Introducting Scarlet Clover

Introducing Scarlet Clover Publishers!

On Monday authors of Blue Feather Books, Ltd., received an email. The nearly decade-old publishing company is to be dissolved.

For me it was very sad news. A book company would be lost. On a personal note, I grieve for what made Blue Feather Books special – Emily Reed, and the staff of Blue Feather Books, cared. Em cared about the authors and about the readers.

Emily took a chance on my book about a sixty-year old woman finding romance in Appointment with a Smile. She took another chance on a book that was uncomfortable – it talked about two war. There were Hippies and a Concentration Camp – good and evil of life. Careful Flowers might have gone unpublished if not for Em. She is a hero to me, and I thank her and wish her the best.

I wish Em, and all the authors of BFB a happy future. Speaking of authors, and the world of publishing – there are so many magnificent women providing today’s Sapphic literature. I’m so very proud to be part of this ‘golden era’ of words.

Ann Bannon wrote a few books that changed many of our lives. Emily Reed reconstructed a publishing company – and gave so many of us an opportunity. Beth Mitchum created not only her own brilliant work, but she’s promoted women’s poetry and fiction with her amazing publishing company, Ultra Violet Love, and Sappho’s Corner Series.

Blazing the way in the enormity of Sapphic literature, these leaders have forced the best in us. As writers and as readers. Each book written makes a commitment to the future. So I thank all those who read and who write. I also thank the Reader – they support our cause.

For me there is no competition. I truly admire each of the publishing houses, and the authors. We all make one another better, and stronger. So let’s keep constructing words, and our love of the scrambled alphabet. I wish you all good fortune.

Monday, after reading the email that took a little part of my heart, I became determined to contribute in some way to Sapphic writing. I put a dream together in my mind. I’m a technologically imperiled. Uncertain how I could realize this dream, I talked with my mentor and dear friend, Beth Mitchum. She has always encouraged me. And that was when Scarlet Clover was born.

The name, Scarlet Clover – well, yes, it is after my dog, Clover. The scarlet part – well, I know that red clover comes in varieties. Scarlet (the most intensely red), crimson, and pink. My sister loves the Scarlet Clover.

Fields of Scarlet Clover are not bashful.

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Sapphic ABCs

This short story was titled, “Masquerading As Myself,” when it was first published. The collection of my short stories was Sugar With Spice, and copyrighted in 1989. For whatever reason, it became my signature story – the one I was asked to read during all reading and appearances. Everyone called it the ‘ABC’ story. So I’ve changed its name.

I’ve also changed a few things in the story – you might say sanitized it. Or tidied it.

SAPPHIC ABCs

However did I get to be the grand old dame of dykesdom? I had not intended on recruiting disciples. At least not until after my sixth birthday, I mused. Sighing, I narrowed my eyes. Bones were now fragile, and my arms and legs were now spindly. Ninety next week, I reflected. No more sweethearts and goddess festivals for me. But I could huddle in the confines of the nursing home room and relive those memories. I could pull up the blinds of years spent, and re-spend them through my reversed dreams. I did remember my Sapphic ABCs.

Abigail was memorable, even at six-years of age. Her coils of blonde curls caught the sunlight an if they were spun gold. At six, I had not learned the fine art of seduction. We’d gone into the huge, dim barn and bounced our frisky bodies on a hill of hay. Abby always enjoyed new games. My instructions for the latest games were easily and willingly followed. I would crawl on top of Abby and try to hold her down. In the end, I either tried too hard, or Abby didn’t try hard enough. At any rate, our game continued for the next couple of years. The barn never seemed the same after Abby’s family moved South.

Belle was one. She was an older woman. I was eight and she was nine. She was fetching when she took off her skirt and wade out into the lake. She taught me the joys of deep lake diving. A skill I would never forget. Belle became bored with me when she discovered boys were the acceptable commodity. Broke my little ten-year old heart. So much so, I gave up women until I was eleven.

Caroline brought me back to life. Fat little rosy face, freckles as large as liver spots on her face, and bright cinnamon hair that pleated down her back. She told me that it was fine if I played with her ‘down there’ whenever the spirit moved me. She talked like that because her father was a Baptist minister. I made certain that my spirit was gyrating plenty.

Desiree was an intellectual. When I was thirteen, her French family moved to town. She called the attic our maison de rendezvou. Desiree taught me all the French that I know while snuggled up together under two old bedspreads. My heart was given free-rein and our kisses were hot, deep, and damp. And everywhere. She was French.

