Written long past, when the Syrian conflict began between a president and his people.

Get a free book of poems just for selecting poems you enjoy . . . AND, a mention of your blog in the upcoming book of poems, “Slices.”

Why publish?

As my dad would have said, Why not? And, “It couldn’t hoit!”

Kathryn Amos Glover has agreed to illustrate the cover, as well as act as Creative Director (she has no one to supervise, though) in the effort to create the piece. You can see Kathryn’s wonderful artwork by going to Recommended Blogs on this site and clicking on her link.

I thought it would be fun to have my readers/followers help me select the work to go into the book.

If you would like to help, I’d like you to peruse my poetry, and make the comment “Include this in ‘Slices’.”

As an incentive, I’ll do two things:

1. Include your WordPress (or whatever else) blog site in the credits section of the book,

2. AND I will send you a free copy of “Slices.” No kidding!

Here’s the catch: Not all of my work is under Poetry in the Genres tab. BUT, the good news is you can search by category from the home page of my blog.

“Slices” is intended to be slices from life. My poetry runs the gamut, from pretty ok to pretty awful. So it really shouldn’t be too difficult to make a selection(s).

If you choose to help, my undying (I’m still alive) gratitude. If not, then you can’t complain when the book is finally published.

When and if the story is found, I will publish it.

In the meantime, enjoy the following:

The Technicolor Dreamer

It is one of a collection of my short stories,  published in Through the Glass Darkly, and available for text download or paperback on Amazon.com.

L. Stewart Marsden

LSM

Red is the anger inside of you.

Red is the fireworks bursting high.

Red is the joy of Christmas.

Red is the inspiration that inspires us.

Red is the love inside your Heart.

Why are you so red?

Are you embarrassed?

Was it something I said?

Why won’t you tell me?

getting nowhere

slippery, slimy, somewhat grimy

SLIDE, SLIDE

O Come, Thou Knight

She allowed him to come to her every night. Willed him to on some nights. What he did was monstrous, but at the same time, exhilarating. Some might label her a victim, but she was not; she was a willing participant. She welcomed the act – reveled in its dichotomy of hell and heaven.

The night could come none too soon. The drag of day was to her tedious and tiresome, and she was all but exhausted by the time the sizzling sun finally dipped down beyond the deep wood. And the burnt day, with its moist, cottony, heavy air, cooled as it darkened; became fresh again, with the stirring of nocturnal breezes and the easy, calming night symphony of its unseen orchestra: crickets and katydids; tree frogs and night owls. Their blended melodies lifted to the brushing sound of swaying oaks and elms; mixing and stirred into a concoction so potent that even the long dead sat up fully awakened from their sleep.

More than ease from her pain and distance from her troubles, he brought her a new life; a movement towards meaningfulness she had never before experienced. He was, in a word, the Christ of her newness, and he had appeared at that precise moment that she teetered precariously between despair and oblivion, over the yawing crevices beneath her that disappeared into nothingness.

A gust of night wind, the sateen curtain billows in the breeze, and he is there, silhouetted against a harvest moon just cresting above the deep wood. Effortlessly, gracefully, he glides to her bed, where she is prone and awaiting him, barely concealed in her night clothes. He kneels and stares at her, his eyes barely visible in their deep sockets. He hums along with the night orchestra, and soothes her all the more. He touches her arm lightly, on the soft skin in her arm joint, where her veins are palpable, throbbing and pulsing to his finger tips. It tickles, it is so very light. It is so sensuous, and her long legs begin to stir and rub rhythmically, like the tide, and she feels her womanhood flow.
All is one. The night. The moon. The cool breeze. The orchestra of sounds. His touch on her arm. The throbbing in her veins, in her legs, in her mind.

She tips her head back, revealing her neck in the bathing moonlight; feeling its prickly light lightly illumining her throat; her veins stretching; her muscles stretching and tensing; the throbbing moving from her loins to her arm to her neck. His light touch circling, cooling, moistening her arm; his shadow enveloping her – the shroud of a mystical blanket – a final and simple gown.

The prick on her skin. Light. Painless. More than painless – climactic. Not fearful nor dark nor monstrous nor unwelcomed nor uninvited. A quick prick. And then both warmth and cool. Warm on her arm and cool on her face, as another spritely, turning breeze danced through the window and slipped about them both.
She closed her eyes, and then opened them one last time. She smiled genuinely at him, and softly whispered,

“Thank you!”

He said nothing, and stroked her brow gently, combing wisps of her hair with his fingers.

He stood, and returned to the window, his graceful body once again silhouetted by the big moon in the sky. And then he was gone.

Of a time she arose. No pain. No troubles. No tedium. No exhaustion. She turned and looked at the woman on the bed. Old. Tired. But resting. At peace.

She spun giddily toward the window, tears on her cheeks, the fresh breath of a breeze cupping her face. She was silhouetted against the large moon, and she spread apart the sateen curtains, and was gone.

Copyright © 2012 by Lawrence S. Marsden