Hi everyone,

This is one of those mornings when I have nothing to say. Any right thinking person would say, “I have nothing. See you tomorrow.” But a writer writes. A blog isn’t exactly like, “Dear Diary” or jotting notes in a journal. It’s a blank space. Blank spaces need words on them. And so I respond to my need (obsession?) to put something down.

This is a rabbit hole in front of our son’s house in Canon Beach, Oregon. I was looking for the picture of me holding up a coffee mug like I’m toasting you to put here but ran across the hole and went with it instead. I’ve always been intrigued by holes. I wrote a poem once about holes for the book, The Purchase of Small Secrets.

A Hole in the Ground

What creature
tilled the grass
to tunnel here?

A hole in the ground
always makes me wonder. 

Is this one empty,
choked with dirt
that trickles through the roof
and rattles down abandoned halls?

Or is something there,
heart pounding,
sniffing me
down in the dark?

A hole in the ground
always makes me wonder.

(c) 2005 David L. Harrison

Later on I wrote a book about creatures that live underground, The Dirt Book. I like trees. I wrote a book about trees, A Tree is a Community. I like insects. I wrote a book about insects, Poems About Creeping Things. I don’t like midges. I wrote a book about them called Now You See Them Now You Don’t. I don’t like chiggers. I wrote a poem about them. That one became the namesake for Bryon Biggers Band, has been performed many times, and recorded on a CD

A Sad Tale

Nothing frightened Bryon Biggers,
Not even lions, not even tiggers,
He spent his life exploring this land,
Knew these hills like the back of his hand.

Striding down the path he came
Always looking for bigger game
But in the end he met his match
In a lowly Ozarks chigger patch.

Byron laughed, “Ha ha!” cried he,
“No bug could be the death of me!”
But halfway through that patch of chiggers
And it was over for Byron Biggers.

He clawed those bites till his dying breath,
Sighing, “I’ve scratched myself to death.
Someday they’ll find me here alone
With chiggers gnawing on my bones.”

He died the way he lived – brave,
And few have seen poor Byron’s grave.
He’s buried high on a lonely hill
Where to this day he itches still.

Here lie the bones of Byron Biggers,
Eaten alive by hungry chiggers,
So if you see poor Byron twitch,
Scratch his bones ‘cause they still itch.

(c) 1998 David L. Harrison

Looks like I wound up making a point for others who write or think about it, that we often start with something we like (or don’t like) and take off from there. Might be a poem. Might be a song. Might be a collection of related poems. Might be a story. Might be a subject that stays with you and reoccurs in your writing, a go-to theme or subject. But first, you have to put some words down in that blank space.