Angie Stone: Queen of Neo Soul - May She Rest in Peace - A Fan Tribute by Carol Denise Mitchell

 “When I was younger, I was taught that a winner never quits, and a quitter never wins.” --Angie Stone

“Funk You Up,” has lost its glowing star 

in Angie Stone.

...it ultimately led to the creation of the R&B/hip hop group It's Us, which was later renamed Vertical Hold. In 1988, they released their debut single "Summertime" under Criminal Records.

After Mack departed from the group, Stone, Bright, and Bruno secured a new recording contract with A&M Records. Their first album, A Matter of Time, released in 1993, was preceded by the top 20 R&B hit "Seems You're Much Too Busy" and reached the top forty on the US Top R&B Albums chart, selling over 62,000 copies in the United States.

Angie Stone was like us - Her beautiful dark skin complimented all colors. Her love for The Lord was unmatched. Now, that you know all about how Angie became The Queen of Neo Soul, let’s go back to see how this great entertainer is just like you! Rodney Stone, Lil’ Rodney C entered the scene, and he was affectionately known as Little Rodney C. This young man would soon capture Angie’s heart, leading to marriage and the birth of their child. Initially, he educated Angie, and they eventually tied the knot. Although Angie remarked that they conducted business well together, she felt their marriage was flawed. Despite this, the couple collaborated on three self-written albums in 1984. When Sequence sought answers, Rodney and Angie welcomed a daughter named Diamond. Angie found opportunities performing in commercials and playing the saxophone for Lenny Kravitz. Subsequently, MCA Universal signed her to write songs for another artist, earning her $25,000. In 1993, Angie joined Vertical Hold, channeling her emotions into her music. The song "Seems You’re Much Too Busy" solidified her musical career. Despite facing challenges, Angie persevered in pursuit of her aspirations. After releasing two albums with Vertical Hold, she ventured out on her own but also contributed to D’Angelo’s "Brown Sugar," recognizing their deep connection. However, falling in love meant that Angie had to pause her career. By the late 1990s, her relationship with D’Angelo had ended. Angie recorded demos that reached Arista Records, eventually catching the attention of Peter Edge and Clive Davis. This led to a deal for her first solo album, "Black Diamond," which included the hit "No More Rain." After two decades in the industry, Angie finally embraced her identity as a solo artist. "Black Diamond" achieved gold status, and as Clive Davis launched J Records, he brought Angie along. She later found success with the powerful track "Brotha," dedicated to Black men, and although it didn’t make it onto the album, "Wish I Didn’t Miss You" soared to number one on the dance charts. Angie is known to have said that this was a song she didn’t even like. Angie Stone was amazed how popular it became. We learned this tune was inspired by the O’Jay’s' "Back Stabbers." Angie Stone celebrated two gold albums by the year 2000. She advised Jazzy not to revisit her earlier work, leading to the creation of another single, "I Wanna Thank You," which also reached number one on the dance charts... 

Music: “Love Language”  - Angie did an interview that showed her softer side and I really want to share this with you.  On June 20, 2023, June Archer did a charming interview with Angie Stone. She was a remarkable woman. She told Archer that one notable aspect of my mother was her ability to stay true to herself. She navigated life on her own terms, never intruding on others' paths. She discovered her niche, focused on it, and pursued her endeavors in her unique way. As a result, she found great satisfaction in her life choices, and I believe I have inherited that trait from her. 

I, too, carve out my own space, finding happiness in my independence and the decisions I have made. Then Archer said: “You have also made remarkable choices, Angie, and I must commend you for your body of work, which has helped many individuals through challenging times. When you share your experiences, people turn to you, your music, and your lyrics, finding hope and inspiration. Thank you for your resilience and for being a strong,  unapologetically remarkable Black woman.

I would like to discuss your new album, "Love Language." To begin, I want to ask you: what is your love language, Angie? Is it expressed through music, food, a stroll in the park, or something else?” Archer asked. And then Ms. Stone chimed in: “It’s interesting that you pose this question, as many have been inquiring about it since the album's title is "Love Language." My love language encompasses all of those elements. Each track on this album reflects my essence—how I move, act, and think, as well as what stirs my emotions. You can gain insight into who I am simply by listening to my music. My love language embodies a humble spirit, one that seeks to avoid unnecessary drama and instead fosters joy and generosity. I resonate with those who are eager to give and share abundantly. 

Angie Stone’s Famous Quotes 

“Let us have some more fun with some very interesting quotes we found on line by Angie Stone. Be prepared to laugh and remember Angie Stone the way she’d love for her fans to remember her. 

Because I am just a giving person spiritually, I feel that if your intentions are to use or abuse or take advantage of, then you might get what you’re getting in the meantime; but there’s still a price to pay.”

“Music always hits me when I’m driving so, I keep a recorder in my bag.”

“I’m the kind of woman you might say is too good. I’ll massage a man’s feet, have dinner cooked when he gets home. But once they leave, the door is closed, and the locks are changed.” “They always come back when they learn that no other woman’s going to treat them this good!” – Angie Stone

After I had finished Carol Denise Mitchell's latest book about Angie Stone, I wasn't quite sure how to begin to share about the book... You see, given my emphasis on reading/books, I don't have the knowledge to talk about those who specialize in other creative arts... People like Angie Stone... But, after reading what Mitchell had written, I knew two things: that Carol was one of the greatest fans Angie Stone had ever had... And, two, when a fan like Carol Denise Mitchell gets angry about what was done to a friend, she's going to write about it... after doing a lot of research!

At one point in her book, Carol writes to her readers that she knows she's repeating herself. And then adds, she is so shocked that she can't ever forget all that she discovered, or similar words... Now, from a book reader, I noticed more about her format rather than repetition of material. And, to me, that was more important...

 

She started out by talking about her own relationship with Angie... and shares as much as she wants. She has titled each chapter and becomes repetitive as she "bundles" material to talk about in each chapter... thus, each reader may decide a chapter is more significant and want to emphasize it more. One of the things that I didn't know even at hearing of the tribute being made was the breadth and scope of Angie Stone's accomplishments! 

Carol talks about each of her activities from songwriting, singing (on Soul Train and other shows) as well as television performances, being spotlighted by Rolling Stone and so much more...

If you have not heard of author Carol Denise Mitchell, you will learn that her writing is more based upon what she wants and needs to write about rather than one or two genres... She's written fiction as well as nonfiction and so you will find that her books can be separated by topic as well as reading straight through. But no matter how she presents it, Mitchell has a specific purpose to writing this tribute--that is, besides expressing her emotional feelings about Stone.

