Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts

Wednesday, 9 December 2015

Drabble Wednesday: Fall

It’s time for another Drabble Wednesday, and today we fall from grace, the sky, and loneliness…




Choices

One step.
Down the dangerous path.
One step aside of normal.
Tumbling into that dark temptation, past self-preservation. Hoping you don’t get caught, but loving the adrenaline rush. That’s how it feels the first time. Your heart pounding, your breath seemingly frozen in your throat, right before you thrust the knife. There’s nothing better than watching someone bleed out, seeing that pool of red seep into ever widening circles. Knowing someone else’s fear. Knowing you ended a life. That you held all the power.
It just takes one small step.
So, what do you think? Are you ready to try?

~*~




From Heaven

Have you ever felt the delicate wisp of cloud vapour tickle your face?
I have. I’ve raced the migrating birds, and soared through sunbeams at the edge of the world. I’ve flown past snow-capped mountain peaks, and let the starlight touch my wings. Children of sorrow took shelter under those strong wings, and I flew far. To the heavens and back, and all the beauty in-between.
Sweet memories tucked away to warm my thoughts. To chase away regret, that one mistake. Sometimes I stare at the sky and pray, but I can’t go back.
Fallen angels don’t get second chances.

~*~




Ardency Perception

Free falling into sunlight, aloft on capricious summer winds. Every sense reworked, floating as downy feathers, each sundry care dispelled in dappled daydreams. You are plummeting from dizzying heights, surrounded by the perfumed scent of roses and honeysuckled jasmine. Pulse pounding, awash in heady Elysium.
There is no safety net.
You descend blissfully, tumbling against the currents of wisdom and fools. Each breath exhaled with transcendent exaltation, and nebulous joy tempered by trepidation. You want no pinions to sustain you, nothing to break your intoxication euphoria.
You are eager for more. You let go, engulfed. You are falling into…
Love.



© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved




Wednesday, 29 April 2015

National Poetry Month Day 29: In Memory of Forgotten Loves #NaPoWriMo

To reminisce about lost love, on Day 29 of National Poetry Month...





In Memory of Forgotten Loves


Wandering the streets of old Paris, lost
in tender thought, our woven dreams rose glossed
Our sweet hands entangled, in youth’s concord
grasping absolute love, as we adored,
until affection fled with winter’s frost

Another love, passion’s kiss breathed star-crossed
Fire and ice, lovers sailing tempest tossed
The flame died quickly, we became unmoored—
wandering the streets

Years produced caution, and love less embossed
reflected esteem, contemplated cost
I tried, but often her heart, I ignored
The day she left, I watched as the rain poured,
churning the soot and the smell of exhaust
wandering the streets



© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved


Tuesday, 21 April 2015

National Poetry Month Day 21: Forbidden Passion #NaPoWriMo

It's short and sweet for Day 21 of National Poetry Month...






~Forbidden Passion~


beneath the sunshine
we swelter, palpable heat
our hands secretly entwined



© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved 




Monday, 20 April 2015

National Poetry Month Day 20: Love Insanity #NaPoWriMo

Today's poem, for this Day 20 of National Poetry Day, hearkens towards broken hearts and madmen...



Love or Insanity?

Love insanity
Love banality?
Banality bait
Banality—wait
Wait for love
Wait in vain?
Vain endeavours
Vain forever
Forever searching
Forever lost
Lost love
Lost your mind
Mind your heart
Mind your words
Words of love
Words of hate
Hate betrayal
Hate being lonely
Lonely life
Lonely anger
Anger building
Anger spilling
Spilling over
Spilling out
Out with heartache
Out and about
About you
About reprisal
Reprisal walking
Reprisal stalking
Stalking the ex
Stalking complex
Complex feelings
Complex thoughts
Thoughts black
Thoughts insanity?
Insanity maybe
Insanity swirling
Swirling around
Swirling brain
Brain clicking
Brain ticking
Ticking clock
Ticking off
Off to see
Off limits
Limits and hurts
Limits in love
Love
Hurts


© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved 



Monday, 6 April 2015

Day Six of National Poetry Month: Under the Orange Tree #NaPoWriMo




Under the Orange Tree

Summer winds blow strong,
carrying the scent of love
You and I beneath the orange tree,
the shaded heavens above

Remembering the citrus scent,
our stolen kisses like sweet Chablis
The shaded heavens above,
you and I beneath the orange tree

And such love will never pale,
nor that precious memory of
you and I beneath the orange tree,
the shaded heavens above



© All Rights Reserved A. F. Stewart

Monday, 22 October 2012

A Haunting, Fascinating Love Story: A Review of You, Fascinating You.

