Uncategorized

Book Promotion – Shadow of the Raven by: Millie Thom — A Good Book is Hard to Find

Shadow of the Raven is the first book of the Sons of Kings trilogy. It is historical fiction, set in the Anglo Saxon kingdoms and Danish lands during the turbulent and violent years of the mid ninth century. A tale of Viking raids, ill-fated thralls, noble kings and their sons, and friendship and love. But above […]

via Book Promotion – Shadow of the Raven by: Millie Thom — A Good Book is Hard to Find

Standard
poems, Writing

Depth

You are like this at least once a day, if not more,
drifted away from this life into your “mindscapes”
I like admiring you from my corner;
your full lips locked in a absorbed pucker
your brow risen yet relaxed in meditative thought.
I try to memorize these occasions of observing you,
You have told me you don’t mind, but who am I kidding,
You don’t know I exist in these moments,
Even if I am only a few feet away from you.
Yet, I do not mind,
For it is in these quite times,
When I am hidden away
From your conscience and sight
Where I can truly perceive the depth of you

Standard
Rhyme

Poetic haze

poetic

You probably already know
Of tough, bough, cough, and dough.

Some may stumble, but not you
On hiccough, thorough, plough and through.

Beware of heard, an awkward word:
It looks like beard but sounds like “bird”!

Watch out for meat and great and threat;
They rhyme with suite and straight and debt.

And here is not a match of there
Nor dear and fear for bear and pear.

And then there’s dose and rose and lose,
But watch that “s” in goose and choose!

It’s cork but work, and card but ward;
And font but front, and word but sword;

let your tongue lick like a flame setting ears a blaze
leaving all to bask in such poetic haze

A dreadful language, full of tricks
I mustered it when I was six …

But With every lamenting fiber,
My only patrons are purely cyber.

Standard
Writing

Writing awakens my Soul

Golden

When I think of my writing – not the things but the act, something inside me becomes small.
I see a tiny precious box hovering in the darkness.
I cradle the little object in my hands, and gently peel back the sides with the utmost of care.
As each edge of the box is exposed, it folds back on itself and the folding is repeated and before I know it this little preciousness has become a smaller and smaller dance.
My shoulders and arms form a protective ark, curling themselves round the object, and I know that in this peeling I am falling in an ever decreasing infinitude.
Caught in this detail, investigation, tension, I long to reach the true opening of the box – the thing that is held within.
Perhaps a white bird could be discovered and would slip through my hands, the prison-like enclosure that my body has become.
Out of this center, the heart, a freeing and flying, something beautiful emerges and at the end I am relinquished from this tiresome pursuit.

Standard