Mitchell has experienced much abuse as we all know happens with those who are different in some way... meaning, not being a white man... And, she has written enough and done research to show how Black people, in particular, can be scammed by those individuals who are producers and/or hired to take care of specific duties and financial affairs while the creative artist does what she is being paid to do.

Mitchell refers often to what is found as  documentation on YouTube. I found quite a bit that was not allowed to be shared from that site, including several recent posts to followup after Stone's accident. . I made no effort to learn more than the fact that I saw that there were many people talking about Stone's beginning to speak out about where her money had gone... And, a possible correlation to the fact that she was killed in a car accident...

What I do know is that, although I had never heard of Angie Stone before, I took the time to listen to her wide variety of music and I found her, in my opinion, a wonderful multi-talented role model for young girls and others. I was totally entertained by spotlighting all that I've shared with you all today! Angie's ability to move from one type of music to another, without any problem reveals just how much her talent exceeded many other singers who stick within, say, a country genre... Her obvious writing skills in poetically setting thoughts to music places her, also, above those who did not write and sing her creations... In fact, from what I've read, it is quite easy to see just how others had decided to, on an ongoing basis, take advantage of her generous nature, so much so that, as she was looking toward retirement, she was unable to do so because of lack of money... I couldn't help but think of similar situations where young, beautiful creatives have been manipulated to the point that they are being ignored once the funds begin to run dry... 

While I am making no accusations myself, I suggest to those who are close to Stone, that they find somebody to trust and start looking, based upon the groundwork in this book... Carol is a great researcher--she's found more to write this book than necessary as a fan... But, Carol, is not just a fan of Angie, She's a black woman that cares about how all women and others who are being ignored or purposely taken advantage of based upon some bias or prejudice that has no foundation of Truth... To find her on this blog, you may need to use a variety of her name in the right column--I read Carol's first book and as many as I've been able since then... I've been honored to support her writing career... 

For those those who are interested in music as a career, or music in general, this book will be fascinating for fans of Blues, R&B, Jazz and just about any beat, including one that sounded Latino... Stone had no limits to what she was able to "dream up..." This would also be a valuable educational book for those in the music business... There is every evidence from her "sound" as well as how she was "slid out" on some activities for one reason or another, that this woman could have been even more of a star than she was as evidenced by this Fan Tribute! At a minimum, have as much delight as I did as I listened to this playlist I was able to find relatively easily... Each recording was an amazing discovery of a supremely talented female singer! And I didn't even get into her television and other activities! Angie Stone deserves to be remembered! And she's probably already singing in the heavenly choir!

GABixlerReviews

Stand By Me - Guest Poet John Herlihy - Speaks of the World - Responsive Poem by GABixler

 Stand By Me

John Herlihy

In a lonely and at times cruel world,

I need someone to stand firmly by me.

Into the hardship of one’s destiny hurled,

Someone to take my hand, support me.

We live in a world where strangers reside,

Strangers soon friends, friend soon enemy.

We live in a world mostly difficult to abide,

While underlying everything, life’s mystery.

In a world replete with lying and thieving,

Who in the world offers trust I can rely.

Whether in joyous times or times grieving,

Bound by a sacred trust nothing can belie.

In a world marked by envy and treachery,

With enemies willing to drag me down.

Who in the world there to offer loyalty,

To offer support without a single sound.

The night looms darkly, but I am not afraid,

Even the night tempered by dim starlight.

My earthly dreams in the Milky Way wade,

As I wander thru pathways of starlit night.

Even if the world stands still in its tracks,

And the rivers and springs no longer flow.

I find in your loyalty what the world lacks,

As winter finds trust in the peace of snow.

Are we not strangers, in a world strange,

Born into a realm that feels like an exile.

Taking full responsibility, a life to arrange,

To breathe in life, to frown and to smile.

Life’s books moves forward by the page,

As we walk on in hope and reprimand.

Ever seeking guidance of one true sage,

Ever present, ever ready, to take a stand.

- - - - -

Copyright © John Herlihy

Tuesday 25 February 2025

By Gabby

Your Words; My Words

Can two think the same?

See and feel the same?

When we find the very few

Who speaks not as strangers

But as Friends...

We Can be Thankful

For many do not see the same

Strangers constantly reaching

Not knowing that strangers can be

Exactly who we need to hear

Knowing that trust is possible

For their words are our words...

