Thursday, April 30, 2009

Responsive Poetry: Grits!?! Del Cano and Moi!

Love My Grits

Grits, they say with a start
as if they are a foreign treat
I love to have them with other food
in deeming them very good to eat.

Could care less when they react
like when they turn up their nose
Seems they never gave them a chance
but I can only guess or suppose.

I like grits as a side dish
often add a few chunks of cheese
and no matter what they have to say
they go down slow and with such ease.

You go a head and laugh
I'll enjoy my grits to a tee
whenever you refuse to a new taste
imagine grits are a pleasure to me.

Del Cano April 20, 2009

Grits and Bear 'em!

I well remember that first time
Grits were placed there in my face
It was eggs over easy I liked fine
But these eggs set in my place?!

Eggs over easy to my way of thinkin'
Was eggs turned over keeping the yellow soft
But these eggs were sliming and slinkin'
O'er half my plate, running buff!

Movin' toward what looked to me
Thrown up milk from one of my kitties
It merged with the slimy runny eggs
Whole plate was white, was this just a tease?

Taking a chance I peeked at my sis
But she was talking and eating fine
Scrambled eggs and toast, heavenly bliss
All I could wish, that plate was mine!

Looked across the table, friend noticed me
Do you know what that is, I was asked.
Shaking my "no" begging her "please?"
"Why that there's grits, dear, corn that's smashed!"

In a public restaurant, my Mom would' ve said "eat"
But with those runny eggs and rambling corn
Not getting sick would be my great feat!
I sat back on my chair, hungry, forlorn...

Just then our waitress must have saw my face
"Not done 'nuf, honey? No grits for you today?"
Almost in tears, I nodded with grace
"Scramble them please, and grits? No Way!"

G. A. Bixler, April 30, 2009


Thanks so much for all who shared their poetry. When Spencer sent me this one, I just knew I had my own story on grits to tell! I was my sister's "model" when she took her test for beauty school. We were having breakfast on the first day...all her friends who were going to be tested and their models. There were about ten sitting around a big table and I was the youngest. I can still remember my feelings when I had that plate set in front of me. I knew I shouldn't make a fuss, and the school was paying for our meal so I felt I should eat it...

Well, Spencer, seeing those running grits invading those slimy runny eggs...put me off grits...for life! And I think of that time every time my sister, Dee, and I go out to eat breakfast and she orders...grits... Not for me, Please!


Poets, I welcome poetry throughout the please feel free to share with me any time!

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Hamid...and Irving...Share More of Their Words!



basanti shawls
yellow paper kites
in mustard fields


Every time
I doze -
Buddha opens his eyes


Sky weeps
Colours -
Autumn leaves


a shrine
chanting smoke
under Peepal


a pale sun
green grape vines
a soggy wall

Hamid Yazdani



Something disturbs the night’s darkness,
the winking lights,
the sidewalk’s shine from an earlier rain.
A window’s reflection,
the haunting other self brings an inner darkness,
weightless, yet weighty with disquietude,
a brush against a black cat,
the doleful call from an unknown quarter,
The dark voice of my other self morphs into sadness without music,
the heaviness of living.
--Irving A. Greenfield

Tuesday, April 28, 2009

SOULFUL SHEE M. G. In Purple Passion Highlighted Today as Guest Poet

A beginning introduction is needed for today's poet...anybody who meets her at Authors Den will immediately gravitate to her words, her feelings, her love...I share two of her deeper poems with you here and note that she continues in narrative as well...but go reread at A/D if these touch you, by clicking on the title, as she has music selected to go with each poem... Beautiful!!! Feel the Passion!

* Strong meaning meant here for those whose spirits feel worn down, and not understood, you are heard and loved...

Depression Lurks in My Soul
WITHOUT It Creations Would NOT be Found

Within me
depression lurks
oh you don't believe me
well chocolate is my antidote

too much and it can hurt

Depression use to be strong
years ago
till I let that weight of a fellow go
where he wanted, who knows

Depression made me sleep a lot
made me feel fatigued and sap
all the energy I was wrought
so don't tell me depression was not my down-slot

It took me in the drainage of hell
I climbed back up from all the swill
fresh air revived me right quick
the Lord did his best with me,

as I would assist

Depression is a bummer
pulls you down like a strong plunger
quenching your mighty endeavors
it's like a sword to your chest,

not giving you any rest

Depression can zap you of life
if you let it pull you down into more strife
do what you can to rescue YOU
your spirit is waiting for you too.

Copyright ♥ © S. M. G.
Apr. 23, 09


Ideas that may help, before/with medication

and a Dr.'s assistance, before it's too late!

Daily spiritual talks with the Lord!
God Bless YOU as you do!

A fresh walk in sunshine and even rain
the cleansing will wash away your inner pains.

Fresh water daily is a sure cure
as much as your body can endure.

Talk and writing, painting, gardening,

cooking, bike riding, any movement
will make your spirit proud.

I wish you the best in all you do
to bring a lasting happiness to you.
And, Those patient around you too!

* This is to "THOSE" feeling this!
Your heart will know and want to express...



This is the BEST Poem I've Ever Written!
(Brought me to tears, He sure has His ways to get across an important meaning, Jesus sure does)!

A final closing of the dark curtain
befalls on those of once certain of knowing
strong energy spirit still seeking
while caring people continue crying

The end all to what was
a soul laying there just because
feelings in one's mind run amok
wanting this lovely presence to wake up

As their spirit will now rest
their face in frame you hold close
to your breast
reading the eulogy to all guests

Your own strength you invest
causing you weakness you begin to express
everyone's eyes you try to process
loneliness is all you caress

An empty longing is met
you begin to look forward to the bright sunsets
your life is now your only asset
when you awake to push away lasting regrets

Your memories all cast into a vast net
to society you feel a weighed-down debt
I am here to say
don't fret

The more you begin to connect
the transferred sadness you will soon forget
to share with others will feel like kismet
as much needed love you will get.

Copyright ♥ © S. M. G.

Can I just say: IF you are close to someone and you inside LOVE THEM ( but have a hard time showing or telling them) PLEASE go and visit and give a hug, the rest will follow! Grab a bus or ride a bike... but SHOW THEM! When they pass on, there is NO 2nd chances!!! And... YOU find yourself thinking of them and your own chances and it's too damn LATE! * I wish I saw my mom and took her out MORE than only 1 time a month. She only lived 20 minutes. from me, and I let MY DAD stop me, because of his STUPID demands on HER time! I SHOULD HAVE USED MY DETERMINATION and NOT LET HIS WORDS GET TO ME OR HER! I LOVE YOU MOM! and Grandma too, and I MISS YOU Both! and PAPA! MOM, if "YOU" were here, I would cook a meal for you and we would be smiling, YOU too, Mae Mae, I would still be digging and replanting your garden - New owners now, Or I still would! GO SEE THE ONE YOU LOVE! OR CALL! OR EVEN WRITE! a memory that will last "THEM" and YOU, but a HUG is the BEST of all!

Monday, April 27, 2009

Love...and Hate... Consider the Powerful Words of Peter J. Oszmann

A Jew nailed to the cross.

“If you don't find God in the next person you meet, it is a waste of time looking for him further.” -Mahatma Gandhi (1869-1948)

He was not born to be king, not born to be God,
Not born to be a saint and not born to be “odd,”
He was just a humble Man, a Jew.
He was mild and meek mannered, gentle as a dove,
He wanted to teach mankind the meaning of love,
For the meaning of love He knew.

