Monday, July 26, 2021

The Desert

 

The wet sand the brown sand

The white sand and now the inundating black sand

Rougher, coarser, empty of shells

The clear water the water filled with plankton and small fish roiling

The water

The shells

Usually cats paws and scallops not so many turkey wings

Now

The blue heron the cloud of ibis the

Occasional skimmer scooping the tide

The plover eyes alight eyes afright

As I walk past stepping carefully between

Sharp objects.

This is my other world

My Florida. Once my refuge

Now I look unseeing at the pelican cruising my waters I

Stare at the ocean unaware of the dolphin

I stare at the ground wishing

For release.

Thus is my love wasted.

Shirley V.

 

She is my youth and my old age

Not the in-between

She is the adventure the frustration the longing the questioning

Not the contentment peace joy in knowing you’re doing the

Right thing

The alpha and the omega the

Spring flower years and the twilight

For the first time I see the connection

 

The middle is not empty but too full

For remorse for retrospection

For revolution

 

The beginning..ah! We shall turn the world over

Upright the wrongs

The end…ah! We shall turn the world over and

Make it in our own image

 

Shirley you are one silly bitch.

Zelda Reawakens

 

When Zelda first approached me I

Dropped the cigarette

(She disapproves)

“You are an American I see”

She said with a sneer

You eat…coleslaw.

Cutting.

I recovered.

Yes I do. I’m not proud of it. But I draw the line at grits.

She softened.

Come with me.

She led me through room after room.

Gently lit, tap rails and wallpaper, a bust here and there

Of a poet or an architect.

Beautiful rooms.

I longed to go to the garden but she led me to the kitchen.

Sit. Eat. Afterwards we make love.

I acquiesced.

Zelda in Tetouan

 

Zelda in Tetouan 

 

 

It’s always the house set at an odd angle

As though it’s falling into the sea

We spread our legs like Captain Ahab

Keeping our balance

Grasping for rails

Reaching for the back door

Escape! Escape into the garden

Zelda holds us back

You’re not going anywhere

It’s not what you think it is

It’s not a garden

It’s a dream. There are no plants

No flowers

No fruits

No comfort

It will not make you content

Come and play with me

Dancing on the coping

Howling at Pluto

Embracing the violinist with his slalom glissandos

Until at last we drop exhausted

On the sands of Tetouan.

Monday, June 28, 2021

Welcome Linda Carroll-Bradd & Her New Romance

Please welcome Linda Carroll-Bradd and her new romance from the Wild Rose Press, appropriately entitled Sweet Inspiration. Without further ado:

 


He’s the adventure she’s never had, and she’s the home he’s always wanted.

Sweet Inspiration

Linda Carroll-Bradd

The Wild Rose Press, June 28, 2021

74 pp.

Blurb:

Dependable Cadence Wills yearns for excitement. The owner of a yarn business, she is pulled in every direction by her demanding family. Haunting dulcimer notes draw her to a practice session where she spies an intriguing stranger.

Musician Rafe Frasco is a rover, bouncing between musical competitions. Interest ignites at his first glance at a woman enthralled by his music, who he learns has a heart big enough to encompass everyone within her reach.

A fantastic opportunity for Rafe presents Cadence with a dilemma—is she strong enough to negotiate the business deal that will take him away…maybe forever?

Purchase Links:

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Excerpt: Unfamiliar Melody

Unmarried and approaching thirty in a small town branded her as ready and willing to meet every unattached man who set foot inside the city limits. A sigh escaped. Like last week when Espe called Trent Sullivan over to their table at El Tres Amigos and then suddenly remembered an important errand. What Espe hadn’t known was Cadence and Trent already had been set up on blind dates—twice—by well-meaning friends.

Nothing had clicked between them. Cadence craved someone with a mysterious past like in her beloved romantic suspense novels. A dark, shadowy figure who knew how to excite a woman with a molten look or a lingering touch. A man who fought to hide his pain and almost succeeded. Not someone like Trent—a guy whose high-school accomplishments she could probably recite.

Sweet plaintive notes of a stringed instrument floated on the breeze. Cadence strained to recognize the tune. A person didn’t grow up surrounded by folk music without knowing just about every ballad that could be plucked.

But this one eluded her. The twanging strings cried with a soulful sadness that grabbed her by the throat. Her thoughts were washed in loneliness, and she turned toward the sound, past the Heritage Herb Garden. A part of Cadence that couldn’t resist helping others had to see who was expressing such need.

She lifted the hem of her long skirt and hurried toward the haunting sound, as if the notes pulled her feet along the path. Abreast of the groundhog pottery kiln, she slowed and peered toward the outdoor stage.

On the platform, several musicians gathered—some unpacking instruments, others adjusting microphones. Off to one side, a dark-haired man sat in a straight-backed chair, one foot braced on a scratched case. He leaned forward and strummed a dulcimer, the light wood instrument cradled on denim-covered thighs.

Cadence studied the talented player. His too-long hair was tied back, his shoulders were broad inside his western-cut shirt, and his legs were long and lean. Scuffed boots, faded jeans and a worn Harley-Davidson tee-shirt composed his attire. Definitely more attractive than her own outfit. Even from this distance, she spotted a posture that meant the man had an attitude…or was mysterious. A thrill ran over her skin.

Who was this guy? He’d definitely swagger when he walked. Yummy. At the thought, she stepped closer, wanting nothing between her and the performance.

Long fingers picked the strings in a heated crescendo—note on teasing note, twang on shivery twang, strum on driving strum. He ended the song with a flourish, right hand arcing upward as the last note hung on the early morning air.

How did he know exactly how she felt on nights when everyone in Mountain View either had a date or was home curled next to a spouse? The isolation of being solo at the drive-in or enduring the knowing smile of a sympathetic waitress. His song wrapped all those feelings tight around her heart and squeezed.


About the Author:

As a young girl, Linda was often found lying on her bed reading about fascinating characters having exciting adventures in places far away and in other time periods. In later years, she read and then started writing romances and achieved her first publication--a confession story. Married with four adult children and two granddaughters, Linda now writes heartwarming contemporary and historical stories with a touch of humor from her home in the southern California mountains.

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