is magnetic, or is it the artists?  Are they drawn to one another through their crafts and talents, or perhaps through their longings?  All artists have longings. Are they seeking a patron or just a kind, friendly ear or eye or simpatico heart?

            My sense of true art advances through criticism to the very brink of an abyss which swallows up the timid, incompetent, cowardly, and egocentric. Most of those retreat early lacking the courage to go to the edge for their art.  And only those with the guts to go to the edge will advance the arts and fly ike the disciples of the legendary Appolinaris.  The others will retreat to their little cliques and huddle together in sessions of mutual admiration, lacking the mettle to put their 'art' out there; reluctant to express and defend their 'art' toe to toe with society. They retreat to the conclaves of their own,damning the unaccepting public instead of realizing that lack of acceptance is brought about by lack of vision and recognition of the evolution and ecology of art.  They sit in gloomy circles in the back booth of a smoky cafe and compete in artistic expressions of self pity and moral poverty

More on the ecology of art later.....

"Fenwick Inklings" writer's group at a crossroads.  Attempting a triage analysis to project a future.  Stay tuned

The Rebecca T. Ruark carries my family name, and I am in the process of writing a poem about her.....stay tuned.

Statement of Significance (as of designation - July 31, 2003):
The Rebecca T. Ruark is the oldest vessel in the skipjack oyster dredging fleet, the last commercial fishing sailing fleet in North America. Of the estimated 2,000 skipjacks built on Chesapeake Bay before World War II, only about 16 survive. The Ruark is the only vessel in the oyster fleet with a sloop hull, and is known as one of the best sailing skipjacks in the fleet. After sinking during a gale in 1999, she was subsequently raised and restored to operation.

Have considered that some of what I have written in the past could be marketable, so I am starting to submit stuff. Sent short story parody about labor problems in Ancient Egypt to Ninth Letter magazine.  Also sent 2 poems to Artsvine, an on line magazine.   If anything is accepted, I will be qualified to say my occupation is "writer".

An old poem by Thomas Davis written in honor of one of the heroes of the Irish Rebellion of 1641,
Owen Roe O'Neill.

Lament for the Death of Eoghan Ruadh O’Neill

By Thomas Davis

“DID they dare, did they dare, to slay Eoghan Ruadh O’Neill?” “Yes, they slew with poison him they feared to meet with steel.” “May God wither up their hearts! May their blood cease to flow, May they walk in living death, who poisoned Eoghan Ruadh.” “Though it break my heart to hear, say again the bitter words.         5 From Derry, against Cromwell, he marched to measure swords: But the weapon of the Sassanach met him on his way. And he died at Cloch Uachtar, upon St. Leonard’s day. “Wail, wail ye for the Mighty One. Wail, wail ye for the Dead, Quench the hearth, and hold the breath—with ashes strew the head.         10 How tenderly we loved him. How deeply we deplore! Holy Saviour! but to think we shall never see him more! “Sagest in the council was he, kindest in the hall, Sure we never won a battle—’twas Eoghan won them all. Had he lived—had he lived—our dear country had been free:         15 But he’s dead, but he’s dead, and ’tis slaves we’ll ever be. “O’Farrell and Clanricarde, Preston and Red Hugh, Audley and MacMahon—ye valiant, wise and true: But—what are ye all to our darling who is gone? The Rudder of our Ship was he, our Castle’s corner stone.         20 “Wail, wail him through the Island! Weep, weep for our pride! Would that on the battlefield our gallant chief had died! Weep the Victor of Beinn Burb—weep him, young and old: Weep for him, ye women—your beautiful lies cold! “We thought you would not die—we were sure you would not go,         25 And leave us in our utmost need to Cromwell’s cruel blow— Sheep without a shepherd, when the snow shuts out the sky— O! why did you leave us, Eoghan? Why did you die? “Soft as woman’s was your voice, O’Neill! bright was your eye, O! why did you leave us, Eoghan? Why did you die?         30 Your troubles are all over, you’re at rest with God on high, But we’re slaves, and we’re orphans, Eoghan!—why did you die?”

Derbforgaill's Betrayal 

Dermott MacMurchad of Leinster, with heart of wood,
Ruled stolen land with cruel blood
Chieftains of Eire who stood to fight,
If they kept their life, they lost their light
Insulted the Abbess of St. Bridgit's Church grand,
Closed her in a cell in the bed of a man.

Lusted beyond the fjords of Wex and Water
E'en to the walls of Dublin's fine quarter
In MacLoughlin of Ulster Dermott found a friend
Thought his conquests then would know no end
Set his greedy eyes on Connacht and Meath
O'Connor and O'Ruaric vowed to stand to the death

The King and the Prince together stood tall
With honor and sword 'neath Breffni's stout wall
Ere the kerns of MacMurchad heard the clarion's call
Had neither stomach nor heart for naught but withdraw
O'Ruaric's confessor in piety's name
Bade the Prince make a pilgrimage away from war's game

Prince Tiernan, the pilgrim left with the first crow of the cock
Trusting husband saw not the need for a chastity lock
He believed the Bride of Breffni would wait
But the fair Derbforgaill did not lock the gate
MacMurchad came under cover of night
Abducted O'Ruaric's wife and took flight

'Twas a dastardly act, or so it would seem
Yet heard within Breffni's walls, nary a scream
When Tiernan's horse boy gave his account
He swore Derbforgaill was astride the Prince's best mount
And several housemaids reported before the gates closed
She was leading four pack horses carrying all of her clothes

Prince Tiernan returned to find a cold bed
With the fire of vengeance burning his head
Mustered his army and moved with great haste
Toward a fortress in Leinster with intent to lay waste
Dermott's walls breached, the villain escaped in the end
But in all Erin's Isle he found not a friend

But there were those that owed Dermott an old debt
With his daughter Eva sailed o'er to England without regret
King Henry had once borrowed Dermott's ships under sails
To suppress a pesky revolution out there in Wales
Finding Henry in England was sure of little chance
Because the King of England spent most of his time in France

But once found, old Henry would not lend a hand
Unless MacMurchad promised fealty and, of course Irish land
Now Henry avowed he could not an English soldier loan
Gave a letter permitting Dermott raise an army on his own
He looked, but could not hire an army anywhere
Until he met a red-haired Earl, name of Richard de Clare

Now Dermott could not understand, nor would he ever know
How this femme-faced Norman ever earned the title of, 'Strongbow'
He was far from manly, never mistaken for a swain
Some say of him was written, "His blood is better than his brain"
But 'twas a false inditement, Strongbow had a clever plan
His price for aid, an Irish estate and the daughter Eva's hand

The pact agreed for Irish land and Eva as his bride
Strongbow set out to hire some men to fight for Dermott's side
Dermott for Ireland sailed with Norman knights and gallowglasses
 O'Ruaric and O'Connor greeted him and kicked some Norman asses
To buy some time and for his kidnap crime Dermott offered Tiernan gold
Tiernan took the bribe and set the stage for history yet untold

Irish troops fell back, laid down their arms hoping to fight no more
But now Strongbow and his Norman knights stormed onto Ireland's shore
With a thousand men at arms to recapture Dermott's land
His promise kept, Strongbow could now claim fair Eva's hand
The wedding assured Strongbow was now old Dermott's heir
A Norman on the Leinster throne was a curse on all of Eire