Amen and Amen...

~~~

God Bless

Gabby

The World Must NEVER Forget! - Learn From The Storyteller By Jodi Picoult We Cannot Allow Going Back!

 It is impossible to believe anything in a world that has ceased to regard man as man, that repeatedly proves that one is no longer a man.--Simon Wiesenthal, The Sunflower

I promise you that I do not purposely choose the books I will next read... And yet, the stories arrive as if arranged... By God? You see, I can't help but compare, to a smaller significance, the "disappearing" of immigrants from America via ICE's removal of those who lived in America for years, by lying and claiming that they were all criminals and gang members, under this administration. Both actions are based upon hate, or hunger for power--for no reason other than that they have a different heritage... What evil can explain actions so cruel? 

From somewhere I learned that Donald Trump kept a copy of Mein Kampf on his bedside table when he was young... It was quite easy, therefore, to see the very real comparison as I learned of Reiner beating his brother in the exceprt below, who rose quickly in the German military forces... While at the same time, remembering how, when his Trump's brother, who had become an alcoholic, died, DJT worked to ensure that his two children would not receive their family inheritance as was normal in families... see books by niece, Mary Trump, by searching her name in th right-hand column...

Josef: I will not answer to the other name. That person, he is someone I like to think I have never been. But this isn’t true. Inside each of us is a monster; inside each of us is a saint. The real question is which one we nurture the most, which one will smite the other. To understand what I became you must know where I came from. My family, we lived in Wewelsburg, which was part of the city of Büren in the district of Paderborn. My father was a machinist by trade and my mother kept house. My earliest memory is of my father and mother fighting over money. After the first Great War, inflation spiraled out of control. Their savings, which they had diligently put away for years, were suddenly worth nothing. My father had just cashed in a ten-year insurance policy, and the proceeds did not even cover the cost of a newspaper. A cup of coffee was five thousand marks. A loaf of bread, two hundred billion marks. As a boy, I remember running with my mother to meet my father on payday, and then began the mad rush to the shops to purchase goods. Often, the shops had run out. Then my brother, Franz, and I would be sent at twilight into the fields of farmers who lived outside of Wewelsburg, to steal apples from the trees and potatoes from the ground. Not everyone suffered, of course. Some had invested in gold early on. Some speculated in fabric or meat or soap or produce. But most middle-class Germans, like my family, were ruined. The Weimar Republic, shiny and new after the war, was a disaster. My parents had done everything right—worked hard, saved well—and to what end? Election after election, no one seemed to have the answer. The reason I tell you this is that everyone always asks: How could Nazis come to power? How could Hitler have had such free rein? Well, I tell you: desperate people often do things that they normally would not do. If you went to the doctor and he said you had a terminal disease, you’d probably walk out of that office feeling pretty low. Yet if you shared this news with friends, and one told you, “You know, I had a friend who was diagnosed with that, too, and Doctor X cured him right away.” Well, maybe he is the biggest quack, maybe he charges two million dollars for a consultation—but I bet you’d still be on the phone to him immediately. No matter how educated you are, no matter how irrational it seems, you will follow a glimmer of hope. The National Socialist German Workers’ Party, it was that ray of light. Nothing else was working to fix Germany. So why not try this? They promised to get people back to work. To get rid of the Treaty of Versailles. To regain the territory we’d lost in the war. To put Germany back in its rightful place. When I was five years old, Hitler tried to take over the government at a beer hall—the Munich Putsch—and failed miserably by most accounts. But he learned that the way to lead a revolution was not violently but legally. And at his trial in 1924, every word Hitler spoke was reported in the German newspapers, the National Socialist Party’s first propaganda onslaught. You will notice I say nothing about the Jews. That is because most of us didn’t know a single Jew. Out of sixty million Germans, only 500,000 were Jews, and even those would have called themselves Germans, not Jews. But anti-Semitism was alive and well in Germany long before Hitler became powerful. It was part of what we were taught in church, how two thousand years ago, the Jews had killed our Lord. It was evident in the way we viewed Jews—good investors, who seemed to have money in a bad economy when no one else had any. Selling the idea that the Jews were to blame for all of Germany’s problems was just not that difficult. Any military man will tell you that the way to pull a divided group together is to give them a common enemy. This is what Hitler did, when he came to power in 1933 as chancellor. He threaded this philosophy through the Nazi Party, directing his diatribes against those who leaned left politically. Yet the Nazis pointed out the linkage between Jews and the left; Jews and crime; Jews and unpatriotic behavior. If people hated Jews already for religious reasons or economic reasons, giving them another reason to hate them was not really going to be difficult. So when Hitler said that the biggest threat to the German state was an attack on the purity of the German people, and so her uniqueness must be guarded at all costs—well, it gave us something to be proud of again. The threat of Jews was in the mathematics. They would mingle with ethnic Germans in order to raise their own status and in doing so, would bring down Germany’s dominance. We Germans needed Lebensraum—living space—to be a great nation. Without room to expand, there was little choice: you went to war to conquer territory and you got rid of the people who were a threat to Germany, or who weren’t ethnic Germans like you. By 1935, when I was already a young man, Germany had left the League of Nations. Hitler announced that Germany would be rebuilding its army, which had been forbidden after the first Great War. Of course, had any other country—France, England—stepped in and stopped him, what happened might not have happened. But who wanted to go back to war that quickly? It was easier just to rationalize what was happening, to say he was only taking back what had once belonged to Germany. And in the meantime, in my country, there were jobs again—factories for munitions and guns and planes. People were not making as much money as they used to, and they were working longer hours, but they were able to support their families. By 1939, the German Lebensraum extended through the Saar, the Rhineland, Austria, the Sudetenland, and the Czech lands. And finally, when the Germans moved into Danzig, Poland, the English and French declared war. I will tell you a little bit about myself as a boy. My parents desperately wanted their children to have a better life than they had—and the answer, they believed, was in education. Surely people who had learned how to invest better would not have found themselves in such dire financial straits. Although I wasn’t particularly bright, my parents wanted me to test into Gymnasium, the most academic education possible in Germany, the one whose graduates were university-bound. Of course, once there, I was always picking fights or clowning around, anything to hide the fact that I was in way over my head. My parents would be called into school weekly to see the headmaster, because I had failed another test, or because I’d come to blows with another student in the hall over a petty dispute. Luckily, my parents had another star to hitch their wagon to—my brother, Franz. Two years younger than me, Franz was studious, his head always buried in a book. He would scribble away in notebooks that he hid underneath his mattress and that I would routinely steal to embarrass him. They were full of images I did not understand: a girl floating in an autumn pond, drowned because of a lost love; a deer hollowed by hunger picking through the snow for a single acorn; a fire that started in a soul and consumed the body, the bedding, the house surrounding it. He dreamed of studying poetry at Heidelberg, and my parents dreamed with him. And then, one day, things began to change. At Gymnasium, there was a contest to see which class could first get 100 percent participation in the Hitler-Jugend. In 1934, joining the Hitler Youth was not mandatory yet, mind you. It was a social club, like your Boy Scouts, except we also swore allegiance to Hitler as his future soldiers. Under the guidance of adult leaders, we would meet after school, and go camping on weekends. We wore uniforms that looked like those the SS wore, with the Sig Rune on the lapel. I, who at age fifteen chafed at sitting at a desk, loved being outside. I excelled at the sports competitions. I had a reputation for being a bully, but that was not necessarily fair—half of the time I was beating someone to a pulp because he had called Franz a sissy. I desperately wanted my class to win. Not because I had any great allegiance to the Führer but because the local leader of the HJ Kameradschaft was Herr Sollemach, whose daughter, Inge, was the prettiest girl I had ever seen. She looked like an ice queen, with her silver-blond hair and her pale blue eyes; and she and her friends did not know I existed. This, I realized, was an opportunity to change that. For the competition, the teacher put everyone’s names on the board, erasing those of the boys who joined the HJ, one by one. There were some who joined out of peer pressure; some who joined because their fathers said they had to. There were more than a dozen, however, who