Book Spotlight: Star Things

Today we are back with another book spotlight, this time for the poetry book, Star Things by Jess Parker. Enjoy.

Star Things by Jess Parker

In Star Things, Jess Parker pulls down the cosmos as if a blanket, hangs the firmament itself as if a string of festive lights to illuminate the magic in the worldly mundane. These sixty-one brief yet powerful poems work in a broad array of forms, at once playful and serious, taking risks, toying with readers’ expectations and delivering seemingly effortless coups de grâce with a sly wink.

Praise for Star Things

Josh Norman (Telescopes and Other People): “Every love, every scraped knee, every abandonment, every moon is at once familiar yet alien.” 

Cynthia Marie Hoffman (Call Me When You Want to Talk About the Tombstones): “If the stars’ reflection in a pond creates a ‘morse code’ that communications with the constellations, so do these poems transmit the intricacies of being human in orbit among the stars...holding close to the knowledge that ‘we were moondust and will be again.’”

You can preorder the book directly from here:

https://dynamoverlagcat.tumblr.com/post/657177889147617281/coming-soon-star-things-by-jess-l-parker-winner

About the Author

Originally from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, Jess L Parker lives in Madison, Wisconsin with her husband, son, and French bulldog. Her work has appeared in Bramble, Poetry Hall, Millwork, Wallop Zine, and elsewhere. She holds an MA in Spanish Literature from UW-Madison and an MBA.

Drabble Wednesday: Contemplation

Today’s Drabble Wednesday gets a little Zen…

Sailing

I stand on creaking, swaying planks of wood fashioned into a worthy vessel, gazing beyond the edge of the world. Across the liquid horizon, upon the tranquil, yet undulating, surface of the sea. So peaceful, so calm, reflecting the sweet blue sky, whilst harbouring its own hint of emerald green.

On days like this it is my mistress, my true love. We are one.

Even so, I give all respect to the coiling fury beneath, with its bones of lovers past. Turn your back, become complacent, and the ferocity will strike.

Still, I’d not give it up, not for anything.

~*~

The Mountain

Standing solid within the scope of time, a stalwart backbone of primeval earth, this mountain stretched to converse with the sky. It cast its shadow over the village, and generations of people took comfort in its presence. In turn it had played god, protector, inspiration, and obstacle.

In the winter it isolated, snows often blocking the pass and road that led to the next kingdom. In summer it provided, the slopes giving fertility to fields and harvests, its trees yielding fruit, nuts, or wood stockpiled for the cold weather.

Standing strong despite time’s passage, the mountain would outlast them all.

~*~

Starlight

Stars

Dots on the black canvas, illuminated frippery, adorning the universe. We stare—in awe, seeking knowledge, simply to idle away the hours. They are an eternal muse, imprinted, indelibly part of humanity’s eons.

What are they, truly?

A touch of things unknown, alien light reflected from another existent past, a farewell and hello from faraway places. They are a call to frontiers beyond, and memories we’ll never know, time travel held in celestial particles.

They are the beacons in the darkest night, whispering we are part of a universal something.

Where would our wishes go, but to the stars?

© A. F. Stewart 2016 All Rights Reserved

Drabble Wednesday: Midnight

From the forgetfulness of my mind and the call of my midnight muse, I bring you today’s Drabble Wednesday, scribbled in the wee hours of last night…

Witching Hour

The night bird sings in the treetop, keeping time with the warble of the wind. Above them, the moon glows, pale blue and full, lighting the way of the coming traveller. She treads softly, her footsteps a bare whisper across dirt and leaves as she wends her way through the forest. She smiles at the moon and joins the night bird’s song with a faint humming. She has come to sing to ghosts and spirits, to weave her spells and laugh with the joy of magic. She belongs to this place, this time, the midnight of the pale blue moon.

Midnight in Paris

Watch the clouds drift in the indigo sky, playing hide and seek with stars, and the coquette, silver moon. They beckon, those celestial beauties, flashing their siren gaze earthward. They glint and twinkle starlight and moonbeams to the city streets, and reflect their radiance off the steel beacon of the Eiffel Tower.

This is Paris at night, in darkened splendour, alive with the quiet, and the gentle sounds of evening. Hear the Seine ripple, against soft laughter and the click of heels. Amidst it all we linger, strolling hand in hand, midnight lovers waiting for the morning sun to rise.

Midnight Man

The crow caws once, then twice more. The air shivers, and the grass bends at the edge of the woods. A cold, grey fog rolls in, thick as wool, carrying a silhouette. A figure.

Can you see him now? The Midnight Man.

Tall and gangly, all angles and crisp bits, dressed in black. He wears a long coat and a top hat. The crows gather round him in flight, and one perches on his spindly arm.

Stay quiet. Don’t let him see you.
You mustn’t look into his eyes… they say his eyes are hollow. Inky voids sinking into death.

© A. F. Stewart 2015 All Rights Reserved 

Drabble Wednesday: Creepy Time

Today on Drabble Wednesday I serve up some creepy tales…

Puppet

The carved wooden face held a pitiful expression, its eyeless sockets staring, as it swung from its strings suspended from the ceiling of the puppeteer’s workroom. Its hand curled around the weathered head of another puppet, almost cradling the manmade cranium. The other puppet’s body lay smashed it pieces, twisted in the workshop vice.

On the window sill a music box played, the tinny notes drifting across the gloom and dust of the shop. Under the sound of the music, a tiny voice whispered. “I’m sorry Poppa. I couldn’t save you. But I will try my best to avenge you.”

The Ferryman

The teal water carried the stillness of death, and the turbid air draped itself through the dingy sky. It was always thus; his surroundings never changed. His gaunt hand brushed across the olive wood of his pole before it dipped into the water, breaking the surface. The echo of this act sounded like thunder.

A peace settled into his bones, as his boat moved gently towards the shore. He loved this time alone. He glimpsed a figure; there would be work tonight. His passenger boarded with a coin and he turned the boat back, sailing another soul to their fate.

The Circus on the Hill

On certain cimmerian nights, when the stars align, a circus comes to a long forgotten hill. Faint music heralds its arrival, the treble trill of the calliope, mixed with mellow fiddles. The tune is familiar, yet ancient, comforting, but daunting.

Radiance follows, a warm amber glow that bathes the hill. It pulls the gaze, and you see the tents, all crimson stripes and buff canvas, flags and banners, and silhouettes milling all around. Then you hear laughter, the soft chime of bells, and the voices. Oh, those voices.

Sweetly they beckon, call your name, but whatever you do, don’t listen.

Shall We Dance With The Angels: A Poem

I had a bit of poetic inspiration today and I thought I'd share.

Shall We Dance With The Angels

Shall we dance with angels

far above the velvet clouds

where the stars whisper light

and cast it to the eyes below

Far above the velvet clouds

to the Heavens wide and infinite

with angel song in splendour

Where the stars whisper light,

that radiance from our dreams,

to the wayward, celestial corners

And cast it to the eyes below

that rarely see the beauty born

of gossamer and winged grace