I am pleased to announce that I found an illustrator for Bedtime Tales: The Princess Lost. Her name is Shannon Alyce Riddle. I look forward to publication soon. I will keep you updated.
Category: published
Originally written to respond to status on Facebook.
Since you see the darkness
that surrounds,
Your eyes are wide.
But in your disdain
You judge…
Not that I think you wrong,
Yet still it seems that
Judgment taints you.
Paints you,
With a brush of hatred formed.
See their actions
And look away,
For sadly you may
Never understand
That which drives them
To hate.
Hide disdain and sneering glares,
For tis themselves
Their hate brings down.
You are better
For not being involved,
For not allowing yourself
To them to devolve.
Discipline
Nary a thought
to organization,
Not one to abide
Micro managing
My time.
As long as I do
Does it matter when?
Or can it be late
When my mind refuses
To quiet at all?
Or early morning
As I watch the dawn?
Discipline in my work
Is not the same as
For another.
For me know that I
am doing.
And it is enough.
Caught in song
there is a song for
each heart that has ever
touched themselves to mine.
playing in the theatre in
my often troubled mind.
Joy nor sadness truly reigns,
as heart rending is often queen.
faces with songs exist
long after emotion and name
have fallen prey to time.
such power these sounds have
to long after romance has died
still bring the heart to tears.
what allows another to see the moment
before it has come to be,
so well to write the words and notes
that will eternally haunt the mind
remembering pain and joy in the moment?
is the muse so cruel
that the songs
that tug
the heartstrings
are but inspiration
and quick pen?
the moments caught and held
meant to entertain the masses
end up breaking the heart.
Waken and weep
Sleep is a dangerous thing
Hidden from me yet again.
Elusive as a butterfly
Once caught on the wind,
Drifting endlessly away.
Stress and worry
Steals easily,
Peace of mind
Leaking away
Like water through
A broken pipe.
Even when reached
No guarantee of peace
In the ever elusive sleep,
For sometimes all that occurs
Is merely to waken…
Waken and weep.
R.I.P. to so many
So many bright
Flickering pinpricks
Of brightly shining lights.
Just this year have quietly
Been doused into the
Darkness of the ever after.
For them eternity has begun,
But for those who remain?
More and more of this drizzling
Grim and lonely rain.
For just a moment,
The light of their talent
Allowed us reprieve
From the pain.
Off to the eternal
So many this year.
Leaving only
To shed a tear.
Write
So your in pain?
Stop thinking.
Just start writing
The first things
That come to mind
Continue till you can
Completely clear your mind.
Clean it up later.
Don’t structure.
Just write.
It’s difficult to write?
Only because you make it so.
Writing doesn’t have
to make sense.
It is merely a way
for the heart to bleed
emotional poison
into a form that
Your mind can process
and comprehend.
You have problems
with getting what
Is in your head
onto the paper?
Because you worry
Too much about
writing it perfect.
Write crap.
Push gibberish
on the page….
Then later.
After you have
had time.
Then edit.
Pretty it.
Squeeze your soul
From gibberish tossed
Carelessly to the page.
The voice of a rose
This is the second time I have tried to do this post. My Facebook friends list is filled with writer’s. I did that on purpose. I surrounded myself on social media with writer’s and artists and crafty people, so i no longer felt as alone. This morning, one of the writer’s, Author T L Grey, posed a question. As she posted two pictures with it…one of her (a truly lovely woman) and one of a soft white rose with pink edges….I doubt that she wanted the answer I gave her. The question? “If a rose could speak, what would it say?” My response? “That it was dying and missed it’s bush. The loneliness was unbearable.” Well at first she responded Carpe diem. Then she changed it to read “Why be one of several upon a bush instead of singled out and appreciated in the small space of time in which to bloom? The bush will bloom more flowers but this one particular flower has only a small time in which to shine.” I found this as thought provoking as the original question, and a bit telling. So I responded…”While that is true, most do focus on the ways that they are different. To their own detriment. The question was what a rose would say. I have always thought it sad that to enjoy a flower we have to kill it. So i hear the sadness of it’s own imminent demise. I hear regret that the rose did not appreciate the beauty of being a part of the bush until the bush was no longer there. Thus I hear loneliness.”
Now understand please that I do realize the fact that my response was slightly morbid. However her question wasn’t what we hear from the rose’s unique beauty. It wasn’t what does the rose symbolize. So I spoke what I feel any living thing would feel as they die. Death is usually a morbid topic.
As to her statement about being just another on the bush? Well have you ever seen a rose bush up close? No two roses are exactly alike. So it is a riotous community of individuality. I lived in a place once with three bushes. They were amazing. I admit the question and resulting conversation was an inspiration for me. So i did what my weird little poetic heart does. I did another poem for my latest volume. And because I can, I am sharing it with you…..
The voice of a rose
The voice of the rose
Depends on the ear
That hears and it’s
point of view.
The choice of a
Listening heart,
As to hear such
As sadness,
Adventure or
romantic speech.
None less valid,
Each in their own
Way right.
For why can
The voice of the rose
Not be as complex
as the Heart of man.
*her rose*
*I found this one on Google. *
Borderline
The razor’s edge
Splitting me in two.
Moments of clarity,
Only one or two.
Twisted within
my sanity…
Trying to piece
Together the mind
That sleep left behind.
Every minute
that passes
Eternity in need,
Seeking a restful deed.
No cause for concern,
Even as the clock hands
Twist and swirl,
Naught left to do
On this tilt a whirl.
Sweet sandman return
To refresh my brain,
So i can be just
Myself again!
Life Drops
As life drops down
A cheek profound,
I can’t help this longing.
I am sinking,
Writing songs not to be
Sung or even passed along.
Closing my eyes
To hide a pain
Deep down
Alone again.
Sleep to faint
A distant dream,
Silence fades
As noise fills the head,
Noise that shows
I’m not dead.
Pattimouse 