joined because I threatened to pound them in the school yard if they did not. My brother refused to join the Hitler-Jugend. In his classroom, he and one other boy were the only ones who didn’t. We all knew why Artur Goldman did not join—he could not. When I asked Franz why he would align himself with a Jew, he said he didn’t want his friend Artur to feel like he was being left out. A few weeks later, Artur stopped going to school and never came back. My father encouraged Franz to join the Hitler-Jugend, too, to make new friends. My mother made me promise to watch over him at our meetings. “Franz,” she would say, “isn’t strong like you.” She worried about him camping out in the woods, getting sick too easily, not connecting with the other boys. But for the first time in her life, she didn’t have to worry about me. Because as it turned out, I was the poster child for the Hitler-Jugend. We would hike and sing and do calisthenics. We learned how to line up in military formations. My favorite activity was Wehrsport—military marching, bayonet drills, grenade throwing, trench digging, crawling through barbed wire. It made me feel like a soldier already. I had such enthusiasm for the Hitler-Jugend that Herr Sollemach told my father I would make a fine SS man one day. Was there any greater compliment? To find the strongest among us, there were also Mutproben, tests of courage. Even individuals who were afraid would be compelled to do what we were told to do, because otherwise the stigma of being a coward would cling to you like a stench. Our first test was climbing the rock wall at the castle, without any safety harness. Some of the older boys scrambled to be in the front of the line, but Franz held back and I stayed with him, as per my mother’s orders. When one of the boys fell and broke his leg, the training was aborted. A week later, as part of our tests of courage, Herr Sollemach blindfolded the group of us. Franz, sitting next to me, held tightly on to my hand. “Reiner,” he whispered, “I’m scared.” “Just do what they say,” I told him, “and it will be over soon.” I had come to see a beautiful liberation in this new way of thinking—which was, ironically, not having to think for myself. At Gymnasium I wasn’t clever enough to come up with the right answer. In Hitler-Jugend, I was told the right answer, and as long as I parroted it back I was considered a genius. We sat in this artificial dark, awaiting instructions. Herr Sollemach and some of the older boys patrolled in front of us. “If the Führer asks you to fight for Germany, what do you do?” Fight! we all yelled. “If the Führer asks you to die for Germany, what do you do?” Die! “What do you fear?” Nothing! “Stand up!” The older boys pulled us to our feet, in a line. “You will be led inside the building to a swimming pool with no water in it, and you will recite the Hitler-Jugend oath and jump off the diving board.” Herr Sollemach paused. “If the Führer asks you to jump off a cliff, what do you do?” Jump! We were blindfolded, so we did not know which of the fifteen of us would be pulled to the diving board first. Until, that is, I felt Franz’s hand being torn away from mine. “Reiner!” he cried. I suppose at that moment I was thinking of nothing but my mother, warning me to take care of my younger brother. I stood up and yanked off my blindfold and ran like crazy past the boys who were dragging my brother into the building. “Ich gelobe meinem Führer Adolf Hitler Treue,” I cried, streaking past Herr Sollemach. “Ich verspreche ihm und den Führern, die er mir bestimmt, jederzeit Achtung und Gehorsam entgegen zu bringen…” I promise to be faithful to my Führer, Adolf Hitler. I promise to him, and to those leaders he has assigned to me, to give them my undivided obedience and respect. In the presence of this blood banner, which represents our Führer, I swear to devote all my energies and my strength to the savior of our country, Adolf Hitler. I am willing and ready to give up my life for him, so help me God. And without looking, I leaped. Wrapped in a coarse brown blanket, my clothes still soaking, I told Herr Sollemach that I was jealous of my brother for being chosen first to prove his allegiance and courage. That was why I had cut him in line. There was water in the pool. Not much, but enough. I knew they could not let us all jump and kill ourselves. But since each of us was being brought into the building individually, we could not hear the splash. I knew, however, that Franz would, because he was already at the edge of the pool. And that, then, he would be able to jump. But Herr Sollemach was less convinced. “It is admirable to love your brother,” he said to me. “But not more than your Führer.” I was careful the rest of that day to avoid Franz. Instead I played Trapper and Indian with abandon. We split up into platoons based on the colors of our armbands and hunted down the enemy to rip off their armbands. Often, these games escalated into full-on brawls; they were meant to toughen us up. Instead of protecting my brother, I ignored him. If he was trampled in the dirt, I wasn’t going to pick him up. Herr Sollemach was watching too closely. Franz wound up with a split lip and bruises up and down his left leg, a nasty scrape on his cheek. My mother would hold me accountable, I knew. And still, when we were walking back home at dusk, he bumped his shoulder against mine. I remember the cobblestones on the street were still warm, from the heat of the day; there was a rising full moon that night. “Reiner,” he said simply. “Danke.” The next Sunday we met at an athletic hall and squared off in boxing matches. The idea was to crown a winner from our group of fifteen boys. Herr Sollemach had brought Inge and her friends to watch, because he knew that boys would show off even more if girls were present. The winner, he said, would get a special medal. “The Führer says that a physically healthy individual with a sound character is more valuable to the völkisch community than an intellectual weakling,” Herr Sollemach said. “Are you that healthy individual?” One part of me was healthy, I knew that much. I could feel it every time I looked at Inge Sollemach. Her lips were pink as ribbon candy, and I bet just as sweet. When she sat down on the bleachers, I watched the rise and fall of the buttons on her cardigan. I thought about peeling back those layers to touch skin, how she would be white as milk, soft as— “Hartmann,” Herr Sollemach barked, and both Franz and I stood. This surprised him for a moment, and then a smile spread across his face. “Yes, yes, why not?” he muttered. “Both of you, into the ring.” I looked at Franz, at his narrow shoulders and his tender belly, at the dreams in his eyes that scattered when he realized what Herr Sollemach wanted us to do. I climbed between the ropes and put on the padded helmet, the boxing gloves. As I passed by my brother, I murmured, Hit me. Inge rang the bell to get us started and then ran back to her girlfriends. One of them pointed at me, and she looked up. For one amazing moment the world stood perfectly still while our eyes met. “Come on,” Herr Sollemach urged. The rest of the boys were cheering, and still I circled Franz with my hands up. “Hit me,” I muttered under my breath again. “I can’t.” “Schwächling!” one of the older boys yelled. Stop acting like a girl! Halfheartedly, I shot out my right fist into my brother’s chest. All the air rushed out of his body as he jackknifed. There was a cheer from the boys behind me. Franz looked up at me in fear. “Fight back,” I yelled at him. I jabbed with my gloves, pulling my punches before I could make contact with his body again. “What are you waiting for?” Herr Sollemach screamed. So I punched Franz, hard, in the back. He fell to one knee, and there was a gasp from the girls in the bleachers. Then he managed to drag himself upright. He pulled back his left fist and threw a punch at my jaw. I do not know what flipped the switch in me. I suppose it was the fact that I had been struck, and was in pain. Or maybe the girls watching, whom I wanted to impress. Maybe it was just the sound of the other boys egging me on. I started beating Franz, in the face, the gut, the kidneys. Over and over, rhythmically, until his face was a bloody pulp and spit bubbled out of his mouth as he collapsed on the floor. One of the older boys jumped into the ring and raised my glove, the conquering champion. Herr Sollemach patted me on the back. “This,” he told the others, “is the face of bravery. This is what the future of Germany looks like. Adolf Hitler, Sieg Heil!” I returned the salute. So did all the other boys. Except my brother. With adrenaline pumping through my veins, I felt invincible. I took on contender after contender, and everyone fell. After years of being punished for letting my temper get the best of me in school, I was being praised for it. No, I was being exalted. That night, Inge Sollemach gave me a medal, and fifteen minutes later, behind the athletic center, my first real kiss. The next day my father called on Herr Sollemach. He was very disturbed by Franz’s injuries. Your son is gifted, Herr Sollemach explained. Special. Yes, my father responded. Franz has always been an excellent student. I am speaking of Reiner, Herr Sollemach said. Did I know this brutality was wrong? Even that first time, when my brother was the victim? I have asked myself a thousand times, and the answer is always the same: of course. That day was the hardest, because I could have said no. Every time after that, it became easier, because if I didn’t do it again, I would be reminded of that first time I did not say no. Repeat the same action over and over again, and eventually it will feel right. Eventually, there isn’t even any guilt. What I mean to tell you, now, is that the same truth holds. This could be you, too. You think never. You think, not I. But at any given moment, we are capable of doing what we least expect. I always knew what I was doing, and to whom I was doing it. I knew, very well. Because in those terrible, wonderful moments, I was the person everyone wanted to be.

