Why Write Online Book Reviews
Do you get e-mails or requests to review books you’ve read? Do you hesitate? Did you know your single review impacts further sales and even the ability of the publisher to advertise the book? Want to know more? Would you like help to write that review? For more tips, visit….. Guidelines for Writing Online Book Reviews.
I’m standing in the middle of my story,
writer, actor, and director.
I choose the words carefully;
They are not scripted for me, but by me.
I choose how to play out the scenes,
Knowing I’m my own stuntman and could get hurt.
And I choose how to direct my energy,
How to live day by day, each day a gift I give myself.
I’m excited to share that I now have a book of poetry, Power of a Raindrop, published and available at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and through the publisher. If you order from the publisher, the first 10 to order will receive 15% off the retail price. http://shop.ravenbooks.net.
When I let my fingers do the walking, the yellow pages are my street. When my fingers run, they ruffle through your hair, then slow to a crawl as they tenderly caress your face. But let my fingers do the typing, and the gate opens. Thoughts cross the threshold from my mind with prose flashing across the screen as fast as the fingers can go.
Today’s challenge asked for poetic style in prose format, fingers as the subject, with assonance (same vowel sounds within prose without being a rhyme).
Flowing summer streams,
Spring’s frozen waters
melt like Frosty the Snowman
to create new streams.
Summer sprinklers spurt
iridescent teardrops for
children to play in.
Sixty percent water,
yet still I thirst; hydrate me
so I’ll wrinkle less.
rivers, rain, return to earth–
Drop by drop, dribbling,
gushing forth. Water quenches
all sizes of thirst.
a body of lake water,
aqueous gold of life.
Presented with a challenge to write a water haiku, I overflowed; I couldn’t stop with one. These are not designed to flow from one to another but to be enjoyed individually.
Countless pages marked,
labeled as favorite,
synced and shared.
Now, literally hundreds
of electronic bookmarks
clutter my browser,
rarely used, oft forgotten.
Yet ask me about the single cross
Grandma crocheted for me
and I can tell you not only the
favorite passages it marked, but also
where it is at any given moment,
and what bookmarks mean to me.
Chin resting upon my hand,
fingers drumming the table,
I stare into space,
waiting for my head to clear,
for the writer’s block to disappear.
But I’m starting to fear
that I waited too long,
for my dry spell is broken
by a haunting melody echoing
through my empty head,
Dem Dry Bones is all I can hear!
Dem Dry Bones is a song in which bones are connected and disconnected through the verses.
Ignited by passion,
words fuel the fire
simmering in my mind
until, like popcorn, they
explode into verse.
The reader may not know
the color of the original kernel,
how my fire changed it, or
how much seasoning it took.
They probably don’t even care
if I made a cinquan or rondeau,
or if it’s full of iambs or spondees.
But, like all chefs, I hone my knife,
tenderly slice into the finished dish
and serve it with my complements.
Mama used to say,
“Stop beating around the bush,
Just spit it out.”
But my poetry teacher says,
“Don’t tell us, show us;
Well, I’d really like to comply
so with this story I’ll give it a try…
Little Johnny wanted to drink
but not from the kitchen sink.
So, after bidding his mother farewell,
he headed toward the new-fangled well.
Having heard it dug vast and deeper,
he borrowed Mom’s long-handed dipper.
Holding steadfast, he repeatedly dipped it,
quenched by words and concepts he scripted.
Four years of drinking up knowledge,
earned him a degree from this well-known college.
His mama, having known where he’d been,
wished us to celebrate with her and with him:
Come celebrate, we’re proud as can be—
our own Johnny, a college degree!
Now if you ask me,
I think mama was right,
No need to beat around the bush,
Just spit it out.
“Johnny graduated college.
“Many paths lead from the foot of the mountain, but at the peak we all gaze at the single bright moon.”
Ikkyū (一休宗純 Ikkyū Sōjun?, 1394–1481) (self-named: “Crazy Cloud”) was an eccentric, iconoclastic Japanese Zen Buddhist monk and poet. He had a great impact on the infusion of Japanese art and literature with Zen attitudes and ideals. Wikipedia via Kodansha Encyclopedia of Japan, entry “Ikkyū” by James H. Sanford
“Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment, until it becomes a memory.”
Often credited to Dr. Seuss, originally attributed to Georges Duhamel in THE HEART’S DOMAIN (1919). Originally composed in French, the wording in English varies slightly in translations. This is such a beautiful translation.
“We do not know the true value of our moments until they have undergone the test of memory. Like the images the photographer plunges into a golden bath, our sentiments take on color; and only then, after that recoil and that transfiguration, do we understand their real meaning and enjoy them in all their tranquil splendor.“
The smell, like steam,
rises to warm me.
It reminds me of helping mom
in the kitchen while growing up:
for the evening meals;
for nightly desserts.
As the smells intensify,
memories drift to
my own years of cooking
meals for my family, or
baking goodies like
and Birthday cakes.
Yet, this year, I’m not in a kitchen.
The delicious smells wafting through
the house are complements of a
retired husband with a passion
for trying new recipes, while I am
afforded the pleasure of writing
in my sanctuary.
And do you know what I’ve discovered?
I never knew I didn’t like to cook…
Until I didn’t.
creatively slim, condenses
one’s life to a book, 8 by 10.
A few select photos,
a couple of words, and
Viola’! my whole life is preserved.
I should be happy that
these memories are saved,
and beautifully bound.
Yet, I feel like I cheated,
that I’ve muzzled my muse;
I must not let her
return to her box.
Do you suppose it would be unlucky if one would
write a 13-line poem, with 13 syllables per
line, on Friday the 13th in the year two thousand
thirteen while standing under a ladder on one foot?
Just in case it is,
I’ll choose to write today,
Friday, December 13, 2013,
sitting in my easy chair,
with a gold horseshoe on the wall,
a four-leaf clover in my wallet,
holding my lucky rabbit’s foot
in my left hand as I scribe
this poem with my right hand…
May the evil superstitions
that tend to hang around
bid adieu, goodbye, farewell
as they exit from your town.
Happy Friday the Thirteenth!