What’s the price of love? Thirty pieces of silver,
Greasing the palms of a close, well beloved traitor?
Love seems just like an albatross
Tied around the neck, ready to choke you, to kill.
When you love, you love. Be ready to pay the bill.
He died. A Jew nailed to the cross.

Did He go up to heaven? Sit by the side of God?
Sceptre in the one hand and in the other the Rod?
Fact? Or a legend with a gloss?
Blood covered the cross, through palms and feet went the nail,
That’s what the world was told, what’s described in the tale;
He died. A Jew nailed to the cross.

Whom do we cry for in His fate? The Jew? The Man?
Was there a Divine will? Was there a Divine plan?
Did He save mankind on the cross?
Is the world cleansed of sin? Are we better today?
Do we know what is right? Do we follow His way?
Is religion a double-cross?

Two thousand years had passed; the world’s no better place,
All the ugliness Jewish blood could not erase.
Did He die in vain on the cross?
Spilled blood soils the Earth; God’s face must be turned away.
Curse sits on Man’s soul; we stumbled and lost our way,
Lost in a deep slumber, in doss.

Two thousand years on He is on trial once more,
In camps like Auschwitz was He victim or saviour?
Mass graves are now covered with moss…
Lest we forget, let us now uncover the graves,
Let us look again at the shaven-headed slaves,
All “filthy” Jews… nailed to the cross…

All the cruel deeds of the past cannot be undone,
Only love can save our souls, not the blazing gun.
Carnage God would never applaud.
Maybe I am stupid, I cannot understand
Why “holy” men fight “holy” wars in “holy” land,
In the most holy name of God.

Remove the nails from His flesh, set the cross on fire,
Forget the crescent moon, the stars; bring out the lyre.
Sing ‘bout love we all understand.
Dispel ignorance; bring God from heaven to Earth,
Let Him walk amongst us, show the way to rebirth,
To bring us peace in all the land.

© P. J. Oszmann (2003)

Alluring Illusion…


Wrapped in a knitted blue shawl, looking cold,
Forlorn, towards me silently she comes;
Her wind-blown hair has a shine like wheat-gold
And with tearful eyes a sad song she hums.

Like a tired old woman she moves slowly,
Like a sinner seeking sacred pardons,
On her shoulders, shawl and hair breezily
Carries the scents of exotic gardens.
She stops in front of me, falls in my arms,

Hugs me, greets me with a passionate kiss;
Her body is warm and vibrant with charms,
Holding, kissing her is ultimate bliss…
This is a dream-come-true I would not miss…
And I have no idea who she is…

© P. J. Oszmann (2006 Translated and reworked from one of my unfinished Hungarian poems of c. 1951)


I met Peter on Authors Den, I think the first time was to present a differing opinion for a poem such as the one I selected to post above. As I have found online through meeting so many different people, discrimination still exists here in America--and yet, we can come together to read and discuss our different beliefs... I may not totally agree with Peter's first poem above, but I know that God's love is with us both!

Please reread Peter's quote above by Mahatma Gandhi

Review: Was Jones An Angel?

The Noticer
By Andy Andrews
Thomas Nelson
ISBN: 978159555218I
167 Pages

Andy Andrews has told us part of his own story in The Noticer which is available today, April 27 and I, along with other Thomas Nelson Book Review Bloggers are sharing our reviews simultaneously! Cool, right?!!

Before I went back to reread the email regarding the book, I was going to say that the main character, Jones, was an angel. Perhaps he was, for he certainly spoke as if he were an angel. He seemed to appear and disappear, exactly when people needed him. And then there was the fact that different people called him by different names, including Garcia by Hispanic people and Chen by the Chinese. Others weren’t sure whether he was black or white—but it really didn’t seem to matter. So, was the old man who came to see Andy Andrews, when he was homeless, living under a pier, an angel? I like to think so, but it really isn’t important. What we do know was that he was sent by, and used by, God, to make a difference in many lives.

Jones watched people, and came to know them, know their names, their needs. He said, “I am a noticer...I notice things that other people overlook. And you know, most of them are in plain sight.” (p. 6) So when he found the young man, crying, he extended his hand and invited him out, “into the light.”

After they had shared and become more acquainted, Jones opened an old tattered suitcase and he produced three books, about great people. And then, soon, he came back with three more books. This was repeated again and again, while the young man read of the lives and sometimes despair of others, and began to look at his own life...from a different perspective.

At the same time, Jones visited other people there in the small town: the one who was considering suicide or the old lady in her 70’s who felt her life was over and she was just waiting to die. And then there was the man who ran his business with no concern for quality, ethics, his customers or even his employees. One after the other, Jones was there to talk about what he noticed about their lives and help them see them from a different perspective.

And, then, many years later, Jones was gone! All they found was the old suitcase that he had carried continuously, sitting in the road . . .

Many are saying this is the best book they have read in their lives. The Noticer can be picked up by anyone and, more than likely, will find that one or more of the life stories will speak to them in a personal way. I know I did. In many ways, the now-common question, “What Would Jesus Do?” is answered when Jones arrives, although The Noticer itself is not really written as a Christian self-help book; it will speak to anybody that just needs a “little perspective” to look closely in the mirror without guilt, regret or judgment.

Only you, having read my review, will The Noticer by Andy Andrews a must-read for YOU?

G. A. Bixler

Saturday, April 25, 2009

Highlighting a Poem By Jeffrey Petit-Bois

my name is Jeffrey Petit-Bois and i too want to be a poet so i support you a 110 percent, lol, a little something from my works .....

The heart of man can be considered

divine but an unfinished monument

pushing his master to scandalize

the laws of life for personal desires.

the heart of man is a temple filled

of gypsies and bare bohemians

Near across a large bed of sins

but tell me who would believe of this ?

The heart of man is a sacred object

that of good wills possessed none

it is a steel blade

which never stops hurting others.

April 1, 2009


On the very first day of the month Jeffrey submitted this poem as a comment. I placed a return comment, hoping that he would come back and share another...Sooooo, out there, somewhere, Jeffrey, thank you so much for allowing me to share this! I think you have a future with your poetry! Come share more if you wish!

Friday, April 24, 2009

Dan Kantak Presents "Numbers"


As a child
my kitchen had no walls
and everything ranged
in big bubbling pots of
winter, spring, summer, autumn,
peas, carrots, corncob days
husked, rising to the surface
in the golden bullion

of universal soup.
Numbers. Numbers. Numbers,
numbers were something

I wanted more than anything.
Wanted ten shopping carts

filled with ice cream.
Wanted sixteen cases of orange soda.
Wanted to be eighteen—

then twenty one.
Wanted five girlfriends and

two more for the weekend.
Wanted the power of numbers.
More was magic, majestic, and magnificent.
I never understood the numbers

in my parent's heart.
The endless trying to make

two plus two equal five.
Didn’t know that numbers

could numb and murder the soul.
That the Judas tree of numbers

can have countless limbs
and still give no shade under the finite sun.

Now as a man of numbers
the weight of my ledger
middling in years, thinning of hair
records my loss and my gain and
I realize that love and life are singular.
Now I long for one true thought.
One poem that braves enough to be.
One person whom I can be infinite with.
One is so rare a number.