~~~

But my mother also would have been the first to tell me that good people are good people; religion has nothing to do with it.

Mother's favorite song...

No matter how many times you hear a story about the Holocaust, there will always be another perspective to learn about. This time, the writer, Jodi Picoult, has brought in the family of two boys who will become part of the military under Hitler. How many of us, today, have asked ourselves and others how is our president getting away with all that is happening. Can't something be done? And, yet, there are some who continue to support him no matter what he does!

Is it true what was said when the mother of the Jewish family began to see and fear what was happening? That there are good and bad people and it has nothing to do with religion? After watching the years since 2015, I tend to "want" to agree, especially as, at present, religion is being used by those who are bad, in their attempt to sway our opinions... Just as happened in WWII...

The book moves back and forth in time, as well as from character to character talking, beginning with Sage who is attending a small-group grief session where people bring things in that they can't get over, such as not being able to get over losing your husband... Sage goes, not saying much, since her mother died three years ago... But really, she is unable to get past the accident that left her face scarred...

It was at a group session that she and Josef started talking. Soon there seemed to be a connection, but Sage can't figure out why... And then he starts talking about what happened during the WWII... Josef is in his 90s and feels like his life should be over, but his health is good... Soon, Josef has come to know Sage well enough to know that she is Jewish... And, he wants to share with her about his life, seek and receive her forgiveness...and then... have her kill him... Yes, you understand correctly... Of course, this is very upsetting to even be asked to participate!

What Josef doesn't know is there is somebody who could possibly be a better individual to whom he should seek forgiveness... Her grandmother... Her grandmother is one who has never found it possible to share about her time during the Holocaust. The only way Sage learned of it is when she saw her tatooed prison number on her grandmother's arm...

Readers will then become intimately involved with exactly what happened during the time leading up to and during the actual deaths of the millions who were killed in the 1940s. If this is your first time reading details, be prepared. The story is disgusting, devastating, and impossible to understand just how humans can treat other humans as they do and have... And, if you haven't read any book on this slaughter of men, women and children, I can tell you that this is an excellent book from which to learn.

The inclusion of those young people who were pulled into the German military based upon lies and manipulation is something that, indeed, we should never forget! In my lifetime, the closest devastation I am aware of is what DJT is doing to the world right now. His words, lies, threats, attacks on people, including the loss of millions of jobs, threats of recessions, and so much more, all to fund a major tax break for the richest people in our country, including himself, is simply incomprehensible...and yet, just as those who followed Hitler, there are those who accept what is being done, such as on the basis of DEI, causing disruption at every level of activity that can possibly be destroyed by criminal actions "mandated..."

As we know that the World must Never Forget, we also see continued wars around the world... Loss of Freedom for Ukraine is practically being handed to Russia by America--one day, then something changes, all on the whim and insanity of one man who has no idea how to constructively lead the U.S. Government. We cannot go backward and lose all that America has gained in the period since WWII! Eighty years... A Lifetime!

Many share their stories; others can't bring themselves to remember their own lives being under such a cruel group of armed men who had total control of each and every one that was killed in their homes, or gathered up to ride toward their deaths, based upon lies they had been told...

No wonder that we now face those who use lies to persuade and then turn their backs on those they have lied to and often destroyed. I recognize that this has turned into more of an opinion piece... However, I, along with millions who are protesting and otherwise speaking out, am compelled to be one of the good people who care about others... No matter whether they are in some way different from me...

It's Sad, don't you think, that millions of people look back at WWII with regret, shame, and, fear of it happening again...

While at the same time, we see attacks against Jews one day and then turning against them another day... Could it be, that, it's really about good people versus bad people... And, it's our time for America to have all of the bad guys, who just happen to be greedy on top of being bad guys?

Still, the surprise ending from The Storyteller reminds us that it is extremely hard to trust anybody who is asking for forgiveness and then wanting you to murder them, all the time while continuing to lie directly to your face...

Our only hope...

Psalm 118:8 It is better to take refuge in the Lord 

than to trust in man.

God Bless Us All

Gabby

Linda S. Prather Presents Raw Justice - An Extraordinary and Memorable Story! A Personal Favorite for 2025

Jack didn’t have to answer her vent. He knew most people believed that law enforcement was always the good guys. Normally, they were, but drugs and money changed things. Politics changed them even more. Corruption and lies invaded every organization eventually. “I’m not trying to get myself killed.” “So why do you keep doing this?” Selina asked. “If it isn’t to get yourself killed, then why?” 

Selina DuVay finished her drink and glanced at the bartender. He lifted a shoulder and let it drop. “Damn it, I paid the bastard a hundred dollars to send Slade my way.” She raised her glass for another drink, and Tim smiled, filled a glass, and headed her way. “Sorry, ma’am, he wasn’t interested. I told him how pretty and sexy you were.” Tim placed the frothy glass of beer in front of her. “I’ll give the money back if you want.” “Keep it.” Selina picked up the glass and sipped. “Did he say where he was going?” “No, ma’am. I believe he’s leaving town soon, though.” Selina reached for her purse. “Keep your money.” He nodded to the beer. “That one is on the house, ma’am.” “Thanks.” Selina took another sip as Tim headed to the bar. She’d hoped Slade would find her attractive and want to talk. Most men did, and it would have made the task before her a hell of a lot easier. 

