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January 2026
How It All Started
Welcome to (drum roll, please), my inaugural personal blog!
Personal? Wait a sec. Shouldn’t an author and poet write about, well…writing, poetry, and other literary genres and issues? Yes, but not exclusively.
Under the umbrella of searching authors’ websites and blogs, the common theme seemed to be how to structure a blog with an eye toward SEO, driving people to your site. I understand that, but what about the author? Who is the person behind the words? The likes, dislikes, and life experiences. What motivates someone to compile short stories, poems, and novels? Is it a career path? Side income? Or, as Stephen King puts it in his book, On Writing, “I have written because it fulfilled me. Maybe it paid off the mortgage on the house and got the kids through college, but those things were on the side—I did it for the buzz. I did it for the pure joy of the thing. And if you can do it for joy, you can do it forever.”
Let me tell you upfront, I’m in the “do it for the buzz” group. But I wasn’t at first.
No doubt you’ve heard the term “black swan” moment, which is a metaphor for a major life-changing event…be it for better or worse. For my family and me, it was Sunday, June 21, 1998...and it was for the worse. That evening, the Geneva police came to our door informing us that the oldest of our three children, Thomas, a senior at Eastern Illinois University, had taken his own life.
Enter the black swan.
Following that horrendous day, the soul-crushing sorrow and pain in the ensuing days, months, and years defy description. My purpose is not to chronicle the details surrounding Tom’s death and the aftermath. Suffice to say that my family survived—survivors of suicide, a title I wish on no one.
After the loss of a loved one, from whatever cause, the ensuing healing process is unique to each of us. Counselors in the field define it as “grief work.” Believe me, it’s work…hard, exhausting, mental, and physical work. There’s no set time that it ends; you’ll know it when it does. For me, writing poems became part of my healing process. My grief poured out in rhymes that were raw, undisciplined, and spiritual. I didn’t search for them. At any time during the day or night, the words found me, as if they were already there, waiting for the moment to be part of my grief work, my healing. I didn’t fight them. Like tears, I let them flow. My poems helped. They still do.
I don’t know exactly when, but several years later, I began to expand my “grief” poetry to write about whatever came to mind. The “buzz” crept into me. I found joy in writing. I needed those fleeting moments of joy in the years following Tom’s death. Twenty-one years of writing poems culminated in my first poetry book, Things That Come To Mind, published in 2020. Over the next five years, two more poetry books and my first fictional tome, a collection of ten short stories, followed. (More about them in future blogs.)
I often wonder if writing would be part of my life if Tom were here. I don’t know. What I do know is that writing has connected me to some great people and places I may never have met or known about otherwise. When I write, my soul is in a good, comforting place. When that happens, perhaps his soul is, too. At least I like to think it is. However, I would give it all up to have him back.
Tom
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tbonine.books@gmail.com
February 2026
The Serenity of No Gates
While preparing to write my next book, I came across an observation that struck me. Vanishing Breed, by William Allard, is a small coffee-table book that explores the story of the modern American cowboy through striking photography and the stories behind each image. In his Preface, Allard tells of an old cowboy who spoke of the Montana range when it had “…fewer fences and gates to slow a man down…” Contemplating that, Allard wrote: “There seem to be gates in our lives that we never get open. But if we’re lucky, we have a place, each of us, that is special. Others may see that place differently, of course. They can change it, and they probably will; they can even take it away. But if we love it deeply enough, there is a part of it in us to the end.”
Gates and fences are two things cowboys deal with every day. Metaphorically, regardless of our station in life, we all do. However, there are those special places, unique to each of us, that never require a gate to enter. They are embedded in our souls—places to return to, if only for an instant, for solace and comfort.
Much of my poetry and short stories emanates from my special place: my uncle’s and grandfather’s small cattle ranch outside of Bayfield, CO. In fact, it has served as a gate-free time portal for my love of genealogy and history. My forty years of researching my family lineage began by sitting with my grandmother, looking at old black-and-white polaroids of Bonines and Davies (my grandmother’s family), dating back to the late 1800s. Expanding the ancestral lasso, I roped my mother’s family in my research as well. My special place opened doors to multiple “sub-places” that I otherwise would never have known or used in my writing.
In my short story book, Rocking Chair Tales, eight of the ten stories exist because of the ranch and frontier culture that surrounded not just me and my immediate family, but all my ancestors from England, France, Scotland, and Germany who crossed the Atlantic Ocean to an unknown land and future, searching for a better life and a place with no gates.
Do you have a special place seared into your being, free of gates and fences? If so, embrace it. See it as it was when you first saw it and lived with it. It’s a cherished reminder of a moment when the unexpected happened—a gate in your world opened, a gate to a place that would never be closed again.
Tom
March 2026
Let's Shake On It
Growing up, I would not describe my Dad as an oracle of life-coaching advice. Mostly, the advice he passed on to me was through his demeanor, not words. His polite manners, courteousness, don’t quit—follow through, and an effort to get along were laudable characteristics to emulate. But one piece of advice he did tell me, in no uncertain terms, was, (and I paraphrase):
When you shake a man’s hand, you always look him in the eye and give him a firm grip. That tells him something about you. If nothing else, a sense of respect, sincerity, and being a man of your word can be immediately conveyed. In turn, his grip and mannerisms will tell you something about him.
