The older I get …

As I grow older in my story; the story I have outlined and mentally prepared myself for for many years, I begin to understand that opinions are many, and they must not be taken too seriosly .. for the holders of those views do not know about the tumultuous odyssey that lives between the ears of the lonely writer. It is a solitary journey through a forest of words; no matter the number of friends or foes in the physical world. I write on …


Stars, Dust and Thunder

​It was a ghost town. Ghosts sittin’ around weathered wooden tables, chawin on their vices, shootin’ the shit, playin’ cards, wondering who the stranger was. Their voices just sound hitting the back of his head and rollin down the sun-and wind-chapped leather that was his neck hide. He needed a shot. A hot tonic to numb while he leaned a leather forearm against the ancient bar, pondering all the miles his old Harley had carried him. The tender finally bothered to look his way. All it took was a look. A shot of rot gut slid down the bar top, clunking to a stop against a sore throttle hand. The biker simply gave a nod. Words were overrated. There were enough of those spillin’ from all the ghosts and cackling female phantasms. Nah. It was fine. Better’n most places he’d stopped recently. Now,  he wouldn’t say that he wasn’t welcome: just another ghost in a dirt town of threadbare Levis, cracked boots and the stains of life. The shot hit the back of his throat like a .44 hollow point. That’s the ticket. The glass clacked the bartop. A look. Another shot glass came sliding from afar. Stars came to his mind. They’re always there. And, he thought, they are completely indifferent to human existence; to war, to politics, to love and violence … to time. Nothin’ about human existence mattered to the jewels above that had witnessed everything that had ever happened since time began. But they seem to follow, don’t they? They were his source of direction, his comfort. Screw it. He tossed back the shot, clacked the glass down, tossed a twenty on the bar top and gave a “keep the change” look to the tender, then let his eyes scan the room for threats. Not a one. Just as he figured. Out the door. His boot steps hit the ground, sending puffs of dust up under each long stride. Swinging his leg over the Harley, he noticed an old timer walkin’ up, and a few honeys giggling behind the bar window at him. A flurry of tangled, lurid wet thoughts muddled his mind for a moment. But he just cracked a grin for ’em. Sorry ladies, not this time. While slippin’ his gloves on, he heard the old timer ask, “So, sonny, how long d’ya suppose yurr gonna live on that thing?” then he spat a stream of chaw to the dust. The biker gave a cordial sun burnt grin, said in a gravelly voice, “Just a flash of time, brother. And the stars won’t even notice.” The old timer went “hmm”, gave a nod of respect, and a minute later … watched the old shovel disappear in a grumble of dust and thunder …

— Erik Lehman (Cooper Thaine)

I’m Back

Been gone for quite some time, and I’ve changed a bit. Relocated, and then life said, “Go have some fun on a break.” This pic is what I’ve been doing. But I have returned with a fresh mind, a fresh perspective … and a ton of newly found creativity. This will be the new, free me. Peace.

Our Station

Erik S. Lehman

There is a reason they feel
They don’t belong
On Earth that spins
An endless, blue song 

They call this “home”
Yet wander lost
Struggling to fit
At every cost 

If this be their home
Why are they not comfortable?
Why are some outcasts?
Why do they feel alone? 

Because, deep down
They feel the yearn
For Earth is simply
A place to learn 

They took the train
To this station
Not expecting the pain
Hoping for elation
The mission is now
A battle with degradation 

Their learning is tough
Peers can be cruel
They deal with the years
Within this school 

If only they knew: 

Home is their reward
Upon graduation
Departing as the wise
To join the celebration
And report lessons learned
From their time at this station


~ E. S. Lehman

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What A Ride (quote I live by)

Erik S. Lehman

“Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming “Wow! What a Ride!”

―Hunter S. Thompson

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Music of the heart …

Erik S. Lehman

They had all gathered in the living room to sip drinks, discuss the news and such. Amy and Jake sat on one end of the couch, Taryn and Jim on the other. Katie and Manny took the loveseat. Banter and laughter went back and forth. Then Jim revealed that he had one more gift for Taryn, so he loped over to the baby-grand piano across the room and parked his butt on the bench.

Sitting in lamplight, he cracked his knuckles and stretched his fingers. He fetched a deep breath, sent a sidelong grin across the room to Taryn.

From the couch, she returned a grin of her own.

And the song began.

Feeling as though she and Jim were the only two people in the room, Taryn listened. Listened to the magic of tinkling ivory, and heard his heart play across the keys for her, reverberate in his masculine…

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Lovers symphony

Erik S. Lehman

A symphony of divine indulgence played on satin sheets,
moistened bodies hungering for the next angle of pleasure, rigid and wet as one,
while hearts thundered like drums in their orchestra of love….


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