My Book Review of You, Fascinating You by Germaine Shames:


You, Fascinating You by Germaine Shames is a graceful, haunting book that brings its small part of history to life vividly. As a reader you find yourself immersed in a world full of happiness, sadness and looming terror perfectly realised on the page.

The book is a fictionalized account of the lives of Hungarian ballerina Margit Wolf and Italian composer Pasquale Frustaci aka “the Italian Cole Porter”. You, Fascinating You breathes soul into their life story, amidst the European setting before, during and after WWII.

The author has done a magnificent job recreating the era for her book, with not only place and facts, but with mood, language and emotion. From the first page you feel as if you are there, in Hungary, in Italy, peering into the lives of these people. I was captivated by the story, how the two main characters interacted, the choices they made and how their lives and their futures were swept into and changed by events beyond their control. It’s a book overflowing with love, sorrow, loss and perseverance.

I much as I enjoyed it however, once or twice the author’s choices in book structure bothered me. She rightly focused on certain events and years and skipped over some others, which gave the book an interesting surreal touch, especially near the end. But I found, where in most instances that added to the pleasure in reading, on a couple of occasions it fell flat for me. Overall though, I highly recommend, You, Fascinating You.

You, Fascinating You is available on Amazon:  http://www.amazon.com/You-Fascinating-ebook/dp/B007NL12WY/

Monday, 30 April 2012

Love and Circuses: A Review of The Midget's House

My Book Review of The Midget's House by Anita Bartholomew:



I loved this book. Now I might have been a bit pre-disposed to enjoy it considering it’s full of things that interest me: ghosts, history and circus performers, but there is enough charm and grace in the book to entrance any reader.

The book essentially tells the story of two women, Marisa, who is starting her life over after loss, and the ghostly Lucinda, whose truth has been lost in time. Their stories interweave in a fascinating tale of mystery, ghosts, romance, and circus history until they collide in a tense conclusion.

The perspective of this novel is told from two points-of views, Marisa’s and Lucinda’s, and shifts the reader back and forth from the modern day to the early 20th century. Now this change could have easily become disjointed, but the author makes the transition seamless, and as a reader I flowed through the story effortlessly. Both Marisa and Lucinda are compelling characters -never seeming helpless or weak, even when they faced adversity- and you are naturally pulled into their captivating parallel stories.

The book is also rich in alluring backdrops of setting and description. Both worlds come to life exquisitely as the book takes you on a charismatic journey through modern Florida and the bygone era of the heydays of carnivals and circuses. This lovely detailing keeps the book’s pace flowing perfectly until the end.

The Midget’s House is an easy and enthusiastic recommend

Tuesday, 29 November 2011

Poetry in Emotions: A Review of "A Black Girl’s Poetry for the World"

My Book Review of A Black Girl’s Poetry for the World:

A Black Girl’s Poetry for the World by Kimberly LaRocca is a thoroughly enjoyable book.  The poetry in the book is emotive and expressive, delving into tangled subjects and the author has separated her verse into two themed sections, Love and Life.

The poems in the first half, Love, are a diverse, frank and raw examination of affection, sex, commitment, and love gone sour and they run a gamut of emotional depth. The author doesn’t shy away from a candid message in her poetry, while still delivering visceral, authentic beauty in verse.

The second part, Life, is a mix of some lovely faith based poetry, shining insight on the power and shape of belief, with affecting musings on emotional pain, tragic circumstance, inner strength, the complexity of relationships and the meaning in life.

The book is full of intriguing poems and some of my favourites are Thanks to You, Terminal Love and The Long Road Home, all rich in depth and word craft. A Black Girl’s Poetry for the World is a wonderful volume of poetry both communal and personal, an intimate glimpse into a poet’s soul.

Wednesday, 13 July 2011

Storytime Wednesday: Broken Silent by Kristine Esser

Welcome again to Storytime Wednesday, where we fire your imagination with the words from writers who share their stories or book excerpts.


We have a story today by writer Kristine Esser, a cautionary tale about relationships, called Broken Silent.


Broken Silent


I finally decided to turn the shiny knob that had “hot” inscribed on it all the way to the right, shutting off the blistering liquid. I climbed out of the tub, and wrapped myself in an old floral towel sitting on the edge of the toilet. Standing and looking through the small patch of wiped-away steam in the mirror I recognized the unattractive towel along with the steam rising off my shoulders from the sweltering shower I had just taken.

