Costumes (Friday’s Free-For-All)

Before I share let me say, I am aware of the cynical tone of this piece.

I said, “of this piece” because I am not a cynical person. Sarcastic, yes, but not cynical.

It’s not the quarantine or the Covid 19 bug that is bugging me, hell it’s not even the empty shelves in the grocery stores or having to wipe with an oak leaf. That is not a big deal, remember I was a piss poor country bumpkin so this just reminds me of happier days as a child.

So what brought about this Friday’s Free-For-All on this Good Friday? It’s the peee-puuul! Well not ALL the people – and definitely not you friend. (Insert winky face, smiley face and through in a bunch of virtual hugs)

Sigh. People never fail to amuse me.

So while I am feeling amused during this holy time I thought I’d get up on my Hickory stump podium and compose a poem. (And a picture)

Costumes

You look for your Jesus in a cheap red suit in December and a bunny suit come Easter.

You dress Him in costumes and [unknowingly?] mock His sacrifice.

You keep Him naked, wounded and nailed to a cross; not to remind you that he was the Passover Lamb but to have him languish in his suffering. You sacrifice him over and over again, creating molten images to hold him on the cross.

You have married Him to Santa and a goddess named Easter/Ishtar; you worship their imaginary offspring of pretty packages and hard boiled eggs, savory sweets and bunny rabbits… none of which can save you. Ha! These objects of your affection are inanimate – they cannot even save themselves!

You dress for the occasion – Sunday’s best. Is this your costume?

Donned in your fetching attire you sit down to feast and stuff your belly with unclean meats and your spirit starves. But it’s “holy”. .. So holy! You take it all in and shit it out. Cleansing?

Amidst fearful news you fret over toilet paper and regurgitate biblical verses [verses you haven’t taken the time to read, much less comprehend] and warn of Christ’s coming… of the great rapture.

Ohhh child, you are ripe for the devil’s picking.

Have a blessed Good Friday & Happy Easter Y’all

No Fooling (Oh and…)

I am doing a new experiment with an old retailer.

Smashwords, based in Los Gatos, California, is an e-book-distribution platform founded by Mark Coker for independent authors and publishers. The company began public operation in 2008. Wikipedia

Okay maybe Smashwords isn’t that old but it is older than my Indie Adventures.

So, here’s the deal. Smashwords has a publishers option to let the reader decide the price they are willing to pay for a book as in: “You set the price!”

Yep! You can pay $0.00 or $1,000,000,000 for a book. It’s up to you. And I have made that option available for all of my titles with Smashwords. Seriously. No fooling.

Man wouldn’t that be cRaZy nice if someone dropped a million bucks on one (or all) of my books. Woo-hoo! I would be like, (happy dance ensues)

“Yo fans and frenz it’s party at my place.” We would have soooo much fun with beers and grilling and…

(Dream comes to screeching halt. Author frowns and regains composure.)

Anyway… Check it out. [Note not all titles are up on their site yet and many copies at Smashwords are from years ago but I am trying to update while adding to the list.]

I’ll let y’all know how the “You set the price” experiment goes sometime in the near future.

Oh And…

You all know April is National Poetry Month so we have that to look forward to, right? Right!

In the mean while just look at my Nectarine tree blooming and making little baby Nectarines. The babies look like something from a horror film now but before long they will be scary delicious.

Does anyone have a poem about Nectarines?

No? Well here’s to inspiration.



Let’s Talk About It Tuesday (A Poem & A Picture)

Let’s Talk Poe(try). What would National Poetry Month be without some Poe?

Talk Alone A Poem & A Picture

It seems Edgar Allan Poe was born an orphan and subsisted as a lonely dejected urchin all his life. His father David Poe Jr. abandoned his mother Elizabeth early on. A couple of years after his disappearance Elizabeth Poe died of tuberculosis; all before little Eddie was three years old.

A couple named John and Frances Allan took Edgar into their home and fostered him until adulthood or the age of eighteen. At 18 Poe joined the United States Army under the alias Edgar A. Perry claiming to be twenty-two years old because he could not [reportedly] find gainful employment

Tick tock tick tock.

Frances died and Poe was disowned by John Allan—the men had been at odds for some time. Poe did not turn out be the man Allan expected and Allan turned out to be a man Poe despised. One could not abide the other’s vices. That is my summation.

Poe had problems. He drank too much, dreamed too much and lived with depression. That’s undoubtedly obvious.

Tick tock tick tock.

Poe married his first cousin Virginia when he was 26, she was half his age.  Yeah, and after a decade of harmony guess what? January 30th 1847 she died of tuberculosis.

Alone again and in failing health Poe became increasingly unstable. On October 3rd 1849 he was found wandering the streets of Baltimore bedraggled and in a state of delirium. Four days later on October 7th 1849 Edgar Allan Poe died in hospital. Alone.

