Leighton | Icarus and Daedalus | 1869

Leighton | Icarus and Daedalus | 1869

Since the last poem was itty-bitty, and I missed a day or two posting (if it’s three please don’t tell me), here’s one more for tonight. This one actually rhymes! It’s dedicated to the man outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art in Manhattan in December, 2001, who informed me I’d missed my calling as a poet and helped re-start my journey in writing. I forgive you, sir. 😉



Have you seen this poet write?

It’s a ghastly, tortuous sight

If poets are made of ashes and sweat

Already he should be a laureate

He devours the endless words of masters

Those fond of black, and blue and alabaster

Fingertips as calloused painfully

As his heart rends itself not to be

A collector of candle stubs

And pencil nubs; late at night he rubs

His eyes until they’re red and bleary

He’s seldom rested, often weary

And like some solitary animal nested

Introspective and invested

In what is real inside his mind

(What he makes he thinks he finds)

Like Icarus he soars too high

Comes crashing down the sky

Onto his bed for hours prone

A heap of flesh, sinew and bone

Human again, but before long

Nothing can drown out the siren song

That must again puppet his limbs

And compel from him inspired hymns


©2013 Jason Anderson


Leewater is now The Boy Hero

Call it a mid-life crisis. In May, when I turn forty and people ask “what have you accomplished?” I wanted to have an answer. So I changed the name of my blog from “Leewater” to “The Boy Hero.”

Rim shot. But seriously, folks.

The Boy Hero isn’t me. I haven’t suddenly sprouted super powers or aged thirty years  in reverse. I haven’t lost my mind or started wearing tights (probably redundant). I’m not a boy hero, but I was one once. Long story — maybe someday I’ll write about it.

When I started this blog I also started a company called Leewater Films. Leewater was meaningful to me, and it was distinctive. Films reflected the fact that at the time I was focused mainly on screenwriting projects.

Lately both words have started to chafe a little, like garments outgrown.

So I changed the name to Boy Hero Productions. It reflects a recurring theme in my writing and makes me smile a little every time I see it (I think that’s the important part). It’s also an homage to the main character of my first screenplay, a young superhero who you maybe-might meet someday, in some form.

And really, many of my protagonists, even those without super powers. Especially those without super powers. Girl heroes too, of course — and even heroes that aren’t so boyish for other reasons (like, they’re pushing forty so hard that forty’s getting mad).

The new name better reflects my evolving writing philosophy, involving role models, strong three-dimensional characters and platitudes lifted from a variety of places (anyone can be the Batman!). But philosophies are better done than said.

So, the blog now goes by “The Boy Hero.”

If you’ve been reading my posts, thank you. I’ve been as sporadic about posting as I am keeping up with the blogs I follow, but it’s a really rewarding experience. I think we have a good thing going here, so I’m recommitting myself to it, and just wanted to explain the change.

So long for now. Gotta fly.



PS. My old URL,, now maps to the new one, I think both will continue to work.

Rest between the rains

Light rain on Canada Pond, RI USA

Photo: author


Sometimes, after midnight and before dawn

The horizon blanks and I can see everything


Sometimes, in the rest between the rains

The world pauses and I can hear everything


Sometimes, on a pillow of skin and coarse hair

A heartbeat beckons and I can feel everything


Sometimes, as winter wood burns wet

Smoke sears, acrid, and I can smell everything


Never have I tasted enough, and I never will.


©2013 Jason Anderson

Symptoms of an underlying condition

I’ll do my homework before you get home

Clean my room, and the house

And vacuum under the beds

I’ll write all my thank you notes

Take out the trash and shut the lids

Do the laundry, all three loads

And hang your delicates

With reluctant fingertips

I’ll iron, fold, put away

Then mow the lawn, avoiding the cord

I won’t go past the end of the block

Or have over unapproved friends

I’ll throw dinner on in time

Tonight it’s for one

You’ll find me in my closet

Between my blue striped shirt

And dress-up pants

Not wearing my good shoes

Read my thank you note without fear

I didn’t write anything

You don’t want to see


Suicide is a permanent “solution” to problems and feelings that are temporary. If you’re in distress, PLEASE contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK (8255).

©2013 Jason Anderson

A murder of crows


Yesterday afternoon an unusual event, around here that is, as I cleaned house. A scattered bleating of crows turned quickly to a sustained chorus. Both cats lept to attention, riveted, ears cocked: general quarters. Their watch drew me to the window, and the sight of dozens of crows gathering on nearby trees. The cacophony was remarkable, and when I slid open the window, deafening. Frigid air and bacchanale washed inward against me.

For a time more and more joined the party, til the winter branches flourished with a black spring, and the mad-inspiring refrain grew louder still, becoming like an iron wedge driven into the brain. When the very last had alighted, everyone fell silent – a leaden silence, the sound of loss.

I went back to chores after a few moments and when I returned to the window later, the branches were bare. The murder had gone off without so much as a whisper.

The cats had returned to their bunks, hoping either for undisturbed rest or another interruption.

How to Cook Dragon Meat

Innocence, c 1904, watercolour by Thomas Cooper Gotch

Why am I at King’s Cross today

They tell me that

I’ve lost my way

A million reasons

I have to stay

But I’m off to slay a dragon


Why do I thread this haunting wood

I’ve left behind

All that’s good

Nothing may end

As it should

But I must slay the dragon


Why do I brave this ferocious sea

Are wind and waves

The last I’ll see

The horizon’s blade

The end of me?

Not til I slay the dragon


After all, will I waste here

Amid sacks of teeth

And vials of tears

They taught me of don’ts

And of fears

But not how to cook dragon meat.


Source Image: Innocence, watercolour 1904 by Thomas Cooper Gotch [public domain via Wikimedia Commons]
©2013 Jason Anderson

The Year of Our Lord 1519


The pyre exhales

In a sky of relief


Like executioners’ shots

Or wedding fire

Break the bright day

We will not turn back

We will not turn back


Ships of ash will nourish

Things we won’t see grow

No foot will balance

On cambered deck

Nor muscle heave sail

We need not compass

Nor barometer nor bell

To glory we march or hell


©2013 Jason Anderson

Source Image