Opening the door from the bathroom I stepped out to see my boyfriend, Ben, sitting in the Goodwill-bought lazy-boy. He looked at me from afar and smiled. A quick grin did the trick, and I walked into my room. It was dark and chilly in there, and I felt the strong need to just sit on my bed for awhile, cool off, and kind of catch my breath.

I had to think of my plan to face Ben with the growing problem of me being lonely with him being gone constantly. This was not always a problem in our relationship but one that came after we graduated college. Ben and I both attended a rather large university in Indiana. We met our sophomore year when we lived across from each other in the dorms. He was cute, got straight A’s, and was very gentle. While I was the cute party girl who passed most of my classes, but always looked good. These things changed after we started dating. I got him to loosen up, and not be so serious while he made me take life a little more seriously. His mother died not too long before we started dating, and I sometimes got the feeling I was a replacement. This did not bother me as much as it might have some other girls. I enjoyed being loved whole heartedly. Of course, this was over three years ago and situations have changed. He was gone with his job all the time having a great time while I had to stay at home, go through my daily routine without him, and be miserable. It was time to talk to him about a break.

After some time, I stood up slowly and dropped the towel to the floor. I paused for a moment looking at the ugly thing. The corners were tattered and frayed with strings hanging from the center of the towel. It was so hideous. Why keep it around so long? That towel had to be at least a decade old. I remembered having that towel in my childhood when the biggest problem of the day is what game to play next. I remember having it with me at the beach and numerous pool parties back when it was cool. I really wasn’t sure at what point the towel became disgusting but it was definitely time to throw it out. It had lived its life.

I went through the dark cedar drawers, and found some grey yoga pants and an old college t-shirt. After slipping them on I decided it was time to walk toward the door of my room, and let myself out to see my boyfriend, Ben. It was time to leave the safety of my room, and to enter the dangers of my blond hardwood floor living room; after all, he is waiting for me.

I stepped out, and walked down the somewhat short hallway. Today, however, the hallway seemed freakishly long. I touched the white walls of the hallway, and thought about all that they had witnessed. It was like the old saying I had heard all my life. What did they see? What would they see today? I prayed it wouldn’t be anything horrible. I hoped it would not see tears or any kind of sadness. I hoped they wouldn’t see anger or fury. But I knew that was all a lie.

“There you are baby,” Ben said with his arms outstretched. He was motioning for me to come sit down on his lap. He was really happy to see me. It had been awhile since we saw each other last. He left for the summer for one of his many odd random job assignments. This time it was in Colorado for a summer camp helping needy children. The company he was working for thought it would be a great fit for him, so they decided that this would be his next assignment, send him half a country away to work with kids he didn’t even know.

I couldn’t help it but I was always upset when he left, which seemed to be all the time now. I adored him when he was there with me in Chicago but felt this overwhelming feeling of frustration whenever he left. Anger would boil over inside towards Ben, but I was not sure why exactly. It’s somewhat irrational for me to feel this way, but it’s just how I felt. However, I knew it would be like this from the beginning. He had signed a contract with the company right out of college for the next five years of his life. It had only been a year after graduation, and the constant leaving and returning was now taking a toll on both of our emotions.

Sitting in his lap, and curled up under his neck, my wet hair made a spot on his old cotton shirt. I bought that shirt for him when we were sophomores in college. It was our first Christmas together, and we made love all night with our cheap, but meaningful, gifts surrounding us. Now it was visibly worn with cracked-print lettering. It seemed like he wore this shirt at least once a week. Or the weeks I happened to see him anyway.

“You smell good. Is that a new shampoo you’re using?”

“Yeah, it was on sale. Do you like it?” I replied while pushing back the ringlets of wet curls away from my face.

“Yes, I do,” Ben stated with closed eyes. Silence then started to engulf the room. I looked around the space, and couldn’t find life of any kind. Sometimes one can see a breeze or draft of some kind through the room, but there was nothing. The TV was off, and the roommate was gone. Deep breaths were all I could think about taking during that moment of deadness in the room.

“When do you leave next?” I had to say finally.

“Asking so soon? I just returned from Colorado yesterday. Let’s enjoy this a little bit.”

“I can’t, I need to know.”

“I am leaving again in three weeks to go to China. I will be there for seven months this time. But I am sure I can fly you out for a weekend or two. Maybe you could take a couple of days off of work too. Do you think you can do that with your job?” He said.

He knew I could not take off of work. He knew I had just started this job with my dream PR firm about nine months ago, and vacation time for entry level employees was not something they gave out. Irritation crept up inside of me once again. He knew I couldn’t get time off work, and he was leaving again, so soon, for such a long time.

“You know I can’t get the time off of work,” I answered with pain. This burning feeling then came from behind my eyes. Anger started to rise up inside of me, but I tried to stay calm.