Alone

From childhood’s hour I have not been

As others were – I have not seen

As others saw – I could not bring

My passions from a common spring –

From the same source I have not taken

My sorrow – I could not awaken

My heart to joy at the same tone –

And all I lov’d – I lov’d alone –

Then – in my childhood – in the dawn

Of a most stormy life – was drawn

From ev’ry depth of good and ill

The mystery which binds me still –

From the torrent, or the fountain –

From the red cliff of the mountain –

From the sun that ’round me roll’d

In its autumn tint of gold –

From the lightning in the sky

As it pass’d me flying by –

From the thunder, and the storm –

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view –

The poem was never printed during Poe’s lifetime. It was first published by E. L. Didier in Scribner’s Monthly for September of 1875, in the form of a facsimile. The facsimile, however, included the addition of a title and date not on the original manuscript. That title was “Alone,” which has remained. Doubts about its authenticity, in part inspired by this manipulation, have since been calmed. The poem is now seen as one of Poe’s most revealing works. Original available Maryland Historical Society

The official cause of death is not recorded, perhaps it is not known. Speculations abound. Alcoholism, tuberculosis, syphilis, encephalitis, concurrent disease, murder…

All I know is this: He was only forty years old and was (like most of us) his own worst enemy. Despite his inner darkness I think Edgar Allan Poe managed to shine a light. I pray he is not alone and that the demon no longer hinders his view.

His remains are buried at Westminster Hall Church in Baltimore, Maryland.

Mull it Over Monday (A Poem & A Picture)

We are going to mIx iT uP this final week of NMP. Today (Monday) let’s take a look at Poet Dreaming by Loretta Diane Walker and mull it over.

Mull it. Ha! That sounds like a fish or a bad haircut.

Tsk!Tsk! Ignore the clown behind me and clear your mind.

poet dreaming A poem & A Picture

Poet Dreaming

By Loretta Diane Walker

(Originally found at Poetry Breakfast)

No sky could hold so much light.

—Mary Oliver

Poems are nomads paddling through darkness

collecting words from the arms

of Orion, Sagittarius, and Perseus

before camping in a poet’s dream.

She sees souls as colliding galaxies,

holes of light burning

with millions to trillions of stars

too bright to fit in the cavity of sky.

 

Those stars are poems

crammed in the dusty envelopes of mortal bodies,

shimmering beneath white ribbons of bone.

A silhouette of stars floats in the window of her eye.

The energy of need forces tiny hands to brush

against the small wings of a sigh hovering in the evening.

 

She hears the silhouette speak

in a voice the timbre of a piccolo,

“Look Mommy! I caught a butterfly.”

On the other side of her dream, she sees the light of joy,

and a moth beating its powdery gray life

in the basket of a child’s palms.

From In This House published by Blue Light Press.

Now let us ponder…

I was immediately captivated by the first line poems are nomads paddling through darkness. I could literally perceive souls as colliding galaxies and got lost in the poetry until I felt like Loretta Diane Walker pressed me [unwilling] into a mortal body and awakened me to the wonder of a child’s voice. I regret I do not have a better photograph to compliment the imagery of the poem. I even added stars among the fireworks in this picture but it does not suffice… Oh well. In short, Poet Dreaming was a relatable piece and by golly I liked it! As a matter of fact I heard a little bird say I will be getting a copy of In This House for Mother’s Day.

I wrote some poetry once Getting Me Back (The Voices Within)

I am Going To Bed Until My Hair Grows Out (A Poem & A Picture by Me & of Me)

Haircut

I am Going To Bed Until My Hair Grows Out

I am going to bed until my hair grows out

A month a year I do not care

It is bobbed, butchered and ruined no doubt

So I’m going to bed till my hair grows out

 

Halt the mail and hold my calls

Store my stuff in ole mothballs

Give away my favorite dolls

I will be old when my hair grows out

 

*Patience, personal evolution and creativity can all be learned from a single bad haircut.

Reminder: Getting Me Back (The Voices Within) will be FREE April 18th through the 21st while we do this A Poem & A Picture by Me & of Me.

Hemingway’s Beloved (A Poem & A Picture by Me & of Me)

Okay, I might have been wrong in yesterdays post. We received [well] over 13 downloads of Getting Me Back. Thanks y’all. It wouldn’t matter if we got 13 million – we are sticking to the plan. We bought the ticket – we’ll take the ride. That’s my spin on a Hunter S. Thompson quote. JANNA HEMINGWAY DRUNK & DISHEVELED (731x800)

This photo was taken in front of Hemingway’s house in Key West, Florida. Of course it is now a museum. I look like I am either drunk or crying. I think it was both. Talking to ghosts sometimes has that effect on me.

Hemingway’s Beloved

Did you shake his hand –?

the hand of a man’s man?

Did you see how his eyes searched the space around him as the world grew smaller?

Did you learn the secrets of Africa or discuss his tomes over drinks?

Of course not.

You could not for we were mere children –

our wedding day marking the twenty second anniversary of his exodus… his rise to immortality.

He won the Nobel Prize for Literature the year you were born – did you know that?

I was but two months in the womb when he placed the beloved twelve-gauge inside his mouth and obliterated the ciphering pheasants once and for all.

Did you see how he caressed her?

How her cold, soft metal against his finger was as pacifying as the perfect daiquiri… how she (his beloved) alas cured him of the demons.

In a flash she rooted them loose one by one from their hiding place – a place liquor nor currents could mole; a cavern so deep no joule or watt could grasp. Ahh, but she did.

She exorcized them, set them to flight riding on soft grey tissue laden with hemochromatosis and fragments of bone.

Christ might have offered the fiends a swine but not her or better yet not him…

A sacrifice for the Bay of Pigs?

It was all such folly — such unholy madness for a simple man and a literary saint.

~o~o~o~

*Hemingway’s Beloved was first published in the HWA (Horror Writers Association) Poetry Showcase Volume I.

So Getting Me Back (The Voices Within) will still be FREE April 18th through the 21st while we do this A Poem & A Picture by Me & of Me.

What else can I say about Ernest Hemingway that has not already been [acceptably] said?