Well, I am on a ball. So I have been considering what I should do with “Death of Neverland ” and the other Novella “Madness & Truth” that I nearly have done. Mind you both are releases from Serena Mossgraves. I have put in a good bit of thought. While I am fine with releasing a Novella for the Kindle as a stand alone, doing such for paperback is not something I feel comfortable with. However, I will release a paperback with both Novellas instead.
Likely to be released around the same time as Madness & Truth. I will do a update closer to the release. I was merely wanting to share the cover idea for now. Madness & Truth should be ready for the editor by the end of June. I will be hopefully able to release it by the end of July. Check back for further information as I am able.
Category: W.I.P.
Poetic license
Recently I asked for advice on my poetry… And it got me thinking. The advice was given that I need to add smilies and metaphors in my poetry, because there is no poetry with out it. Now mind you I added some images, but some poems just do not work with either. I feel like I am missing something by refusing to accept that all poetry must have either of the two options. But, then I start to question… Who is writing the poem?
Yes, I employ both in my poems, but not always. Some poems are just emotions in written form. If all poetry was just comparison then where is the original ideas? Images do not have to be a comparison to be evocative. Sometimes the more you compare the emotional state with something else, the more you lose of the original idea.
Do not get me wrong… I am grateful for the opinions offered, after all it made me look closer at what I was writing and add more imagery. I however am not sure that I am willing to completely change my voice because it doesn’t fit another person’s idea of what poetry should be.
What do you expect when you read poems? Which of the poetry styles /rules are a hard and fast thing for you? Please do respond. I would love to discuss this idea further.
The Junkyard Zombie
They are definitely not your average family. They live in a junkyard. And they are a big family. But when the dead walk, well, they handle it. Survive first. Figure out why later.
Meet Chris Robinson, former marine special forces, and his family. Shara, his 13 year old daughter. Amara, his wife. Tara, former navy seal, and Lizzie, scientist, his younger sisters. The rest of the family are there but as the dead start to get their rotting asses back up, how many will remain?
Will they be able to figure out the why? And what caused the dead to walk???
*picture for inspiration only. Found on Google *
An introduction to the castle on the Island of Truth
The castle has been there for two millennia, home to beauty and tragedy. Most of it’s history has been revealed, or so it is believed. Built of solid stone, blood and sweat. Dreams of happiness hide in the darkened corners inhabited by the ghosts of the castles grisly history.
Lovingly restored before it drove it’s owner insane. Now, a group of ghost hunters seek to explore the castle and discover the secrets that lie within. Five go in, how many will survive? And will they have their sanity in the end?
Keep an eye out for information on Madness and Truth. By Serena Mossgraves.
planning and prompted writing
I have been writing more lately. This is a good thing. my poetry is flowing. And the stories are trying to do the same. this is where my issue is. I am not a planner when I write. So when I have a dozen stories vying for space in my mind and am only one person…. well it means that I get so far in a story and lose track of where it should go. which is entirely frustrating. Planning the story only causes me to loose focus quicker. I am not saying this to whine. it is just the way that I am.
So I am feeling that frustration with my current story and I set a deadline with my editor. What that means is something ends up being forgotten in my struggle to make the story fall into line. For me… I am sorry to say… it has been this blog. I wanted to apologize for this. I will likely be lax in posting until I am finished with this one and sent to the editor. I hope that you understand and return to see me after the 27th.
Next Time You See Me
The next time you see me
I will have changed,
Even if it is only a day
In between.
The next time you see me
My views of the world
Will have taken me
Down places that I may not
Even be able to explain.
The next time
you see me
Wish me well,
As I will you…
For you can never know
When the next time
You see me will
Be our last.
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.
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!
Pattimouse 