“Well can’t you talk to someone?” He said now starting to lean forward.

“No. I told you I couldn’t take any time off of work right when I first took this job.”

“I never see you and I don’t like it. We need to change this,” He said looking into my eyes now.

“Yeah, I don’t like it either, but I am not the one leaving all the time. And I don’t know how you want to change this. We both have obligations,” I replied sternly.

“I just can’t go on not seeing you like this.”

“Something has to change…” I said trailing.

“Yes, something does. I love you Jessica. I want you always with me. I know this isn’t possible but I want to make this situation better. I am not happy seeing you this few and far between, and I know you are not happy either. What can we do? Do you want to move out with me? China is such a beautiful place.”

“I don’t want to move to China! I want to be here! In Chicago! This is where my dream job is, and believe it or not I got it! This is where my family is. I don’t want to move to China. I want to live here.”

The room fell silent again. We both looked around this time at the seemingly deceased surroundings of the apartment. Everything was perfectly still. Not even a visible wind from outside the window was present. Every being in that room was eerily motionless. The tissues in the Kleenex box didn’t move. The TV was off, and so was all the technology that went with it. I eyed the vase on the coffee table with the dead flowers in it.

For some couples this might have been considered an awkward silence, but for us it was becoming somewhat of an acquaintance these days. This was not the first time we had this discussion. This also was not the first time this silence befell this particular living room. However, this time seemed peculiarly stationary and stuffy. Of course previous discussions seemed to have answers, while this one did not.

We both kept looking around the room, and then turned our attention to each other’s hands. Ben’s fingers were touching the inside palms of mine. He went from the palm of my hand to the tip of each individual one of my fingers. My hand remained lifeless like the room. I never moved my hand, or even my fingers. I just watched as he drew with his fingers onto mine. Once he had gone through this a couple of times, I knew it was my time to talk.

I closed my eyes and inhaled, “What are we doing?”

“I don’t know. What would you like to do? How do you think we can fix this?” he said.

“We’ve tried everything, Ben.”

“It seems like it,” he was now looking down into what would be his lap if I wasn’t sitting on it.

“There is nothing more we can do right now. The time you’re away is ripping us apart,” I said while trying to look in to his eyes.

“I know,” was the only counter he could muster.

“I think we need to take some time apart. We’re just not happy doing what we are doing. I think we just need to take some time for ourselves, and make sure this is the relationship we want, you know?” I could now tell tears were coming to the surface in his eyes, and I could now feel them coming into mine. I felt Ben’s hands on both of my thighs tighten, and his chest puffing out.

“No, I don’t want to. I know I want to be with you forever Jessica. I know this sucks now, but we can get through this. I promise!”

“Ben…no…” I said while shaking my head.

“Why does it have to be like this? Why Jessica? What did I do? Did I mess everything up?” He screamed question after question until his tears took his voice in a red mess. His hands grew tighter.

This was when I knew that now was the time to get off his lap. It was tough breaking away from his grasped hands, but as soon as I could I quickly stood up with tears running down my face. For a moment I wondered if I was making the wrong choice. Ben had been nothing but good to me. And now I was breaking his heart, God, I’m a bitch. Then turning around so my back was facing Ben, I wiped the few spots of tears away from my face.

“Ben please…just try and understand…I just need…”

“No.” Ben said as he brushed away his tears with the palms of his hands. He reached forward to grab my wet hair, but his saltwater hands with my damp hair made his fingers slip. He reached to grab me again, but I slipped, and fell to floor making more noise than pain. Ben looked furious, but stunned.

I was breathing heavily. He had never tried to hurt me before. He had always loved me, and did for me anything I wanted. He even made me vegetable and rice soup for me once from scratch, but now he was standing over me in throbbing heartache and rage.

“I love you with all my heart, and this is what is going to happen now? You want to leave me? That’s not how this works. I am the all-star, and you’re the one that couldn’t get even a B in college algebra. I loved you! And you’re leaving me?!” passion was now blazing in his eyes. He picked up the flower vase spilling out all of the death flowers. He raised it over me as I lay on cold hardwood floor crying, and ready to scream. Soon all I could see was red pouring over my eyes, and a kind of hot pain rushing all over my face and hands as he hit me three more times with the broken vase.

Ben then put on his sandals and left my barren apartment. I twitched when he slammed the door behind him. He wasn’t the slamming door type. Or so I thought.

I reached to touch the walls again. They were still cool. I crawled into my room for the phone, and I noticed that I left the ugly towel on the floor from my shower from just a half hour ago. I gathered up the towel, and pressed it against my face. It wasn’t soft anymore, and it was a lot coarser than I remembered from yester year.

