Publicat de: leonard oprea | 13 Septembrie 2013

Jeff Howe – Cogito Ergo Sum – The Art of Essay

Jeff HoweCogito Ergo Sum – The Art of Essay

A Short Bio

Oh, let’s see. My name is Jeff Howe and I like to write sometimes, mostly when the mood strikes, I guess, which really sort of lets on that I don’t do it for a living.

I have written poetry, fiction, blog entries, even advertising content, but there’s none of that here.  These are all books of compilations of some of my work.

There’s love poetry, light poetry, dark poetry, poetry that deals with death, life and relationships.  Some of it is autobiographical, and some of it is downright humorous.

There’s also short stories, both in prose poetry form and regular prose.  I rather enjoy stories that have a neat twist at the end (like the Twilight Zone), so I have incorporated those into my own work.

There’s also commentary to be found in some of the introductions and in the essays I included in Hallucination of Majestic Elephants, Echoes from the Antechamber and Patterns at the Periphery.

I have entered poetry contests and fiction contests with some success.  I have also been a member of several online poetry review sites, but that has lapsed somewhat recently.

I do not write erotic poetry or stories, nor do I write anything having to do with demons, vampires, werewolves or anything occultic.  I am a firm believer in the idea that a good story will always entertain without having to include prurient or occultic materials.  Additionally, the language I use could be rated no worse than PG 99.9% of the time.  If you have any questions about the other .1%, just email me.

I am originally from Maine, went to college in Massachusetts, did a hitch in the US Army where I met my wife.  We returned to Maine in 1987 and have lived here ever since.  We have two sons and a town government that keeps increasing our property taxes in outrageous fashion.

Just a regular guy.

Hope this tells you enough to pique your interest.  See ya ‘round the web.





I’ve been to a lot of them, either passing through or visiting. When I say passing through, I mean going directly through it, not on some beltway that skirts it.

Portland, Bangor, Portsmouth, Boston, Quincy, Worcester, Danbury, New York City, Newark, Scranton, Philadelphia, Wilmington, Baltimore, Washington DC, Richmond, Harrisonburg, Charlotte, Asheville, Spartanburg, Charleston, Atlanta, Macon, Jacksonville, Orlando, Miami, Canton, Denver.

Many more much smaller as well.

I may have been there attending a convention, catching a ballgame or concert, doing the tourist thing. Or maybe just spent the night on the way to somewhere else. I may have been there for years or just a few hours, but I remember them all with varying degrees of opinion as to the experience.

Whether it was seeing the Statue of Liberty or the Washington Monument or hitting Miami Beach or taking in a Braves game at Turner Field, most activities took place under the yellow face of a dayrider sun.

Except for Savannah.

Savannah was all about the night.

Oh, I’ve been to Savannah during the day, gone to the mall, played mini-golf, eaten at restaurants and so on.

But the night is what I remember most about Savannah.

There were many. They were streaming and rumbling. Promises were made, some kept to this very day, some never intended to be kept.

Music threaded the nights. Music and a strong beat, both external and internal.

There was heat. A lot of heat. The moon and stars glinted off the river as if to highlight the motion of the eventide.

Bearded shadows hung from trees which stood above the river, and connections could be found in the cobblestones of Upper and Lower Factors Walks. Trees along the river were tamer, more decorative, but the old oaks above told stories of long ago.

Oysters and candy, Bailey’s and sandals, the nights were rich in flavor and feeling. They were a decalescent aphrodisiac, a roseate romance. It was easy to revel in the bright lights dotting the night or slip away through its deep umbra.

There was much nighttime in Boston as well, and those memories are as exuberant. But its ambiance was drastically different. Boston was urban with all its amenities. Savannah was history with all its nuances.

I can well understand why General Sherman couldn’t bring himself to lay waste to Savannah like he did with Atlanta.

Because once you step inside her boundaries, she envelops you with sultry sweet arms and never lets go.


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