© 2009 Dan Kantak

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Review: Robin McGraw Shares Guidance to Women

What’s Age Got To Do With It?
By Robin McGraw
Thomas Nelson
ISBN: 9781400202140
218 Pages

I really didn’t know what What’s Age Got To Do With It? By Robin McGraw was going to cover, so when I realized that it included a lot of information on hairstyles, makeup, clothes, I put it aside at first. When I review this kind of book, I read it differently—I take it a chapter at a time...and I’m glad that I did! There is a wealth of material available to the readers and I recommend that this book be purchased for your personal library so that it can become a permanent resource for you. The emphasis on achieving and maintaining good health will make this a valuable reference for women at any age.

Many will automatically recognize Robin; however, if you don’t, she is the wife of Dr. Phil McGraw and she attends every show! You will most definitely see her as she and Phil leave together. Beautiful Woman! Because she is beautiful, and because of her active role in this show, she receives a lot of feedback, questions and comments from fans of the show. My guess is that, by now, she has her own base of fans.

What’s Age Got To Do With It? is all about women. Readers will quickly grasp that Robin has a great passion to help women and enthusiastically answer their questions. In fact, the book evolved out of the many emails she received and many are included in the book. Each chapter includes a personal narrative by Robin, giving lots of background about her personal trials and mistakes, which help to lend credibility and warmth—being willing to admit to having made bad hair decisions, and having to live with them, for instance, is not something we women normally are willing to do—we want to forget our mistakes! Each chapter also includes submitted questions that are answered by the set of experts who have assisted her in writing the book. And spotted throughout are “Robin’s Rx boxes which contains interesting little tips.

I found the chapter on hormones the most beneficial; however, each woman is bound to discover something meaningful to her as she discusses women’s issues from head to toe! Here are some highlights that I especially found beneficial:
· “I wanted to share what I was learning and help them [women] understand that taking care of yourself and becoming an active manager of the body which God has give you isn’t selfish—it’s essential. (p. 4)
· Women need “me-time” and must ensure it happens!
· Exercise can reduce risk of major diseases, such as cancer, diabetes, osteoporosis, etc.
· A surprising side effect of too much sugar? Wrinkles!
· A sample menu for 14 days is included!
· Examine skin each month for brown spots and follow up if needed!
· Read about/research bio-identical versus synthetic hormones!
· Deflate puffiness around eyes by . . .
· Big purses (and backpacks for kids) are not always healthy—they can create back, neck and shoulder strain!
· Find clothes that are both fashionable...and comfortable!
· How will I know – will Jesus call me on the phone? (p. 209)
· Accept your age and work to keep your body God’s temple.
· It is not selfish to be an active manager and nurturer of what God has given you.

If you see anything in this review that you find interesting...then I have no hesitation. Buy and add this book to your personal reference library! What’s Age Got To Do With It? by Robin McGraw is sensitively written so that you feel like you and Robin are discussing personal issues—and she’s not going to embarrass you, ‘cause she’s be telling her own stories right along with you. It’s time to read this if you are 20 and above!

G. A. Bixler
IP Book Reviewer

What You Need To Know About Publishing Today

What You Need To Know About Publishing Today

Donna Erickson, a member of LinkedIn, posted this for authors...

I am sharing as an author alert!

Highlighting The Poetry of Chantilly Lace

To Catch a Dream

As footsteps pound the forest floor
on a path towards a heart's dream
will he have the courage of introduction
can his nerves bear the burden of rejection
shall he collapse be his heart’s final demise

In the distance he sees her majestic approach
thighs of strength ripple in stride
slight rise and fall of muscled orbs
tiny beads of purified angelic sweat
coat skin darkened by nature’s rays
a goddess in form and style

As the distance closes between them
so closes the moment of his fate
hollowness fills his insides
moisture escapes his lips and tongue
his heart beats fast though not from strain
but from a moment filled with fear

Doubt courses through his pounding veins
what comments might flow across savored lips
will automation devour his shyness
might he speak and no words come forth
dare he risk failing at introduction
as she closes his soul begins to scream

The moment is finally upon him
now or never his chance to choose
stopping he catches a chance to breathe
pausing to deliver a pretentious rest
closer comes his heart's desire
steady becomes his bursting nerves

Excuse me is his trembled word
does the lady run here often
as she stops to respond to hunted question
his legs they barely sustain his weight
to pass out becomes his bashful wish
till words ease from gentle lips

With a voice like nature’s softest breeze
she grants him a response while running still
I’ve seen you here most often
we seem to share a common thrill
would you care to run beside me
to share a moment and this peaceful air

She wipes his beaded forehead
fingers gently caress his ear
in her eye he sees a wanting
first a smile then a gentle kiss
a whisper not caught at the moment
her face absorbs his attention

Has the gods felt his desperation
have they granted his heart's request
can it be his wish has final fulfillment
as she runs his legs have no movement
wait is the word he manages to shout
a scream so loud he is awakened
and in his pillow he begins to pout

© Nine/ Twelve/ Two Thousand Eight
Chantilly Lace


Birth of Man’s Endearment

Lying upon the dampened earth
I inhale one’s first breaths of life
hands clench both leaves and dirt
feet scrape tracks through grasses green
to crawl is my life’s first commencement
wonderment my mind’s infiltrating fire

What is this place from where I rise
as terror engulfs the depths of mind
strange are the things encompassing me
as eyes become clear of earth's debris
fear and wonderment invade my soul
riding upon waves of emotions and thoughts

Strange is this thing that touches me
that which can be felt but left unseen
it moves all that surrounds un-noticed
drying the dampness from my being
giving pleasure for reasons unknown
causing a curve to my lips from happiness

Warm is the feeling upon bare skin
from the glow so high over head
all seem to turn towards its enjoyment
basking gently in its radiant heat
to one’s vision it’s a stunning blindness
yet to one’s heart a needed contentment

Urges soon create my intention
as I rise and take my first stand
though I wobble I soon become strengthened
stretching limbs towards the glowing sky
my first steps are finally taken

I explore myself and things that create attention
Instinct is my only means of guidance
thirst’s end sought from a nearby brook
I first fear then enjoy my reflection
cupped hands allow the consumption of water
the want for more pulls me into its depths
I submerge to the song of tickling bubbles

As I leave this wetness of enchantment
I see another which is much like me
the same though we bear a difference
I shy and dash towards the sheltered distance
the voice of intrigue beckoning me back
curiosity a feeling in need of an answer

Slowness becomes our heart's inspection
I surrender to out-stretched yearning arms
as we close I feel my soul enlightened
we touch and I feel the security of togetherness
in his eye’s I see a heart's desire
completeness is all he seems to wear

Hand in hand we explore this garden
he teaches what isn’t known
laughter escapes from feelings alive
giddiness soon turns to caring
time slips past communication’s trials
till our first moments end at daylight’s eve.

© Ten/ Thirty-one/ Two Thousand Eight
Chantilly Lace

I enjoy reading Chantilly Lace at Authors Den...Join her there by clicking the title of this article!

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

anessa blaine highlighted poet for today!

When asked about herself on Authors Den, where I met her, I loved and copied what today's poet said:

boo radleys and quasimodos.
the beauty of words is enough....
fascinated by anything but myself.
rain and crayons.......

i really hate writing about myself;
id prefer to be incognito. .
so i guess some points::::
i am terribly uncurably romantic and hellenistic. ..
in my opinion, every thing
should have a scar or a workable beautiful flaw... .. ..
i write just for the words to have a home.. ....
my art is more a cathartic;
a cathartic chrysalis. ..i really just want some peace. ..
[[and maybe some rachmaninov/alice in chains, a croft in the highlands, and some long winded aesthetic conversation]]. . .

