Poetry

Beyond the naked eye

Yours is the shaded bench placed beside the stream where tired walkers rest their feet whilst watching the ducks at play.

Yours is the mansion with the ivy climbing high to the window of the first floor bedroom, where its creeping tendrils lightly finger the latch.

Yours is the garden that is home to upright stones marked with old names, beaten down by wind and rain to become unreadable.

And yours is the oak tree that has been growing for a thousand years, whose roots intertwine with the forgotten skulls in the invisible pit.

Poetry

The Vision

As the weightless wings brush my face,

fluttering against my vision,

I feel the path open up again.

A shallow wave licks my ankles

and fills the rock pools

with miniature lifeforms

that have no idea I’m here.

Like full lips parting

the wave draws back.

My feet follow,

ignoring the jagged rocks

that threaten to pierce the skin.

In the distance,

I see the family beckon to me,

holding out their hands for me to grasp.

But I’m bodiless,

my grip lost

to the horizon.

Once again,

I must turn away.

Poetry

Cubed

Inside the neat black cube

lies a silver heart.

It has never felt the breath of air

that comes from an open box.

 

For all its years,

the metal is worn

only slightly;

if it were of flora,

then it would be as green

as the newest seedling

and have experienced

even less.

 

A sudden jolt

jars the black cube.

It falls from its perch

down

to the floor.

The heart doesn’t know

what to do.

Its world is changing.

The cube is broken;

air and light finally leak in.

Poetry

Playing cards

I search through the deck of cards, upsetting the neatness of the stack. It doesn’t matter, I can tidy them later; line them up and place them all in order, making sure everything is correct, that the story still flows.

Out of line is the only way I can see the stats clearly, see my qualities measured against each other.

Can I really call them qualities?

I don’t know, but at least I have proof that they exist. That I exist. Until my small house of cards tumbles to the floor.

Uncategorized

The Importance of the Book Pre-Order to Authors

I’ve never considered this. But then, most of the books I’m interested in, I pre-order anyway.

A Writer's Path

by John Briggs

Does it really matter if you order a book online before its official release date? Before its “book birthday” as they say in publishing? Well, maybe not to the reader, who’s happy to get the book they want to read when they want to read it, but pre-orders can make a huge difference to a book’s success.

How does a pre-order change the odds compared to a regular order?

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Poetry

Just drifting

I have a little boat

made of brown,

overlapping leaves.

As it floats down the steady, gentle stream,

I lie back

and hook

my legs over the side

so my toes

kiss the cool water.

The movement makes a ripple.

The ripple knocks

against my little boat,

lulling me into a soft doze.

I walk in and out of dreams,

drifting along

enjoying the journey,

unconcerned by where

I might end up.

Just like my little boat,

edging on,

unconcerned,

down the stream.

 

Poetry

The direction of melody

Sometimes a song catches in your head, going back and forth and around and around, like a wheel attached to a giant pendulum. It can lift you up, high enough to bring on fear but lose it at the same time, or it can bring you down, low enough to ground your feet for a moment and rest from the dizziness of the world.  And sometimes it can leave you hovering in mid-air, giving you time to process everything up to that instant. That’s when you have the chance to choose: up, or down?

Poetry

Always overhead

The umbrella looks down at me, taking in the shape of my head, the faint line of my hair parting and the curve of my neck as I stare at the puddle by my feet. In it, I can see the grey sky clearing. The umbrella’s work is almost done. In fact, the light, misty drops that tickle its top are barely enough to worry about. Yet the umbrella is rooted to my hand. Perhaps, like I once needed it, it now needs me.

Poetry

Between the hour and the minute

They tied themselves together, linking their hands with an elaborate wrap of solder. It was all for the dance; preparation for the endless twirling and spinning that was set to take place during the sixty seconds between midnight and one minute past. But that minute is never just a minute; to the right people, it is an eternity. They were the right people. They never came back.