Putting aside the promise she’d made to Annabelle, she needed Slade. I’m coming for you, Crawley, and before I’m finished, I’ll own everything you possess. “Hey, little lady, buy you a drink?” The deep voice pulled her from her thoughts. She looked into the man’s eyes and shuddered. He reminded her of her stepfather. If evil had a picture in the dictionary, the man in front of her would be there. “No, thank you. I’m meeting my husband here.” The lie rolled off her tongue easily. “He just called to say he was running a little late.” “I had a woman like you, I’d never be late. Why don’t I keep you company until he shows up?” “Not a good idea.” She slid her hand into her purse then wrapped her fingers around the small derringer she kept there. “Maybe you should check out another bar. Who knows, the woman of your dreams might be waiting just down the street.” He placed a hand on her shoulder and moved in close to whisper in her ear. “Listen, bitch, nobody turns Lionel Nelson down. You walk in here and flaunt your stuff, you better be willing to put out. A man has a right to take what’s shoved at him.” Her finger twitched on the trigger. “And a woman has a right to defend herself.” She poked the barrel into his privates. “I suggest you take it elsewhere or lose it.” “Whore.” He shoved her, turned, and stomped out of the bar. “You called that one right, buddy.” The insult rolled off her like the water from this morning’s shower. It was hard to be insulted by the truth. Selina dropped the derringer inside her purse. 

The encounter had left her shaken. She was used to men hitting on her. For the most part, she welcomed it from the ones who were easy to manipulate. “I should have shot the bastard in the balls.” Her thoughts turned to Slade as she finished the cold brew. She knew where he was staying. Maybe if he saw her close up, he would change his mind. Selina waved to Tim as she left the bar and walked in the direction she’d watched Slade go. She studied the crowd around her. Men like Nelson didn’t give up easy. 

“Your feminine charms won’t work on Jack.” Selina sighed and turned toward the voice she knew only she could hear. “He’s a man, isn’t he?” Annabelle laughed. “Yes, but he’s married. Didn’t you see the wedding ring?” “His wife is dead.” “His wife isn’t dead to him, Selina. She will never be dead to him until the men responsible for her death have been dealt with.” Selina shrugged and leaned against a brick wall. “The woman has been dead for two years. He has to get horny eventually.” “You have a quest to finish, Selina. It’s important for me, you, and our people.” “I know what I promised, but I don’t think Slade is the man you were looking for.” “You’ll have to trust me. He is the White Warrior.” Selina rolled her eyes. “White Warriors, Standing Bears, and Medicine Women. I loved watching Longmire as much as you did, but do you know how cheesy those names sound?” Annabelle didn’t answer, but the air of sadness surrounding her enveloped Selina, and guilt washed over her. “I’ll keep my promise, Annabelle. I just haven’t figured out how to do that yet.” “You’ll have help soon.” Selina watched the image of her sister fade away. “She isn’t real. I’m crazy, and what she asked me to do is even crazier.” 

She made her way to the main strip and Blue’s Hall. The band was just starting to play, and she hoped she had a few more days before Slade decided to move on. A lifelong blues fan, she wanted to visit the museum before she left. Or before Crawley finds me and kills me. Maybe Slade was the man Annabelle thought he was. Selina had never met a man who was faithful to one woman. Especially a dead woman. “That still doesn’t mean he’s this White Warrior I’m supposed to find for Annabelle.” She slid onto the barstool. “Pour me a whiskey, Tim.” He placed a shot glass in front of her and filled it. “Want a chaser with that?” “No, just keep the glass full.” She raised it to her lips and downed it. “Too many of these, and I’ll have to call someone to pick you up.” Tim refilled the glass. Selina downed the second glass and grimaced as a slow burn started in her throat and made its way to her stomach. “I don’t have anyone for you to call.” She banged the glass on the counter. “Refill. And leave the bottle.” Tim placed the cork in the bottle. “Sorry, hon, you’ve had enough. That guy you tangled with earlier came back looking for you after you left. Trust me, he’s dangerous.” Selina slid off the stool and waited for the room to stop spinning. “I don’t trust anyone,” she muttered. “You’ll have to trust me.” Annabelle’s words echoed above the noise of the bar. Selina stumbled toward the open doorway. “Annabelle is the only person in my life I trusted.” She scanned the street, looking for Nelson. “And I killed her.”

~~~

I want justice for my wife and partner, but I also want to believe the good guys still outnumber the bad.”

Selina followed Slade from a safe distance as he headed toward Beale Street. It seemed out of character for Slade, but they were in Memphis, and Beale paid tribute to the legendary musicians whose music streamed from open doorways. The horror from the night before weighed heavily on her mind. Until he walked out of the police station, she’d been afraid they’d caught him. He didn’t actually kill the guy. The thought didn’t bring the comfort she desired. Slade had brought the guy there to be killed then just walked away. “You’re thinking too much,” Annabelle whispered beside her. “There’s no way this guy is any kind of warrior. He’s more like the devil’s grim reaper.” “He’s finished in Memphis. If you don’t convince him soon, he’ll walk away.” Selina drew in a deep breath. “I’ll convince him, but I still think you’re wrong.” She stopped for a moment to exchange pleasantries with one of the promoters outside a bar. Tonight, like most nights, the street was packed with tourists from all parts of the world. A glance in the window confirmed another suspicion—she wasn’t the only one following Slade. She studied the man before moving on slowly. He was tall, with an air of authority about him. “I’ll bet his suit is afraid to wrinkle,” she whispered to herself as she moved on, watching his movements in the windows she passed. He would have actually been attractive if she’d liked that sort. Maybe if he would let those dark black curls grow out a little and put a couple of dimples in his cheeks from smiling, she would take a second look if he walked past her on a busy street. “The dude is far too serious for my taste.”

~~~

“Finally.” She opened a search engine and typed in Nita Chickaway. “Not even a one-liner in major newspapers.” Going back to the search engine, she typed in “Indian woman raped on reservation.” “Fu…” She stopped herself from completing the word. She might not have decorum, but it was one word she hated the sound of. Her stepfather had used it every time he came to her room. Rage filled her as she read the articles. It wasn’t just rape Native American women had to worry about. According to the statistics, murders of Native American women were ten times higher than the national rate. One out of three Native American women would be raped in her lifetime, and three out of five were physically assaulted. In the majority of times, the perpetrator was not Native American, so the tribal government couldn’t even prosecute the bastards. Downing the now-lukewarm cup of coffee, she eyed the bottle of whiskey she’d purchased for Slade so he could stop taking the pain pills. “Nope, you’re staying sober, whether you like it or not. You made a promise, and this time, you’re going to keep it.” Because of the darkness of her skin, she’d experienced some prejudice over the years, but nothing like this. The fact that men considered her pretty had made most of it tolerable. She refilled her cup and did another search. Hatcher had called her an old soul, something about an unknown woman. She skimmed the Choctaw legends and myths until she found the one that recounted the story of two hunters. Their families were hungry, but the only thing they managed to kill was a black hawk. Despondent, they stayed in the woods and cooked the hawk. About to eat their meager meal, they were interrupted by strange sounds that caused fear to make their hearts flutter. A woman clothed in white appeared from the forest. “Doesn’t sound like me at all. First, I would never be in the forest, and second, I look terrible in white.” Selina continued to read. The woman beckoned them and told them she was hungry. The poor slobs gave her the hawk. She ate a small portion, gave it back, and thanked them for their kindness. The woman then told the men her father was the Great Spirit of the Choctaws. She asked them to meet her again during the next midsummer moon on the mound she was standing on, then she disappeared. The hunters told no one of their strange experience, but they did return as she had asked. They found a strange plant upon the mound that yielded food, which they cultivated for their tribe. “So she gave them corn, which fed their families for years to come.” Selina shook her head. “As if I believed that bullshit.”