Here are some of her words...she allowed me to select the ones I wanted! Rated PG by author...

i cannot silence the beauty of this night

i cannot silence the beauty of this night

my throat cries a velvet sound
that stems from an alazarin sky
waterfalling in a wintery voice;
speak to me so that i might soar of stars
and skim new moons and maybe once, sing for you.

the earth is then a softer amazing grace.

lullaby’d by the rippling wind, love undresses
me before the eyes of simple belief: crafted and cut
like snowflakes. . .
and i descend gently with the desire
that echoes between words of forever
and ever; i single out your sigh
among all the other trembling branches,
to shudder with another
and in my body, there lies evidence
of where you touched everywhere,
before.... .. ..small dimples,
deep valleys and the one shade: a deeper,
darker hue of you.

play me your song of shadows and adorn me
in crystal st.rings of icicling obsidian.
spring cannot be far off.
. ...
hum against my nakedness,
and i beg, draw your lips to shape a wonder,
warm me like summer,

make me the night full as a heaven
of angels, fragile
in their feathery flight.
and from my flavour forge a river that gorges
in grandeur.. teach tender
with your ribbonfingers and spirits
to my soul, to drift
its faith, in you, like a lost leaf whispers
the gnostics of bliss begun, beneath, as i lay,
entangled and smiling under your repose.. .suppose
my frame
as your shelter
and hide from all you fear.
sink through the folds, moonlit fields as such, of this
to where my two.lips can speak only
your kisses, and remain still...
still, until
all the world sleeps, requited
of our eclipsing delighted
garden.. . of our hands

close upon the secret hours
and hold such flowers, even hidden
with snow; cold and shivering, they burn
yearning to find the sun
and unfurl like psalms riveted by the glow
of what i have found in you; anew within

the truth of
such an unspoken moment, as i am open.eyed but
asleep; for you come as a dream, folded and foot.stepped
and i am blooming as your dark snowangel,
your morning’s slow revealing glory

and you have bound me to this sacred ground.
reaped in me such warmth.
of such love.
as only you could grow.


i give him me



wet and curled,
i toss and burn in placebo abandon
and lull myself into sleep. .. .

i embody, already, tomorrow’s memory
and yesterday's malady.

...and all my unknown life,
outside, [it rains
inside] without restraint.
i sw.allow certain indulgences
like my fingers silent tracing of mimicry panes.

clouds do not break. stars cannot perish.
so i refuse to be constricted to this frame
[no more]
of a heart’s irrelevance.

i close my eyes and crumble, blinking hope back
into every sky. until i have taken
pain beyond relief and i sink
into him like revelation. .. .

..i give him me between thought and thighs.
my limbs and my leaves. of stories and of salvation.

hands clenching
breasts that reap everything from this
coming confession.
i grope at my love’s shudder in aching adoration
and i do not care if i will my soul addicted.

i redefine myself for
simple mortar
and cry knowingly.
creation has made more mistakes
than i. .....

.....i am pierced.. i am pulled.
i am the mere prick of a thorn
and i surrender

to how beautifully... ....
how unabashedly
whole fierce being
has eased its way inside,
making enough quiet room for a final


Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Ponder the Words of Charlie!

Spiritual: Quiet Fall

A treasure I found in my missionary journal-- dated Oct 27, 1989, Arequipa Peru

I guess I’m a little pressure prone.
I don’t want to be.
I want to scream with joy when I feel happy—
That is, when I’m supposed to be happy.

But it seems that mine is a quiet world these days.
I want to laugh from my guts when it’s funny
I want to have fun.

But I guess my world’s a quiet world right now.

How I want to run and skip
alone with the flowers—
Tell my secrets to God out loud—
Sing at the top of my lungs—
Enjoy life—
Appreciate nature.

But I guess my world’s
A little shallow now—
Cold and wet and quiet.

I reserve my words for thee alone.
Tesoro--para los que intienden.

I know I don’t—
Neither does my swift companion.

I am a fall
and a held-back flood
drowning—drowning in my calmness.

At the sides of my banks,
The little flowers whisper beauties of encouragement.
They want to hear.
They understand.
Their world’s a little quiet too.

What shall I do?

Shall I grab hold of their beautiful stems
To hold me back?
I think I shall.

A rapid little stream beside me
Is full of little pebbles—shallow,
boisterous and clean—
too busy to see the shower of petals
fall with me into that spray of white—
rolling for joy in my cascades

Ya comprendo

That it is below the fall
That makes the noise,
Not the dam,
Not the flowers,
For ours is a quiet world.

It’s below the falls
That hollers
And laughs the belly laughs
That roars to God for crushed things
That have fallen

And there’s a hollow there
Below the falls,
And a whirlpool of despair.

Y por fin yo intiendo…
That I am a fall that has not fallen—
a shallow stream made deeper by the dammed.
Down below, are secrets spilled and broken.
But mine is a quiet world just now,
banked with Godly stems of beauty…


Childhood: Broken Ballade...

I Just Wanted To Be Normal

My first widely-published poem: Poetry in Public Places, 1991. The poem was printed on posters and displayed in school libraries across the country.

Please note that I hold no animosity for my parents, who were good and decent people who always expected the best from me.

They’ve told me since I was seven that I
was a “special” child. Years later I learned
it was just a euphemistic lie.
I told my parents it really burned
me to be called that – that it could upturn
a few problems between us. Yet inside,
I knew they didn’t really mean to lie.

It’s just that I was theirs, and in their pride
they pictured me better than how I’d turned
out to be. They bragged to their friends about
my experiences in Paraguay
and Peru, as if it really concerned
them. (They just said it because of their pride.)
Now, I know that they didn’t mean to lie,

but it bugs me anyway. All that I
ever wanted was to be normal—earn
a decent income, joke around with my
friends, wear cute clothes—you know, date the cool guys.
I am not some miracle child who yearns
to be the best—to make her parents sigh.
Oh, I know that they didn’t mean to lie

about me, but I don’t want them to turn
me into some special side-show freak. I
warned them, how I hated their sweet concern.
but they knew that I didn’t mean to lie.


Poets Inking for the Global Good, You-knighted-- We're a group of poets who are writing for charities, and doing our part to chain-Chain-CHANGE the world.

Foyer de Sion
100% of the proceeds from PIGGY Ink's current project, "The Gravy Queen," will go to this orphanage in Haiti. We invite you to visit their website and view "Gate of Hope" from their home page to find out where those funds will go.

Monday, April 20, 2009

Highlighting Beautiful Words From Lisa Frost


There is hope around the corner
look to nature to renew
Watch the rays of golden sunrise
and the grass covered with dew

it is on these things we must focus
to help keep our eyes upon the Lord
among Nature HE created
we find the truth in His words!!

All things old shall pass away
And shall be rebirthed anew
This is witnessed at the end of winter
When spring awakens a beautiful view

Life springing again around us
In glorious beauty from above
Hear the birds singing joyous
The music of happiness and love

This is the same with Christ's renewal
In our heart, mind and soul
If we keep our eyes on heaven
We shall then reach our goal

Poetry Challenge: Danger
While this is written from some experience, I have to say that it is more from things I know from working as a preschool teacher, than my own experiences, which were not as extreme. When Nation posted Danger as the challenge word, this is what came from it. There are all too many children who live in Danger where they should be safest! Even one is too many.

