• Current Projects!

    The Pastime Machine
    An ongoging novel in sonnets roasting Wells, Dante, & more!

    I'm translating this dark classic Spanish game to English.

  • Suggested Reading

    Final Failure: Eyeball to Eyeball
    Zen of the Dead - cover

    Grim Series: poems
    edge of the pond
  • Brief Bio

    A 2-term past president of the WFOP, 4-time Origins-winning game designer, and former HWG JavaScript teacher, retired from educational publishing to produce poetry, fiction, & games via Popcorn Press.

  • Featured Products

    Role-play in your favorite novels with the D6xD6™ RPG!

    Sword fight with a specially illustrated poker deck!

  • Other Card Games…

    Monster Con card game
    Invasion of the Saucer People card game
    Wolf Man's Curse card game
  • Poetry

    George Gordon Byron, 6th Baron ByronIn 1985, a British Romantic Period Literature class changed my life. The poetry of Byron, Shelley, and Keats wakened in me a passion for writing. I determined to somehow make a career of it—and somehow feed my children.

    Since then I’ve worked exclusively in publishing, first for game companies, now in education. I also continue to write, study, and promote poetry. It’s my opinion that poetry used to belong to the people, until academics stole it. It’s high time to steal it back from them.

    Last Flight of a Vickers Gun Bus Pilot

    Lester : November 22, 2014 1:51 pm : Poetry
    Vickers Gun Bus

    Last Flight of a Vickers Gun Bus Pilot

    Arthur’s knights took horse and squire to slay
    their foes. I ride a bloody kite; a silly
    boy up front to man my gun. The sly
    Boche fly Eindeckers today. This slow
    F.B.9 can’t pace them as they slue

    from side to side, shooting our wings to lace.
    And now my gunner’s tendered up his lease
    on life. I’d land, but Jerry’s thick as lice
    below. A passing Hun laughs, “Vas ist los?”
    arcs back, and turns his twin-mount Spandaus loose.

    —Lester Smith

    (originally published in Verse Wisconsin 104)

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    California Girlfriend

    Lester : November 12, 2014 11:35 am : Poetry


    California Girlfriend

    My California girlfriend loved to dance,
    gyrate, and grind. But I was young, and dense;
    I didn’t catch on. I would shout, “The din’s
    too loud in this club crowd!” Now, too late, it dawns
    just what she wanted. I was such a dunce.

    I preferred the beach—the surf, the sand.
    And even there her salty kiss would send
    my breath away. Somehow, I never sinned
    with her—I never got it—though the sound
    of her low moans engulfed me as we sunned.

    She dumped me. So I’m left here with these “didn’ts,”
    trying to reclaim her in this sonnet.

    —Lester Smith

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    Why Sandpoint?

    Lester : September 17, 2014 11:10 am : Announcements, Poetry

    Yesterday, via social media and Kickstarter updates, I mentioned that daughter Kate and I are working up a “Blood Type” short story for this year’s Halloween celebration anthology, Halloween Haiku II and other hauntings.

    Here’s the first line: “The day Sandpoint, Idaho, died, Garrett Cully left work early.”

    One of our D6xD6 RPG backers asked, “Why Sandpoint?” (Turns out his wife’s family lives there.) As that setting chapter will soon show, Sandpoint is a perfect choice for the horror campaign my wife and daughter conceived of.

    As luck would have it, the city also made an appearance in a poem I wrote back in 2006, an attempt at free verse:

    It’s Happy Hour Somewhere

    At 5:25 p.m. in Los Angeles,
    the Trumpster (in town for an evening)
    rises from a trim and invites
    his busty stylist to drinks and lobster

    Meanwhile, in Wisconsin,
    I hold the phone, and a tequila,
    while my mother’s voice cajoles
    me to write something
    (outside this east window,
    snow dunes
    glowing in moonlight).

    And at a checkpoint east of Baghdad,
    a boy from Sandpoint,
    Idaho, coaxes five blood-spattered children
    from the backseat
    of a family
    car that would not

    While in Calcutta,
    Mother Teresa’s ghost
    rises with the sun, and walks
    a flowerless path to the leprosarium.

    —Lester Smith

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