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How to we go from here? How do we fix the cracks in our broken love…not even flecks of scattered gold can cover the damages love

How to we remedy the pain we’ve caused each other, the mess we created with the emotions that pour from ours haunts

Those ghosts that keep us up in the middle of the night. The ones that steal the gold, first in pieces, than in full. Leaving us to stare into the space they once belonged.

Maybe you just don’t know, maybe you just don’t care,

How can you sleep when these tears keep falling from my eyes.

I never know what to say to help you see, help you understand. But I shouldn’t have to.

You can’t read my mind, and I can’t expect things to go my way, the way they do in my head, because then we’d both become fools.

So…

Most writers dream of seeing their name in print.  Being published in a journal or E-zine was always an honor for me, but I still hungered to see my name on the cover and spine of a book.  Like many of you, I craved to hold in my hands a book that I had created out of my words, out of my very soul, that was uniquely and tangibly mine.

One of the questions I wrestled with is: am I ready to put together a manuscript to self-publish or shop to publishing houses?  Is the time right?  A lot of factors went into making that decision.  I asked myself everything from: ‘have I grown enough as a writer?’ to ‘do I have a big enough body of work to pull from?’ to ‘do I have an adequate social media presence and fan base?’  This may seem like an odd question…

I guess I never learned how to lose gracefully. It’s in my bones, constantly reminding me that first place is the only win that counts and second place is the same as losing. So, I never lost. I grew with winning caught in my teeth to make sure I always tasted it and it was much too sweet to not want more. Competition was a needle, bringing me straight to the front of the line with my arms straight out waiting. There is no pain in winning, stick it in my vein so deep, I need another taste. It was a quick fix that showed me the conditions laced through love have a price and you better fucking earn it. There’s no time for tired, like there’s no room for sick, so you better get your ass on that field and run those bases like death is right behind you…

(https://en.wikipedia.org)

Toni Morrison, the great American writer, died today at the age of 88. Morrison wrote many important works, among them Beloved, Sula, and Song Of Solomon.

Ms. Morrison was a writer of brilliance, and she wrote of the experience of African-Americans and of humanity in general. Her work covered historical time spans and incorporated Modernism and Magic Realism.

Ms. Morrison was also an accomplished teacher and mentor. She received the Presidential Medal of Freedom from President Obama in 2012. Ms. Morrison also won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1993.

Ms. Morrison was one of our greatest writers, and I am sure she will be remembered in the future of one of the most skilled, talented, and accomplished of American writers.

Please remember her by reading her works.

R.I.P. Toni Morrison

A Balassi Stanza

In the gold of sunlight,
I watch birds fly, alight
On lush trees and fragrant blooms;
A carefree, sundry spree.
Wind carouses with glee
Murmuring its bouquet tunes
Where azure skies lilt, blush
A heady summer rush:
Harvesting tangy perfumes.

Monarchs rise from slumber,
Nectarine hued cruiser,
Where ambrosial dreams throng
Meadows, glades evergreen
Dazzling eyes with their sheen;
The air flutes with birdsong
Skylarks, Chaffinchs hum, waltz
On dewed breeze somersaults,
Enchanting me, summerlong.




Balassi stanza can be defined as a stanza or verse form consisting of nine lines with syllable count 667667667, rhyming structure is bbaccadda.
The Balassi stanza is named after Hungarian Balint Balassi regarded as the first great lyricist of the Hungarian language.

Pushing through the masses running the opposite way

Andrea finally found the source of the hysteria

Necromancer and his undead minions were inducing dread

It made her furious and that insulated her from the induced terror

Clutching her glowing baseball bat she yelled, “Batter up!”

Image: americanmadeglasspipes.com/wp-content/uploads/2016/07/glow-in-the-dark-glitter-bat-2-247×296.jpg