about the muse
contact the muse
welcome to the seattle muse
Welcome to the seattle muse.
We provide resources that enhance the poet's (and writer's) craft. And
almost everything offered is free!
We feature over 200 links to various resources,
separated into categories for ease of navigation. You will find many of
these resources on the literary
links page. On the opportunities
page we offer links to job opportunities for writers; some are
freelance opportunities, while others are positions advertised. Of course,
there's an events
page informing writers (and readers) of poetry events ranging from open
mics to venues featuring well known writers.
We feel our best feature is the new
submissions page. This is where
you will find your poetry, especially
if you are an unpublished and newer poet. If you would like to submit a poem to our site, follow the instructions
on that page. All poetry submitted will be published at the
sole discretion of the seattle muse.
Please visit our affiliate sites. The first is The Page Hound blog. Its focus is on all things reading and has proven to be a whole lot of fun. The second is the the seattle muse blog, a collection of the muse's own poetry.
the seattle muse is a work in progress. We add new links frequently as we discover new sites of interest and value. Your input is appreciated. If you have a suggestion,
a favorite site you wish to share, or find a link that doesn't work, please
drop us a line at [email protected]. We hope you enjoy your visit to the
The fire chief’s car
We seldom spent any time together or saw things
in the same way. In spite of spending sixteen years in the same
house. You were into horses. 4H. I bet on them. Your friends were tall
wholesome young girls. Mine liked another sort. You with good
skin. Me with acne. You loved the smell of straw and alfalfa. I smoked
dope. He bought you ice cream for Cs on your report card. I got
back-handed. But it was expected. You were my sister. And yes you
brought me a lot of grief. Your door-swinging on the refrigerator
at the age of eight. Nearly crushing you as it falls in slow motion. Jars
of mayonnaise and jelly and bottles of milk shattering and pork chops
and green beans spilling on the floor. An earthquake in the kitchen.
I saved your life but he whipped me. Sent us both to bed
for a week. One Saturday he stands on the patio with a willow
switch in hand. Shows me the new hammer found buried all winter
in the backyard. Perfectly rusted. Forgotten after you’d pounded nails
into some new hobby. I lived in fear he would find something else
I hadn’t done. But hey? Do you remember Mom’s old ‘47
Chevy painted green like an army tank? I’ve just gotten my learner’s
permit and we take a ride through the neighborhood. Laughing all
the way down Wildwood Drive. Turning up Ravenswood. Then winding
round Crows Park Road coming to an unanticipated stop on Blackwillow
when our right fender buries itself in the bright red door of the fire
chief’s car. Thinking back on this is like feeling the sun
on my face after its broken out from behind a bank of fog. Oh my
god. I don’t dare tell your father she cried. He’ll kill
you. Our mother my savior. She told him she’d been hit while parked
in a lot downtown. Something like that. The fire chief must have liked
the way she looked. Maybe they struck a bargain. Now it’s just
you and me. I’m a careful driver these days. You’ve
just remodeled your kitchen. My tools organized on pegboard. We live
far enough apart not to worry about the other. Causing
trouble. You wondering how we made it this far. I call it mercy.