By the time the ambulance arrived, the towel was soaked with blood, and the paramedics asked me to give them my towel so they could get a better look at the injuries. After handing them my old towel they placed it in a medical waste bag.



Author Bio:

Kristine Esser is a somewhat recent graduate from Purdue University. When she isn’t writing or composing material for her poetry blog, she's walking her dog, and continuously baking. 

Wednesday, 6 July 2011

Storytime Wednesday: Poetry Remembered by Joann Brosnan

Welcome again to Storytime Wednesday, where we fire your imagination with the words from writers who share their stories or book excerpts.


Today’s narrative is a real treat, the graceful tale Poetry Remembered by Joann Brosnan, a delightful story of weddings, culture and marriage.



Poetry Remembered


Umniya stared through the delicate tracery of the screen surrounding her family roofgarden. Sleep had been a foreign thing and, in the hours before dawn, she had crept to this rooftop to experience her last breaths of freedom. Tomorrow - - No, later today, she would become the bride of Aaqil.

Umniya had been three years old, Aaqil almost five, when her mother had taken her to visit his. They had played together and listened to their mothers' conversation. Aaqil had been gentle and kind to the younger girl-child. The next time they visited, he was no longer allowed free run of the women's rooms. She wondered if he was still kind. Their mothers had discussed a bit of poetry, now long forgotten, that involved the gift of a love token from a prince to his loved bride. She remembered Aaqil saying that someday he would gift his love with such a thing.

Streaks began appearing in the eastern sky and the mezzuin began his call.  “Allaho Akbar, Allaho Akbar, Ash-hadu al-la Ilaha ill Allah - Ash-hadu al-la Ilaha ill Allah . . .

After the prayers, Umniya stood for a moment, then turned to see her mother coming up the stairs.

“Come, child, you must be made ready. Today you will become a wife.” her mother said.

In the next hours, Umniya was allowed to do nothing for herself. As she was fed and fussed over, bathed, lotioned, perfumed, painted and primped, her mind wandered again and again to her betrothed. She remembered, when she was nine, the day she had been taken to purchase her first niqaab. Her mother's friend, Aaliyah, mother of Aaqil, had accompanied them. She remembered the moment of panic when, veil in place, the mesh eye cover had been lowered, discretely, over the eye holes. Suddenly, there seemed no air to breath, she would surely suffocate. Then as the two women proudly led her from the shop, Umniya had seen boys in the street, playing. One of them was Aaqil and he waved to his mother. As his eyes passed over his mother's companions, it seemed to Umniya that there was something different in his eye as it briefly touched her, then quickly, politely passed over. She had held herself a little taller, as they walked, secure in her mother's protection and her own nearing womanhood.

Her mind slid to the day when a betrothal was decided. Aaqil had requested that they say Salat-l-Istikhara to assure that this decision was right for both. When the prayer had been said, she knew that she would not be forced, she had the right to refuse, but what other choice was there. With head bowed, she silently nodded her assent and was allowed to retire from the room. Peering through the lattice from the next room, she looked at her betrothed's unsmiling face with its heavy eyebrows and dark eyes; the fierce black mustache that covered his upper lip; the full lower lip that made something in her stomach flutter. She would come to know this face very well.

Now, sitting still under the ministrations of her mother, friends and cousins, she felt the flutter begin again. A small knot of terror was born. Everything she knew in life was about to end. They pulled her to her feet; turned her in front of a trio of large mirrors. She, Umniya – the desired – was gone. The woman looking from the mirror was a stranger, a wife. The terror grew. It was time to go.

Her cousin, Jumana, turned from the door, holding a covered silver tray and a note, which she handed to Umniya. The note read:


Beloved,

Were you too young to remember the poem of the prince and his gift to his beloved bride? I bid you accept the gift of your prince to his princess.

Aaqil


Umniya lifted the cover from the tray and there, on a silk cloth, lay a single, perfect white rose. The fear faded, replaced by a gentler quiver. “Aaqil means 'wise'” she murmured. She picked up the rose and tied it to one of the colorful ribbons on her wedding dress then, surrounded by her ladies and holding her head very high, she went to her wedding.


Author Bio:

Joann Brosnan is a Capricorn woman, faithful friend, intrepid adventurer, steaming through her 60s; she finally sprung her writing on the world, and is having great fun with that.
“Next up - figuring how to get paid for same. Ah, well, hope springs. Maybe better luck with photos. It can be a bit distracting, having a soupçon of many talents and no one big one!”

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