Note: I had to include song because of Good Witch Glinda! LOL

The memory ended as abruptly as it had started. Jack opened his eyes, comparing what he’d just experienced to what the Native Americans called visions. “Memories, Slade. That’s all, and you don’t even know if they’re real.” He shifted on the hard bench as anger over the kids’ taunts about his mother rankled inside him. He knew that black eye was the first of many. Even after her death, a few of them were cruel enough to sing “Ding-Dong! The Witch is Dead.” Most of those wound up with two black eyes. The irony of it was he never knew what he was fighting about. Until now, his memories of his mother had come from pictures and stories his grandfather had told him. He’d never mentioned what Jack suspected now were her psychic abilities, and his grandfather had detested anything paranormal. His mother had tried to prepare him to survive in the future she’d seen for him. His grandfather was only interested in what he’d called saving his soul. “No wonder I’m screwed up.” Jack glanced at the brittle wood again and lit a cigarette. If memories were supposed to make things clearer, this one had failed. The barn doors opened, and Hatcher stood watching him. “Selina was worried about you.” “Just doing a little soul-searching, Hatcher. You ever do that?” “Sweat lodge every six months.” Jack filled his lungs with smoke, held it, then blew out smoke rings. “Did it work for you?” Hatcher chuckled. “Nah, usually confused me.” He glanced at the cigarette. “You should give those things up.” He joined Jack on the bench. Jack glanced at the belly overlapping Hatcher’s pants. “You should lose some weight.” They sat in silence until Jack finished his cigarette and ground the butt out beneath his shoe. “Find anything interesting in your soul?” Hatcher asked. “It’s as screwed up as I am.” Hatcher laughed again. “I didn’t think I was gonna like you, Jack Slade. I believe you’re growing on me.” “Funny you should say that. I thought I could trust you, but I believe you’ve been lying to me all along.” “I lied about some things. It was necessary. No one could convince you that you were the Hunter or White Warrior. You will have to find out for yourself which one you truly are.” Hatcher stood and looked down at him. “Are you staying?” “Haven’t made up my mind yet. Selina said Nita tried to kill herself last week.” He frowned. “I guess that would be two weeks now.” Hatcher nodded. “We took out all the mirrors, but she saw her reflection in the water.” “We need to get her out of that room. Back with her family and friends.” Hatcher slapped him on the back. “Selina has already taken care of that.” They walked toward the huge double doors. “One more thing, Hatcher. If I stay, you cut this hunter and warrior crap. Contrary to what you may think, I’m not who you’re looking for.”

~~~

Two things can be true at the same time. I love this and other books by Linda Prather (search in the right column for more of her books I've read). I also hate what happens to women at the hands of evil men! I couldn't help but compare the plot to what is now happening to eliminate DEI throughout our nation and the world!

Linda has often written about the paranormal. In this book, she has many different individuals who are sending messages across the nation to ensure what is to happen will happen... Ghosts who have attached to a human to ensure that something happens before they go into the light. Some are native american(s) (or part) who are being called back to their home to rid the Tribe of all that was and is happening. Some have bad memories from their early life which returns in dreams as messages or preparation for what is to come... 

What we do know is that the evil men are white and rich and powerful (sound familiar) and they use money to cover the multitude of evil acts that are performed. And, since they live near a local Tribe, and the white man's laws prevents them from charging white men with crimes, a major movement is taking place against the women and girls of the Tribe.

The main story begins when a young beautiful girl is attacked by three white students. She had identified the three, but since the Tribal police had no authority, the local police and FBI were involved and found the three who attacked her innocent. It should be noted that one of the boys was the son of a local Senator. The other two were sons of a rich business owner who knew that his money would take care of any accusations against his sons...

That is, until the three individuals who had been pulled into the area by those in the psychic world, had begun what they ultimately knew they were called to do. Linda! I hope you plan on continuing a series or at least a trilogy, or even one more book... Get the idea, I loved these three totally unanticipated heros!

Jack Slade was the first man who had a bad early life. He had become a law officer until his wife and child were murdered and nothing was done. At that point, he took on a type of vengeance that he could live with... Since he was constantly on the hunt for who had killed his family, he also became known by word of mouth that he was willing to also hunt for those families who'd had family murdered and not convicted. 

In the case of clients, he did the hunting--always finding the guilty person(s) and he then turned the guilty over to the family. They decided what to do. Let's just say, few decided to forgive those guilty...

Selina DuVay was a twin, also with a very bad early life. When her twin was murdered, she went looking for Slade... But, her sister, Annabelle could not rest and had learned what was happening to the local Tribe members. Selina and Annabelle were both involved with Tribal mysticism and were working at that level of communication that only they can achieve! Selina heard what had happened to the young girl who had been not only raped but also cut all over her body so that she would now not talk nor leave her room. Selina knew she could help her... It started with buying a beautiful gown that covered her entire body other than her face... Selina and Slade became a twosome as they began the major job of busting through into the white man's mostly ignored corruption...

Finally, we meet Trent Morelli who is part native and a member of the local Tribe, from which he had deserted and went into the mostly white FBI... But once Jack started, with Clark, his ghost partner, giving him jabs about Morelli's competence and success, things started moving faster... Hate to say it, but corruption had also entered the FBI, it was decided that Morelli, with his connection, should be sent to do what needed to be done... Only thing was that Morelli didn't know then whether even his boss was behind their plan... Trent had been given a list of three Tribe members to identify as the ones who had raped the woman... Of course, they pointed out that the three white guys had already been cleared and these were ones that had been in trouble before??? What the FBI men who talked to him didn't know was that his brother was the head of the Tribal Police Force! Yes, it was hard for Trent to go back after a decade, but he had no choice not to go... What they could not do was force him to convict somebody without proof!

This is a fast-paced thriller which keeps you totally involved from the first page until the last, with a major pause of regrt when this reader lost a favorite character who played a great part...was murdered...

“Why do we have to kill him?” recoiling from the gun the same way he would have a snake ready to strike. His brother backhanded his twin. “Do you want to spend the rest of your life as some prison bubba’s bitch? Take the damn gun!” “What the hell is he going on about?” “Did one of you bastards ask him to come here?” “Why the hell would we ask him to come here?” “He says he’s unarmed.” “Never trust an Indian. I heard he’s a pretty good shot. We stand a better chance outside than we do all cramped together in here.” “We’ll go out on the count of three.” We’ll let the whiner cut him up when we’re finished with him.” “High-five.” “Let’s not hit anything vital. Takes all the fun out of it.” The two burst through the doorway, guns blazing until they emptied the clips. Hatcher lay on the ground a few feet in front of his cruiser. “Do you think he’s dead?” “If he isn’t, he will be.” He approached Hatcher and kicked him in the side. “You dead, Indian?” A moan escaped his lips before Hatcher opened his eyes and smiled. “Not yet. You man enough to finish it, boy?” He was kicked in the side again. “What’s the hurry?” An owl screeched in the forest, and Hatcher laughed. “What is he laughing at, creeping closer, and Hatcher laughed again. This place is giving me the creeps.” “Yeah, go get the whiner, kicking Hatcher in the leg and chuckled when it elicited another moan. “What’s the matter, big man? Did that hurt?” “Nah, just had a touch of gas.” Hatcher laughed again. “We saved him for you. Finish him off.” “Let’s just go. He’s dying anyway. Let him bleed out.”  

“Come on, boys. You started this together. Finish it together. Three shots straight to the heart.” Hatcher winked and chuckled as another screech echoed closer by. “The owls are coming.”  “He’s right. We have to do it together.” Hatcher’s chest made a slurping sound as the bullet struck. “Not so funny now, is it, big man?” Another fired twice, both shots to the chest. “Your turn." He emptied his clip into Hatcher’s chest. “Anybody want to make sure he’s dead?” Then, another raised his gun and placed a bullet between Hatcher’s eyes. “He’s dead. Let’s get the hell out of here.” A helicopter passed slowly overhead. “Forget the bitch,”  “We’ve got to move.” “I’d still like to know what he was laughing about, he said as he rushed for the Corvette.

(edited to leave out names.)

The psychic activities with background was especially well done in my opinion. Highly recommended!

GABixlerReviews

A Nod and a Red Sign... and other Poems by Michaella S.C. - Including One in Spanish...

 

I can't believe we went through all that

For us not to say goodbye

A nod and a red sign

But I want to hear you say the words

Tell me to stop.

Tell me to stay.

Tell me "What are we doing?

We can't let go yet"

I turn and there is no one there

Not a person to argue

Not even one to stare

Just an old red sign asking me to stop

I keep walking

If the universe wanted, you will be the sign.

- This was not a midnight poem, but it was an insomnia one.

Si te hago un poema, 

¿Me lo respondes de vuelta?

 Si te escribo pistas

 ¿Entenderás la respuesta?

 Si te lo digo con abrazos y caricias

 ¿Me seguirás el juego?

 Si te lo digo con un beso

 ¿Entenderás entre versos?

Te entrego atardeceres,

 para que me des tus noches.

 Te regalo mis amaneceres,

 para que te escapes en mis suspiros.

 Te dedico mis recuerdos para que

 puedas vivir otro día en ellos.

 Te extraño en cada juego de

 miradas en el espejo

 Descansa en paz y deja el

 insomn en mi lecho.

Ah, my child, though I cannot write back,

Know that I love you and

Hold you tight in my dreams. 

Yes, I can still dream of you

 and send you love back.

You look to the sky--sunset and sunrises.

Do you not know, that I am always with you,

Resting in God's Love and yours... Always...

"You are just like her" she said as she left the room And suddenly there was another name on her lips when she saw me, there was another face and feeling. I wasn't me. I was her. I had her tone of voice

 That remarks  that you are stupid, without saying it. 

I had her eyes that look at you as you walk with anger. Why're you walking away from her? 

I had her pain, anger, vengeance and malice. 

I didn't feel like causing pain. 

But did I look like I was enjoying it like her? 

Was I ignorant of the damage I had done? 

She became a shadow in the corner of my eye

As she whispered "you would never escape nature. Now come back to momma, dear. Is time to sleep."

I stare blankly at you

Nothing but rocks and blood 

I am supposed to belong

You care for me and heal Wounds,

 Scare away Shadows that pain me. 

Everytime I come to you, 

It feels shallow Like talking in an empty room 

So I start to scream, Fill the space 

My eyes water, My throat dries. 

And I say I felt your warm. But it isn't true. 

I only feel like I am in a deeper hole. 

They force me to feel everything 

So when there is nothing left 

I will feel at peace. 

I don't. It's just an unfulfilled promise...