Danger in Safety

Here I am
where "safe" should be
yet you are the one
most dangerous to me

I never know
when it will come
or what sets it off
though I do know some

It is always something
new you see
rarely does it
make sense to me

I don't know
just how to fix
because, you see
I am only six

I try to be
as good as I can
but I seem to fail
despite my plan

I was just standing
where I thought I should be
Oh please don't Mommy
Don't hit me.


Poetry to me

Words that flow like music
some with rhythm and rhyme
give my heart so much joy
helping me to pass the time

Whether you are full and happy
with a life that is filled with glee
or you are facing storms and floods
you can express it with poetry.

If you remember your true love
on that beautiful Spring day
or trying to get past the impossible task
that life threw in your way

poetry has it's own kind of healing
whether it's light, dark, or strong
it can help sort out feelings
or tell your love you were wrong

Whatever your reason for writing it
just pick up your pen and say
the words flooding your heart and mind
and help yourself along the way.


Lisa can be found at Gather.Com! Check her out by clicking the title of the article!

Sunday, April 19, 2009

Review: The Rivers Run Dry - Great Suspense

The Rivers Run Dry
By Sibella Giorello
Thomas Nelson
ISBN: 9781595545336
324 Pages

What a great mystery! The Rivers Run Dry was the first novel I’ve read written by Sibella Giorello; however, I’ve already ordered her first novel, The Stones Cry Out. Enjoying forensic novels, I was pleased to see a new area. The main character, Raleigh Harmon, is a forensic geologist.

The Rivers Run Dry is set in Seattle during a drought and, of course, the story takes place outdoors, in this case, in the mountainous forest. A young girl, who enjoys hiking, disappears and the local police have the case. However, the VanAlstynes, being wealthy and having important friends, believe their daughter, Courtney was kidnapped and want the FBI involved.

Courtney’s roommate, Stacee, believes she might have gone hiking since they have a competition between them and she felt that Courtney had tackled Cougar Mountain, especially when they found her car there. And then finally a note from the kidnapper was received.

But the kidnapper specified that Raleigh was to be the one who brings the money! Why?

During the investigation, personal secrets were revealed, as is often the case, it was discovered that Courtney was a gambler, that Mr. VanAlstyne was not her real father, and that Stacee was perhaps not innocent of wrongdoing. The intertwining scenarios result in a suspenseful whodunit that requires constant reconsideration of the facts. But not even Raleigh had a clue as to what had happened and who had taken Courtney—not even after she had followed the geological clues and had discovered where Courtney was, alive!

The story surrounding Raleigh’s personal life, living with her mother and an aunt, adds much to round out this novel as we learn about her mother’s issues with mental health and how she becomes involved with a soup kitchen. In many ways Raleigh’s story is just as intriguing as the mystery with which she is working!

For those of you who are in a reading group, the book has a lengthy set of interesting questions to ponder and discuss.

Sibella Giorello’s writing style has a literary flavor that pulls readers into her descriptive narratives of the land in which Raleigh now finds herself. She challenges readers with many options and twists, and has created characters worthy of the strong feelings we can enjoy, loving or hating them! Readers will be held in suspense through to the end! Don’t miss The Rivers Run Dry!

G. A. Bixler

Responsive Poetry - Thomas Kemp & Glenda Bixler

Remember Me
The house was as cold as the night air.
Snow had been falling for as long as we had been lying
Next to each other we were a pair, a couple of lovers.
We were fit for any story about love.
As you brush the snow from my face with your long hair,
I felt your fingers wipe my tears.
Does passion have a sister or a mother
As lovely as you had become to me?
Where I was cold you were hot and where I was hot you were…
Lost in the darkness of the Moonless hours
Trying to cover your nakedness, worrying about the time
I made just one mistake, telling you to hurry.
Be safe now, and hurry again to my face,
hurry and come to me
Forgive my loud sounds; my rushing kisses…
please, remember me.


Thomas kemp/poet
I Remember...
My bedroom is never warm during winter months
sitting against the hillside, catching the blowing winds
Sleeping alone requires quilts, covers tightly wound 'bout me
How I wish you were here to provide your heat...
I remember the first time we met I'd worn
a sexy coat to look alluring for you
You pulled out one of your own for me to wear to tour
But when I left you said I was lovely and lightly kissed me
So, now, even when we are apart I remember
your voice, low, telling me your stories, your words
You claimed I fell in love with your voice;
perhaps I did, but so what? I wanted to...
The next time, you touched me as I stood
there on the patio, I wanted more, even then
Even though years go by
I remember all those times, those touches
I shall always remember you...
with burning warmth that simmers
and with love...
Glenda Bixler, 2009

Saturday, April 18, 2009

Highlighting the Wonderful Poetry of Helena Harper

The Baby
The child,
screaming out of the mother's womb,
stares unseeingly at the people in white;
this hospital her first home,
nestling in a sleepy English town,
hugged by cozy hills of green.
The mother with foreign eyes
cradles the child,
smiling weakly through
her sweat sodden mist of exhaustion.
Had her own mother in that childhood land
destroyed by guns and bombs
cradled her thus?
The English father looking on,
eyes burning with love and pride,
easing the precious burden
into his arms...
What of the future
for this baby so small?
A fusion of two cultures,
two nations,
two lands,
divided by man-made lines.
Do guns and bombs await her, too,
or only half of her?
Must she take sides
between mother and father
when others of their kind
suddenly call each other enemy?
Which half to give to which?
Impossible -
belonging to both and neither!
Mocking the ludicrous absurdity
of national divisions
people fight and die for.
This time, this place, these parents,
the child's choice - why?
A small champion
for a new way,
a new life,
a new world of humanity?
A sign of hope
that in the future
we can finally be free
from our present, crazy,
violent insanity?