For some reason, that stuck with me, was applied, and proven true throughout my life.
Handshaking is nothing new to us humans. According to History Retraced, it’s been around since ancient Greece. Historians speculate that an extended open right hand, devoid of a weapon, evoked an overture of peace with strangers or a former adversary. Over the centuries, it became a powerful symbol of love, bonding, acceptance, respect, and friendship. The physical touching that’s evident via numerous variations of handshaking throughout human history is “rooted in real-world examples of people building identity through touch.”
My guess is, most of us give no thought to what I contend is the cultural degrading of the handshake into a ritual pro forma gesture; a minor enhancement of greeting another person. It’s my opinion that the handshake’s true meaning borders on sacred—one that carries the same importance as giving a person your word. Perhaps in modern times, we use it too flippantly, like saying “Hello” and then adding “How are you doing?” In passive greetings, do we honestly care about hearing how someone is really doing? Do they want to tell you about their aches, pains, and life issues? I doubt it.
In five of the ten short stories in Rocking Chair Tales, that importance I speak of above is used eight times; that’s no accident. It is meant to tell the reader something about that character’s foundational self and the trust, love, and respect he has for certain people. It’s a part of what defines the character’s future actions as the story unfolds.
Storytelling can take many forms. In both my narrative poetry and short stories, I try to bring forth some old-fashioned honesty and virtue in my main characters that I find lacking in today’s culture. Whether it’s Marshal Sean McChesney and his gunfighter brother, Ethan, bridging their fifteen-years apart in the story Chosen Trails, or, Earl Palmer, a cowboy who’s badly injured, and trusts his young nephew, Jamie, to ride down the mountain for help, in Jamie’s Ride…the handshakes between them all transcends words, and speaks to their unspoken bonds of family, love, and the trust that's been forged between them.
The handshake: a seemingly simple gesture, brought forth centuries ago, that carries with it part of the essence of human contact. Dad, thanks for the advice.
Tom
April 2026
Thoughts on April
When I think of April, beginnings and endings come to mind.
In my second poetry book, The Chalk Art Collection, a quote I wrote that precedes the poem “Thresholds”, coincidentally, touches on what I consider April’s quandary.
“Life had crossed into death,
And death had crossed into life.
Each pursued its appointed end.
Janus, ever diligent, took notice of both.”
A few days ago, I awakened at 4:30 in the morning with my brain battling the contradictions that April brings. The outcome of said conflict was that April, like the Roman god Janus, also “takes notice of both.”
Much is written about the necessity, even value, of the bad events in life, without which the good would be difficult to recognize and define. There’s a strange, but vital balance between the two: beginnings and endings, the bad and the good.
Our country’s April history includes: the first battle of the American Revelution, the first shots of our Civil War at Fort Sumter, the nightmare of Shiloh, President Lincoln’s assassination, Martin Luther King, Jr’s murder, the Oklahoma City bombing, twelve students murdered at Columbine High School in Colorado, weather related deaths and destruction from Spring storms, and so much more, but too long to list here.
For those thinking that the peak time for suicides is the Christmas holiday season, it’s not—April is. During my six years on the board of Suicide Prevention Services of America, I learned from the staff counselors that during the Christmas season, in the cold, dark loneliness of Winter, those who are in crisis often don’t have the energy to move on their thoughts.
But then, there are those beautiful Spring days in April that all of us have come to cherish. After a long, cold winter, how great it is to see the first crocus and daffodils bloom, or feel the excitement of baseball’s opening day. I’m a life-long Cubs fan…I trust you understand. The religious solemnity and importance of Easter, along with the joyful traditions of family gatherings, the Easter Bunny, colored eggs, and Easter Lilies, are cherished moments and memories. The noisy sounds of nature's creatures dashing about in a primal ritual of renewal and rebirth.
According to history.com, April’s origins are from the Latin “Aprilis,” which may be related to “aperire,” meaning “to open.” Another possibility is the Etruscan word Apru, which is for the Greek goddess of love, beauty, and fertility, Aphrodite. Essentially, April’s ties to rebirth and renewal have endured through the centuries, carried forward from its roots in ancient civilizations to modern day.
When Winter ends and Spring begins, it's the little things in our lives, easily overlooked, that balance the bad with the good. Those little things change with age. Once it was riding a new bike, seeing which team picked me for Little League or Legion baseball, getting a yes when asking a girl to the prom, or seeing the girl for the first time (April 4, 1972), whom I would end up marrying.
Nowadays, what excites me is seeing the first hummingbirds returning to their feeder hanging outside our kitchen window, or the leaves bursting out in the woods behind our house, enclosing us in our own “green wall.” Watching the grandkids in their plays, athletics, music, and other activities, and hearing our children tell us of the ups and downs of their daily routines. Having conversations with friends and extended family members who hold a special place in my life. Cuddling with our two dogs and looking at my wife in surreal amazement at having been together for nearly fifty-three years.
Beginnings and endings, rebirth and renewal. They have been, and will remain, April’s promise. It’s up to us to find and live with the balance.
Allow me to leave you with the following short limerick from my first book, Things That Come To Mind, appropriately titled:
APRIL
Bloom forth the crocus ever bright,
And tulip flowers of yellow light.
They could last longer, but for the habits,
Of hungry little bunny rabbits.
Tom
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