~~~

Tumblr - Confessions of a Writing Mayo @theraininthestars

Instagram - https://www.instagram.com/mayo_confess?igsh=eXBkbHlmZHZyMjI4 t

this is my Instagram handle: @mayo_confesshat is my Instagram - this is my Instagram handle: @mayo_confess

Hi Everybody, I've had a special guest poet today that I met on Tumblr...I read the first poem above and commented "Keep Writing..." but she did contact me regarding sharing here at Book Readers Heaven... I got the first poem ready, but I wanted more, so she sent me two more. I hope you like them... Although I have said many times that I don't have the background for reviewing poetry--I normally respond to the words most of all, I did agree to share my thoughts...

This individual, I feel, must write! She has found an outlet for expression that speaks for her as well as spoke to me, and I believe, will speak to others. She mostly writes in Spanish and I asked to include one here. Of course, I immediately went out and translated, LOL. For that one, I felt a response--perhaps not a response that was expected, but it felt right as I wrote it...

When we are young, our emotions are so strong, aren't they? It seems that there is nobody who can understand what we are going through. And yet, when you are brave enough to write a poem--yes, brave enough--you will find that there is not many, but a few who will find that your words have spoken about what you yourself, and they, have experienced... In the first two poems there is a reaching out to a special someone, while in the third, there is a plea--Don't you know I didn't want to cause pain and I certainly didn't enjoy it? Why oh why do we all get into these types of situations? These words force us to think about how we treat others, don't they?

Some people may not, but there will always be somebody who will listen or read what you've written. I find I am sympatico with this writer... and realize that she will need to become even more open to continue to write and work to learn other languages. That is a challenge that I believe should be taken and, indeed, Keep Writing, Michaella!

If some of you are Spanish speaking, I hope you will be sure to leave comments below... Michaella, I hope you will visit Book Readers Heaven again and perhaps...as an ongoing contributor!?

GABixlerReviews