The Father
1910 the year,
the second eldest in a family of nine,
a quick, sharp brain
fascinated by all things mechanical,
math and science a breeze,
English and history, too,
a military career for him, of course,
following the tradition of years.
An officer he becomes,
listening to long tales of hunting
and shooting in the mess,
but these things do nothing
but bore him completely to death.
Eager to share his mechanical passion
the words pour forth in youthful naivety
about Aston Martins, Rovers,
engines, pistons,
motor bike racing, the lot...
But 'Don't you know, my dear chap,
that's just not the done thing, what?'
A square peg in a round hole,
a nonconformist
rubbing superiors up the wrong way,
an army career dissolving,
a first marriage ending,
but then war - a reprieve,
distinguished service,
mentioned in dispatches,
family honor retrieved.
Part of the British occupation
on the shattered German soil,
encounter with a native woman
who's fled her homeland in the East,
fifteen years the difference,
yet what of that?
Elegance and intelligence intriguing,
to joyful marriage vows finally leading...
A few months later a soldier no more,
a career in technical writing beckoning,
but money is tight
and work has to be found
be it north, south, east or west,
so lonely weeks spent away
from family and home
are the price he has to pay.
Yet delight he finds
with two daughters,
helping with homework,
encouraging, comforting,
supporting, teaching,
answers never failing
to satisfy the countless questions,
revealing nothing of financial worries
robbing his nights of sleep.
Insatiable curiosity driving him
to devour books galore
on history and science,
philosophy and war,
to ask all he encounters,
whether workmen in the road
or politicians in the street,
about their work and trade
and the knowledge he gains
is oh, so precious and so sweet!
Up with the lark is his habit,
preparing breakfast before the household stirs,
enjoying the early morning quietness
and the richness of coffee freshly ground,
turning the pages of the ever-present book
or allowing the beautiful notes
of arias and symphonies divine
to transport his soul
to the realm of the spiritual.
A daughter enters
and in companionable silence,
minds perfectly attuned,
a breakfast is shared.
Can't be found?
In the study perhaps,
planning family holidays
with military precision,
or maybe the garage,
clamped under engine
hands black with oil and grime,
or glued to the workbench
cutting, shaving,
repairing, mending,
gifted fingers
weaving skillful patterns
with tools for this
and tools for that.
A call comes,
a friend in need
of his technical expertise,
or a daughter's plea,
'Can you take me into town, please?'
No problem!
Requests fulfilled
with grace and speed,
a heart full of kindness
willingly performing
deed after deed.
In the kitchen, too,
a whiz of a chef,
roasting and stewing with admirable flair
and conjuring up delicious puddings
from ingredients plain, simple and bare.
What to do for relaxation and rest?
A book, of course,
(science fiction a favorite)
or a trip to the pub,
to converse with friends
and partake of a pint or two of best.
Yet the money worries of earlier years
have taken their toll
and blocked arteries around the heart
darken tomorrow's goals.
An operation he wants,
not a body rattling with pills,
but the doctors aren't sure;
he's too old, they say, for an operation,
it's too risky, they say, at seventy-three.
But he persists,
a second opinion he wants
and at last he finds a doctor to agree.
He waits for a hospital bed,
the call arrives,
the bags are packed,
and off he goes,
this man who thinks
his life doesn't amount to much,
always dreaming of ideas
to make that fabulous fortune,
though it eludes him at every turn,
yet surely it must be there, it must -
if not now, then soon, very soon!
But look at the daughters he's brought up,
teaching them right from wrong,
never failing or deserting them,
filling their memories
with endless happy hours
of warmth and affection.
Look at their pleasure,
their laughing, smiling faces
when he is near,
look how they listen
with eyes so eager and keen
to the words that fall from the mobile lips -
that's a wonder to be seen!
How well he's taught and loved them!
Isn't that an accomplishment
more valuable than all the prizes
the world of men offers
and more precious than all
the gold and jewels we hide
in strongholds and coffers?
The surgeons await
and wield their instruments
with skill and care.
The operation's a success,
but the body's too weak
and the torrent of drugs is too forceful and strong,
the heart fails,
a minor collapse,
hours later a massive one...
The race begins to open the chest,
massage the heart,
it beats,
but too many minutes have passed,
imprisoning the brain in a vacuum too long.
The body seeks refuge in coma;
organs fail as the days tick by
and hands switch off machines -
a flick here, a click there,
that's all it takes,
not much,
to enable the soul to pass
to its existence beyond,
accompanied by the love
and gratitude of hearts
enriched by its touch.

I met Helena on LinkedIn, but you can also find her on Authors Den or click the title to visit her web site! I'll be reviewing Helena's book soon, these two wonderful poems are from that book. Check out my review in the near future!

Friday, April 17, 2009

Consider Carefully Words From Teresa

Everyman, everywhere~

"Egypt is a candle submerged by the river," he said, when asked if Egypt still holds its role as the centre of Arab thought and culture, and if not, why. "When the earth is dark, Egypt comes out of the river and lights the world."

But he despairs that the light he calls Egypt is, at least for now, not burning brightly. "The people down there are not Egyptians," he said. "They are oppressed people."

Ahmed Fouad Negm

the oppressed...
I was thinking of you
the man bent double
at the bus stop
going nowhere
in downtown Seattle

the one who is reminded
in each shop window
as if he could forget...

no loitering...
you have right here
only by nature of your armament
your wherewithal
your passport to the world
while I,
the wanderer
the outsider
loitered across your withdrawal
proffered an unseen hand
fell back, helpless

watched your oppression
and bled

"Egypt is a candle submerged by the river," he said"


I met Teresa at the Poets and Writers Registry. You can find her there or click the title to read her poetry!

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Highlighting the Beautiful Poetry of Phyllis Jean Green

Vintage Yarn?

Unraveling! Attempting to make something
of me, the Creator adds and drops, drops
and adds. Stitches just like the picture before
I made all those wrong moves. Jiggled
floss loose, jerked it taut. Knitter's
forced to snip and tuck. Weave ends under,
try to hide. Doesn't like knots, but when
in Rome. Ask me, our knitter has bitten off
too much this time. Yarn must have fallen
off a truck. Color soon faded. Use shape,
use smoothing. Got this patchy feel,
and pills dot. Age has added subtleties,
but bad knitters refuse to keep their mitts
off. Got your sunlight, your dust, your
moths, your spills. Flooded once.
Combusted another. Rather like a toddler's
'blankie' by now -- odd, comfy, coming apart.
Comical, some say. Been tossed in the wash
a bunch of times. Wrung out a lot. Dried
in still air behind stiff? For all of this,
resistance remains strong. Too much love
put in to waste. Still got comfort to give.
Not despite of, but because of flaws. Turns
out the knitter deliberately works some in.
So cancel unravel. Need time to make up
a small part of the trouble: The squinting,
the picking, the doing over and over.
Getting jabbed!


(c) Phyllis Jean Green, 2008

Three Times Eight

Still, Afloat
Entries must not exceed eight {8} lines.
Eight hundred {800?} later of hems
and haws, I moon by a waterfall
of words that tumble to a stream
of more and more. Rainbows arc
as sun kisses spray. Closing my eyes,
I dive. Come to to the tune of :
One{1} Swim naked. Two{2} Pray.

Hot Velvet Sand
Isn't always the big fish
Turns out to have the best flesh,
Or the sweetest.
I see a couple on a Carolina beach
Wide and smooth and hot,
Surf-fishing for spot
That when caught elicit hugs.
Breeze downright sensual.

Go Back to Act One
Losing You to Time-sneaked Disease,
Accept only your smile. When you
Can smile. Pat, when you can pat.
Blue eyes remember me. At times.
They do! Mine remember You,
Tasting. Your taste, your uncool Yes.
Men can aggravate. Aggravate me,
Please? Be You and I'll be Me.

All of the above poems are protected by copyright.
(c) Phyllis Jean Green, 30 June 2008

A Note To Readers and Followers

Good Morning, I just got an email from Adolfo Caso regarding his poem... it seems that a lady attempted to post a comment and it failed twice...

I am sooooooo sorry about that! I know there are issues with Blogger as there are with other systems, but the overall package here is one I find I hope any problems such as this can be overlooked.

I do enjoy reading messages, though...especially for those poets I'm highlighting this month. Always feel free to send me thoughts, comments, concerns to my email address: I will be happy to post them for you! If you think of it, put Blog Comment in the subject line...

Thanks so much to all my new followers! I may not know you personally, but I hope that we can become acquainted in some way, somewhere on the Internet! In the meantime, I hope the content here is worthy of your presence and welcome any suggestions!

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Highlighting Poetry from... Zara'

Sharing Words

Perhaps my words were meant
only and just for you...
For if someone else read them
No matter, just a few words...

Forgotten after just one read
Perhaps a bit of erotica to savor
How and when do words creep in
And make a poem, a letter?

