His words are hidden by the clouds…
Welcome to The County Quirk, a website devoted to my life’s work as a largely failed but endlessly devoted writer who is enjoying a modicum of success. Here you will find short stories, poetry, nonfiction, updates on my debut novel, information about my lectures, and more. The County Quirk refers to my complicated relationship with the local community. I have never fit in, yet I somehow feel at home. It’s hard to explain. Please take your time, browse around, read a little, and maybe post a comment. My mission is simple: I want to contribute something meaningful to the world with my words.
Order my debut novel at Main Street Rag Publications.com
Click on the Justice House Shadows Tab to read an excerpt.
More Big News: My play The King and Queen of Foggy Flats won the 2025 Chickasaw Writer’s Prize and will be performed at the Chickasaw Civic Theatre in Mobile, Alabama June 25-28, 2026. Road Trip!
Looking Forward: My short story collection Children of Light will be released in February and my children’s book The Snow Wish in March. Stay tuned!
Check out the new poems at the bottom of this page! More are added (semi)regularly.
Thanks for visiting, R.H. Nicholson
“Blessed the traveler who journeys the length of the line.”
Dan Fogelberg
SHORT STORIES
poetry
Justice house Shadows & More
Speaking
Intermezzo
A rhombus of
sunlight
blanches
our nakedness,
dust mites fluttering in the
glow,
a breeze billows our
bodies,
diffusing lilac and songbird twitters,
the universe
consecrating our union in
scandalous daylight,
sheets slit
across drenched
flesh,
my satisfied girth
nestled
in your
thigh,
beard brushing your
breast
ticking like a
bomb,
my fingers tangled in your
spirit,
our kinesis spent,
our secret
hovering like
sea mist
spritzing our fusion,
levitating somewhere between
never and
forever.
We believe that
our ecstasy
will eventually be
absolved,
our sin
forgiven,
our vexation
sated,
our longing
fulfilled,
in our theurgy,
our cabal, our clandestine
intermezzo—
that is
until
the doorknob
turns
and we are sentenced to
the world
The Nuthatch Poet
I am but a
nuthatch poet
pecking downward
in the January yard
surrounded by death
and gloom,
blue gray
blending into the desolate
landscape,
eking out another day,
a seed, a millet, an acorn
smacked against an oak,
bucking the breeze,
dodging the rain,
black eye bullied,
traipsing in the snow,
my craggy legs
fixed on a fir branch,
completely disregarded, yet
laughing
for no good reason,
a masochistic
speck.
I Sensed the End Was Near
I sensed the end was near when
I heard The Voice call out to me,
“Kill the light, I’m tryin’ to sleep’ here!”
I had awakened
in a dead hour,
a sharp pain in my chest
radiating down my left arm, so
I rose,
swollen ankles like elephants,
temples pounding despite the Ibuprofen,
vision blurry even post Visine,
mouth desert dry though I’d rinsed with Act,
that shoulder crick aching and
persistent back pain throbbing,
I ambled, stumbled, fumbled to
the bathroom
ruminating on my waning life,
energy zapped,
memory fogged,
ambition thwarted,
arthritic fingers,
hearing aids,
bifocals,
Medicare card in a laminated pouch to evade stains,
orthopedic sneakers,
holding me together
like a mummy,
my youth reduced to a gauzy slow-mo movie vignette,
boozy bachelorhood a blur,
marriage,
two decades raising children
who then abandoned me
to live their own lives,
a robust career that ultimately
mattered not,
bills still due,
the lawn unmowed,
I began to ponder my failures,
omissions,
half-assery,
enormous ego,
smug male vibrato,
and for what,
so I could die unceremoniously like this,
stomachache churning, burning,
bowels angry like fire ants?
I dropped to the floor, the tiles cool relief,
and prayed that I not die here
of all places,
that I at least be granted time to dress myself,
maybe comb my glorious hair
or pop a breath mint,
when The Voice returned and,
quite lovingly,
barked,
“What did you expect when you ate Taco Bell?”
Just So You Know
Just so you know,
you have,
without anesthesia,
surgically excised
my heart
with your cold scalpel,
cauterized,
pulverized it into powder,
doused it in lighter fluid and
flambéed it,
pounded it with your ballpeen hatred
like rancid meat,
scored it with your razorblade
crisscross applesauce
to intensify,
exaggerate,
variegate the splatter pattern,
oozing,
dripping like Dracula.
You have bulldozed
my cardiac muscle into
a nice, flat, black surface,
glugged its canker sores with carbonic acid, and
carved, castrated, crucified it,
sliced me into slivers,
punctured, pierced, and poisoned me
with your tainted sword,
scratched, strangled, and sacrificed me
like a Mayan child,
mulled me like a rabid dog,
mangled me like Mengele,
my love flushed like feces,
passed like piss
drained into the sewer,
tossed it into a blender,
punched HIGH,
and smiled while I leak
into oblivion.
Otherwise, I’m fine.
Her Emerald Eyes
Her emerald eyes speak
only truth
her smile
only joy
captured in the morning
light
a leap of faith
a ploy
to ransom me
from loneliness
to rescue me
from pain
that plagues my heart
in the marmalade light
and comforts me
with rain
to wash away
a broken world
where grace
has been displaced
her whispers
carry sacred balm,
my agony
erased
while votives
light my frightened way
to her amazing heart
in a soothing slant
of sunshine
enchanting everything
the other world won’t.
I Did Not Wail
(For Oliver)
I did not wail when you died,
did not stop my breath,
nor strike the clock
that hour
nor tear my sleeve abreast.
Tears did not overtake my guise
my heart did not stab with ache.
The sun still shown and wind still
whirled
the fallen leaves still raked.
Yet in my bones and in my depth
the brutal message cried,
severing every thread of joy
I clasped
under the winter sky.
Hurricane
I saw the rotation
in your eyes,
the mounting
barometric pressure,
sensed the staleness of the air,
a bitter breeze
a bleak billow,
the clouds coughing
like exhaust fumes,
a distant menace
fomenting,
then the onslaught
rumbling,
grousing,
straight-line winds
pelting torrents,
the water wall,
rolling like apocalypse
debris whirling,
swirling around me,
a vortex of betrayal,
a massacre of memories,
trust thrust
like projectiles
slashing
around, at, through
me,
like venom-tipped needles,
jabbed into my soul,
my pain
peeled like paint,
vulnerability unmasked,
identity stripped naked,
shaken,
exposed,
excoriated.
Then
the winds
slacked,
rain relented,
and clouds vaporized.
The sun streamed
a flicker of
grace,
of tender warmth
like maternal arms,
and I stood,
bent
like tree limbs,
exhausted,
battered,
maimed,
and realized
I had survived
you.
Still
I sense your
massive hand
against my back
pressed like warm
adhesive tape
when I folded
my feet
and peddled
for the first time
lingering
still
even now
as atoms flurry
before my eyes
in the dusk
of my years
as if nothing
has changed
since that spring day