Author and poet Tom Logan is the grandson of early Idaho settlers who came to northern and southern Idaho in the mid to late eighteen and early nineteen hundreds. Indian Valley near Weiser and the Clearwater River area are where his roots are in Idaho.
With a father who was an outfitter and guide in the wild lands of the state and a mother who was an entrepreneur and business women, he grew up with a great admiration for the natural resources of Idaho and a deep appreciation of the commerce and people of the state.
A 1966 graduate of OHS, Tom served in Vietnam with the Idaho National Guard, and worked as a disc jockey at KLER and other radio stations in Idaho and Washington.
As an author and poet, Tom draws on this rich heritage and admiration that many retain from the places of their youth and their formative years. His writing has a unique way of relating life's experiences with the language of food. The title poem, "A Batch of Pancakes," is an example of how he is able to create images using simple things with which we are familiar.
From the humor of the Clearwater Limericks to the more serious reflective and sensual "Shadow Rider;” from real life ghost stories like "The Brick House Stairs" to the spiritual "In My Garden," the reader is treated to a broad range of poetry styles and subject matter.
Read here an excerpt from the foreword written by Mr. T. L. Washington in Toms' soon to be published first book "A Batch of Pancakes:" "The poems are fantastic, but much more than that, they are beautifully layered with lessons that only a steward of spiritual competency can profess."
Tom also submits regular offerings of encouragement and observation called “From My Office Window” on his Facebook page, where new friends are always welcome.
Have you ever had some profound thought in the night, but by morning the only thing left is the memory of having had the thought not the thought itself?
Much of the material in my writing comes at such a time. It probably has something to do with the open and relaxed state of consciousness or some other such phenomenon
Part of the writing experience for me has been to develop the discipline to arise and put pen to paper so as to not lose these once in a lifetime opportunities.
Thoughts from which came the following writing occurred at such a time. In the small hours of the day, before light and noise complicate matters, came “The Dream Pool:”
Precious are these hours between twilight and forever. The thoughtful mindful ramblings of care and concern and order are abandoned to the abyss of night and sleepfulness.
With consciousness marking time at half rest, the imagination and creative heart roam field and forest of the wonderfully improbable.
In this half minded place between slumber and awake, thoughts become fluid knowing neither rein nor constraint.
Into this fertile cauldron flow composites of life and circumstance. Color becomes insignificant, bowing away to sound, softness and fragrant memories.
Slippery things that flee before conscious thought, worthy of the pen but flittering and darting away beyond the grasp of some disciplined dialect.
Now then, the process of searching, sorting and sifting back through the recesses and shadowed paths of memory to rediscover what it is that gives birth to these sublime mindscapes of the invisible that seize only tailings of the wealth there present but moments before.
Is this really all it is or could there be some other more mystic and intriguing design that prompts one to come early to the hearth of rhyme and rhythm.
Ah but alas, more questions than answers to these ageless quandaries.
My soul is satisfied, my gifts beholden to those precious hours between twilight and forever as I linger at creations edge there alongside the Dream Pool.
With a father who was an outfitter and guide in the wild lands of the state and a mother who was an entrepreneur and business women, he grew up with a great admiration for the natural resources of Idaho and a deep appreciation of the commerce and people of the state.
A 1966 graduate of OHS, Tom served in Vietnam with the Idaho National Guard, and worked as a disc jockey at KLER and other radio stations in Idaho and Washington.
As an author and poet, Tom draws on this rich heritage and admiration that many retain from the places of their youth and their formative years. His writing has a unique way of relating life's experiences with the language of food. The title poem, "A Batch of Pancakes," is an example of how he is able to create images using simple things with which we are familiar.
From the humor of the Clearwater Limericks to the more serious reflective and sensual "Shadow Rider;” from real life ghost stories like "The Brick House Stairs" to the spiritual "In My Garden," the reader is treated to a broad range of poetry styles and subject matter.
Read here an excerpt from the foreword written by Mr. T. L. Washington in Toms' soon to be published first book "A Batch of Pancakes:" "The poems are fantastic, but much more than that, they are beautifully layered with lessons that only a steward of spiritual competency can profess."
Tom also submits regular offerings of encouragement and observation called “From My Office Window” on his Facebook page, where new friends are always welcome.
The Dream Pool, by Tom Logan
Have you ever had some profound thought in the night, but by morning the only thing left is the memory of having had the thought not the thought itself?
Much of the material in my writing comes at such a time. It probably has something to do with the open and relaxed state of consciousness or some other such phenomenon
Part of the writing experience for me has been to develop the discipline to arise and put pen to paper so as to not lose these once in a lifetime opportunities.
Thoughts from which came the following writing occurred at such a time. In the small hours of the day, before light and noise complicate matters, came “The Dream Pool:”
Precious are these hours between twilight and forever. The thoughtful mindful ramblings of care and concern and order are abandoned to the abyss of night and sleepfulness.
With consciousness marking time at half rest, the imagination and creative heart roam field and forest of the wonderfully improbable.
In this half minded place between slumber and awake, thoughts become fluid knowing neither rein nor constraint.
Into this fertile cauldron flow composites of life and circumstance. Color becomes insignificant, bowing away to sound, softness and fragrant memories.
Slippery things that flee before conscious thought, worthy of the pen but flittering and darting away beyond the grasp of some disciplined dialect.
Now then, the process of searching, sorting and sifting back through the recesses and shadowed paths of memory to rediscover what it is that gives birth to these sublime mindscapes of the invisible that seize only tailings of the wealth there present but moments before.
Is this really all it is or could there be some other more mystic and intriguing design that prompts one to come early to the hearth of rhyme and rhythm.
Ah but alas, more questions than answers to these ageless quandaries.
My soul is satisfied, my gifts beholden to those precious hours between twilight and forever as I linger at creations edge there alongside the Dream Pool.
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