Do we have someone in mind?
Or do we write to please
Anyone or everyone who passes by
To take the poem or leave...

For I find I respond to you
Your words speak so sincere
I see someone who opens up
And speaks of what is, oh, so dear...

Isn't that such a compliment?
To touch someone so deep
I'm glad if no one else did come
It formed a bond, you see.

And now we read each other
We enjoy a melding mind
Others may read our words, true
Some one else may also find

When two can think and act together
'Tisn't such a crime
For words make life a lovely place
To share with thee...or others...
Zara 2008


She Dances

Veils binding, blue, silver shining

Then unwinding, she drops it, head begins moving

Arms flowing, up and down, then intertwining

Wrists twisting, finger cymbals set the beat

Slowly sensuously, her silver breast shimmies

Hips find a contrasting movement

Jutting her hip first left and then right

Bending her knee, she gathers her veil

Circling she bumps her hip, each separately

Stimulating, she circles, enticingly

Catching the faster beat,

She shimmies and twirls

Lost in the wonder, loving the dance

Veil flying free, as freely as she...

Zara' - 2007
Zara' is not only one of my followers, but can be found on Gather.Com! Meet her there!

Monday, April 13, 2009

Twitterer FollowSlendah Highlights Her Acrostic Poetry!


S piritual journey
O ver time and space
U nited through God's
L ove and grace
S ouls in transition;

I ndividuals in
N eed of care

T rusting God to
R emove despair
A ngels watch over us
N ight and day
S ins be forgiven
I n God we pray
T each us oh Lord
I nspire us too
O nly then can we get
N earer to you.

A writer, like a boxer, must stand alone. Having your words published is like entering a ring; it puts your talent on display, and there's nowhere to hide.

#quote from the movie "Resurrecting The Champ" starring Samuel L. Jackson.

Linda Hayes

Forgive & Forget

F orget about the wrong
O thers have done to you
R emember only that
G lory comes to those
I ndividuals who
V alue the word of God and
E xercise forgiveness;


F orgive those who try to
O ppress or torment you
R evenge only brings feelings of
G uilt, shame and regret
E verything's better when you forgive
T rust and believe in God's way.

Linda Hayes signs in as FollowSlendah on Twitter and you can click the title to see her Twitwall! You'll be soon seeing my review of her children's book, Grandma's First Computer!

Sunday, April 12, 2009

Love Poem by Adolph Caso

Endless loveImage by Millzero Photography via Flickr


By Adolph Caso

(from, Water and Life, Branden Books - Click Title for Info)

I have loved you
with all my heart and soul
than you could ever imagine,
the prime time
when your breast was full,
its touch
the wondrous excitement
and the deep thrust
into your fertile womb
of joy and life,
the wonderment of my being
into yours,
completely yours
heart and soul,
the mystery of love
with every touch,
every thought‑‑
acts reduced to words of love
full of meaning‑‑
complete life
received into your body
like the tremors
of Dante's quake
and the birth of one more soul.

That was the joy I felt
as on a continuum,
without beginning or end‑‑
all this in the words of love
I whispered into your ears,
kissed on your lips,
into your mouth‑‑
within the receptive womb
bathed by life's semen
caressed by the palm of your hand
in excitement
for the gift of life's process
within every part of your body;

And all was love,
and in how many ways I said it,
showed it,
bathed you with the pure water of life,
my life
wondrous growth
of untold life's mysteries
permeating the semen
implanted in the womb
to fertilize and grow,
the potential of life
uncovered through you,
the total
to the word of love,
the pure water of life
with which I bathed you,
and the excitement was yours
more than you could ever imagine
though you brought your hand down
to caress the receptive womb
in which life
was already
and you were happy,
serenely exuberant,
and my words of love to you
reverberated through my body‑‑
the sounds and glances
a séance
to your ears and eyes:
quietly dancing
in sparkles reflected
over the rolling waves
of the soft sea at sunrise
after the explosion of a storm.

All this still within me
completely imprisoned
hermetically sealed
with layers upon layers
like rings in a tree‑trunk
solidly encasing
impermeable to cracks
not to expose
the inner core
of suffering!

What layers can the heart take
when the mind knows none
the passions feel no bounds
and the pressure builds!

Will the moment come
when love will explode
like a volcano at sea:
will it be an island
thrusting out
with its words of smoke
and absorbed into the newly‑born land
beneath the sea
with its words of smoke
to the wind?

I have loved you
with all my heart and soul,
more than you can ever imagine,
and still do
though that prime of life
will not return.
And vain it is,
for time is never lost
like life
on a continuous bend
every moment a new discovery
progression within control
always going forward
and never back.

Oh that I should not be able to go back
those journeys,
in vain,
for nothing goes back,
not even the island or non‑island at sea,
not even the surface of the ocean
or that of the land
or the layers of the air
that form the skies.
We can catapult
with or without conscience,
and like the island or non‑island at sea
we will come back,
the words of love like the smoke
absorbed by the land
wasted to the wind.

I have loved you
with all my heart and soul.

And this return of no return
is like powder forced into a chamber
the explosion
to reveal
the inner core
the beginning of another beginning
the end of another end
and never
the beginning or the end.

Like the volcano at sea,
will it give an island
or take one;
like our words,
the smoke absorbed
wasted to the wind?

Love is not a word
not a fantasy.
It is there‑‑
in my heart
awake or dormant
much as it is in you‑‑
prime life forever when awake
smoke wasted to the wind
when dormant;
the volcano ready to erupt
and build toward the sky
or disappear
into the core of the earth.

I want to love you
more than you can ever imagine
And when I do
and you are there
the words of love will explode
like volcanos at sea
thrusting islands

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Saturday, April 11, 2009

Review: S. G.Craft's The Gold Machine!

The Gold Machine
By S. G. Craft
First Impressions Last Press
ISBN: 9780614240060
281 Pages

“There’s gold in them there hills!” was a cry that excited many years ago. But in The Gold Machine by S. G. Craft, we can be excited to learn that there is gold everywhere! All you have to do is use Professor’s machine, which will identify and sort various minerals, including gold, from common compounds including dirt, sand and water...

Of course, the complete machine has not yet been finished, albeit the model does indeed work. Professor Parsons, a brilliant mathematician had invented the machine based upon the concept that these elements could be separated by the use of sound waves. The machine had much potential to improve the environment, in addition to the separation of small gold particles. Of course, it was necessary to keep everything confidential—even the government did not want the machine built. However, Professor, with a few very carefully chosen individuals were financing completion.

And then Professor died. It looked like a natural death; many questioned those findings!

His death “coincidentally” happened immediately before the investors were to meet and see the first working demonstration of the gold machine. And the plans, drawings, the location...and any remaining money were now gone. Three of the group--two very close friends of Professor, together with the largest investor of one-half million dollars--began a search to follow Professor’s steps and find the location of the machine. Amanda, an investigative reporter and former student of Professor Parsons took the lead. During her school years Professor and his wife had become close and Amanda considered him a father figure, leading to a trust and belief that the Gold Machine actually existed and that it was not the scam that some of the investors were beginning to declare.

And, after much research and searching, indeed, the machine was found! And as soon as Amanda found it, she was captured, to be murdered exactly as Professor had been!

Perhaps because I had just previously read a fable, or perhaps because of the surprise ending, I found that I began to look upon the book as something more than a “whodunit.” There are many personal revelations in the book and soul-searching by the main characters, while others rejected family members or grew to be resentful of those who participated in get-rich quick schemes, separating the families. Still others, for their own reasons chose to murder and steal, to take the results without any of the work. So, I began to wonder whether the ending was what was needed--what we must all realize in today’s world. Is the ending “the moral of the story?”

Still, where were the plans and drawings for The Gold Machine that had not been found? Personally, I’m hoping there is a follow up to the book...I don’t think Amanda is done with this mystery yet!

This is a fun book and if you enjoy hunting for “the gold” S. G. Craft’s The Gold Machine is highly recommended for mid-teens and adults.

G. A. Bixler
IP Book Reviewer

Click on the title to learn more and purchase!

Highlighting the Beautiful Words of Hamid!


The night descends into

the still waters of the lake.

Moonlight adrift in the woods.

Wild flowers of silken hues

hide themselves in the nearby grass.

Dust inflamed

by the torrid moments.

Thoughts entangled within words.

An utterance the lips

can only muddle through;

exactly like the night descending

into the still waters of the lake,

like moonlight adrift in the woods.


--------------A Poem by: HAMID YAZDANI

(Translated from Urdu by: M Salim ur Rahman)


All that we know

is how to set the words on fire.

We do not know

that the burning words

warm up those feelings

which are chilled to the bone!

They import

a little bit heat

to frozen thought

and lifeless reality.

They provide a hint of warmth

to shivering dreams

and tired out breath.

We do not know what

the burning words imply.

All that we know is how

to set the words on fire.


……………. A poem by: Hamid Yazdani
You will find Hamid actively involved on the Poets and Writers Registry Site (click title)!

Friday, April 10, 2009

Poet Del Cano Shares His Poetry!

The Skin I'm In

This is the skin I was put in
I was not given any choice.
Everyone else has words to say
while denying me my voice.

When I do speak my experience
they take the right to call me wrong.
How in hell am I supposed to grow
when hearing such a conflicting song.

This is the skin I was put in
predetermined before I was born
yet, I am often viewed with malice.
as if I had some devilish horns.

I am judged before I am known
strictly due to the skin I'm in.
Ignoring many human facets
which to me seems more like sin.

This is the skin I was put in
long before I could form ideas.
You who condemn my existence
owe me time now and in arrears.

Del Cano March 10, 2009


If I Get Cold

If I get cold tonight

will you promise to keep me warm?

Do I snuggle under the blankets

or the comfort of your arms?

If the winds shift to cool

and storms draw down on me,

will you snuggle me close up

making it all less chilly?

If I get afraid of all the charges there

can I count on you to love me

keeping sweet scents in the air?

If I get cold tonight

I'll count on you without guilt

and wallow in the comfort of us

together under the quilt!

Del Cano - March, 2009


Spencer can be found at (click title to read more of his beautiful work). Spencer is a special friend and his poetry calls to many fans on Gather, so I always appreciate that he's also willing to share and allow me to present his poetry to you!

Thursday, April 9, 2009

Review: The Lake That Stole Children!

The Lake That Stole Children
By Douglas Glenn Clark
ISBN: 9781438243580
40 Pages
Click title to learn more!

What a delightful fable for children, young adults and adults! The Lake That Stole Children by Douglas Glenn Clark is beautifully written with a literary flair that hearkens back to our memories of treasured nursery rhymes. In many ways, it reminded me of Hansel and Gretel who leaves home and encounters . . .The Witch!

Only in this tale, it is the father that learns the most!

You see, Cal was a fisherman who, though he loved his children very much, had grown stern and demanding of total obedience. So, when he took his two children, Tilly and Tyler, fishing, it was a time to learn, rather than to also enjoy the experience and fun they were having. So neither Tilly nor Tyler would catch any fish; however, one night Tyler decided that he knew how to use his father’s big fishing pole and he left home to go fishing all by himself.

After many failed attempts, Tyler was finally able to have the fishing line go way out into the lake. Soon, there was a tug on his line! But the pull was so strong that Tyler was pulled right into the lake!

Morgan, Cal’s wife, was so miserable and she blamed Cal for what happened, knowing that he was too stern with his children. Cal tried to get help from the neighbors; however, there had been other children who had disappeared and they thought that Tyler, too, had drowned. But one couple knew differently. They had been out near the lake looking for their lost child and they had heard children crying!

Cal and Walter went out onto the lake, trying to find their children. Cal wondered why they couldn’t hear the children crying and Walter said he had only heard them when he was crying himself. Cal felt so badly that he, too, cried and when he heard the children, he just knew he could hear Tyler above all the rest.

He had no choice—he set out to find his son one night!

Clark’s heartwarming story is perfect for parents to read to their children. Reading stories such as The Lake That Stole Children by Douglas Glenn Clark allows parents an opportunity to sit and talk with children about dangers that they may face in life. The story may be used to share caution within a guided discussion. There is sufficient mystery and adventure that will delight the young; there is much to be learned by parents as well! What more could be gained from a wonderful fable! This book would make a beautiful birthday or holiday gift! Highly recommended!

G. A. Bixler
IP Book Reviewer

Review: Iris Johansen's Latest Novel Out Now!

By Iris Johansen
St. Martin’s Press
ISBN: 9780312368111
374 Pages

Iris Johansen never fails to provide a satisfying read; however, Deadlock, this month’s release of an Indiana-Jones type adventure just might be her best!

Emily Hudson shines as an artifacts expert, who is sent all over the world by the U.N. to evaluate and save each country’s historical treasures. She and her partner Joel had been sent to a small museum that had little of real value, but they worked with their team to package and load everything, working hard and fast to get out before the weather turned even worse. However, as they were leaving, Emily and Joel discovered their first truck, along the road, the men murdered. As they got out to investigate, both were captured!

Held captive, Emily was told what they wanted—a hammer! She knew the total inventory of this small inventory and knew they had not packed a hammer, especially one that was supposed to be of value; however, Staunton would not believe her and soon began intensive, horrifying torture of Joel, until he was dead. Staunton decided Emily would be given to his partner for torturing and was thrown into Shafir’s tent, only to be rescued by a man she thought of as the Angel of Death!

John Garrett was a mercenary who occasionally agreed to take missions for the CIA. It had taken his seeing Emily’s picture to convince him to go after her! But it was her anger and hate of Staunton, and later his own when Staunton killed Garrett’s friend, that started a hunt not only for the mysterious hammer for which Joel had died, but to track down Staunton and those that had backed him financially!

The hunt for the hammer—Zelov’s hammer—takes readers back to an earlier time in Russia, when Zelov had been a behind-the-scenes advisor to Rasputin who advised Tsar Nicholas. Zelov believed he would one day rule and/or be a god and professed that his hammer had magical powers. However, when he found the royal court was no longer listening to him, he worked to have them all murdered—after he had learned how the Tsar had created a path/map to his great riches.

With the CIA and MI6 “blackmailed” into staying in the background with backup help, John Garrett and Emily led the search. Revenge drove them first, but love for each other became a problem as each fought to protect the other from harm. A thoroughly enjoyable ongoing intrigue between the two overlays everything and everybody during the rest of the story.

If you have not read Johansen before, I recommend that this be your first! Deadlock’s historical artifact emphasis brings the usual treasure-hunting to play, but somehow this type of adventure never grows stale, at least not when written by this fantastic author! You just might be adding her to your “favorite authors” list, like I did many years ago!

G. A. Bixler
For Amazon Vine