Edith was my roommate at normal school. Prim and proper, her vow to never have a curling iron touch her hair was fine by me. Her long, silken bronze hair and sleepy copen eyes had captivated me. Masturbating, she told me, would put her in the devil’s camp and there she would be given her white cane. But I was not blind, I rebutted. She was won over after allowing me to show her my handiwork. It was nothing at all like her neatly stitched pillowcases. She married a dentist.

Frances was a runner. She entered races and taught me to swear. She was expelled for obnoxious behavior and drunkenness. As she packed her valise, she grumbled that it was just what the doctor ordered. Why hang around in a musty library when Flappers are taking over the world. Frances could move her hips in tune to anything. She would make a wonderful Flapper, I praised.

Gladys was also a teacher. It was my first position after my education was complete. Or at least I thought it was complete. Life in the small rural area would have been too boring for words had I not been rescued by Gladys and her ladies’ club. The first time I unfastened her long raven hair, and it tumbled over her ivory shoulders, I gasped. Her deep somber eyes smiled on me. And I became her mascot until her family insisted she marry. And hubby insisted that she quit work and raise a family. My ego was yanked around on that affair. But there were ice cream socials to attend.

Hortense scooped an extra large dip of strawberry ice cream and plunked it on top of my cone. She was a pious scamp with long, dexterous fingers and a cloud-white smile. She told me that she wasn’t certain if it was the heat, or if I was taking her breath away. I’d packed a picnic lunch for us the very next day. We trespassed onto some farm land, and I rested my head in her lap as we reclined under a tree near a brook. It was all very picturesque. I felt a gleam inside when we first rolled around playfully on the blanket. I picked her a bouquet of wildflowers, and they were smashed when our uncontrolled hips locked and pressed. I have always adored both ice cream and wildflowers.

Ida was a delightful trouble maker. The way most of the women back then whipped up a batter of yellow cake, she stirred trouble. I didn’t know until she had enticed me with her charm that she was that sort of woman. I only knew she had thick auburn hair and luminous hazel eyes. When she wore a frock that showed her breasts spilling and heaving, I was lost. She was witty, sarcastic, and poignant. She loved experimenting, and I loved being experimented with. But soon she turned on me, rather than turning me on. She wanted us to live together. I was extremely happy when the job I had applied for came through. I moved.

Jane was a lonely woman. There was a lusterless, introverted way about her. Her hair was ash blonde, and she wore it twisted into a saucer atop her head. She reminded me of my mother. I tried to teacher her the joy of filling one’s heart to the brim with love. She had never truly wanted to learn. Jane married a cruel man who as in the banking trade. He had very stale breath and betrayed her.

Ketti was one of the two great loves of my life. The moment I saw her flaxen tresses, and sparkling aqua eyes, her gleaming smile, and her taut breasts, I melted. She sold pastry in her father’s bakery. I was weak from the first time she slipped a sample of gingerbread between my lips. My world was dazzling when we made love. Ketti’s parents were killed during a robbery in their home. Ketti had found them and was certain that God was punishing her for her love of another woman. She vowed to give me up. My tears were nonstop for a very long time. The murderers were never apprehended.

Laura lifted my spirits. A ballroom dancing instructor, she had short, midnight-black hair that was slicked down against her oblong, thin head. Her skin was white, but she spared no rouge and no eye-makeup. Her cherry red lips were puckered into a rosebud when we met. Her gaiety touched me – aroused me. Her thin sorrel eyebrows were comically arched and she lustily moved her stick-thin body with ease and grace. I was quickly replaced and she later died of consumption.

Maureen was a very mannish woman. She enjoyed dressing the part. She was stocky, and dark. Her eyes were coal-black She knew her stuff when it came to women’s bodies. I soon tired of her objections to my reciprocating. She would rather be horse-whipped, she announced. I hated leaving her, for she had the most beautiful eyes I’d ever witnessed, but her conversation was much too tedious for me.

Norma was bright enough. She was also a teacher and she understood the value of intelligence and knowledge. She was rather a novice to the fold, but she was tender and savored love. We had a falling out over Radclyffe Hall’s belief that we are congenital inverts. One of us contended that we were made not born, the other believed we were indeed womb-dyked. I don’t recall which side I was on.

Olive and I met when the war was beginning. She worked in a factory and had never been with a woman, but she wanted to experience Lesbianism. She did everything but throw me on the floor. She had a lovely body.

Petrina was a strange duck. She had a frozen expression and was very beige. Beige skin, hair, eyes…she was the beigest person I’d ever seen. I was captivated by her dry, beige wit. Sex was lousy, mind you, and needed to be begged from her. I think she was delighted when I left, for she called me over-sexed behind my back.

Querida was my Latin lover. With pendulous Latin hips and pressing, great cantaloupe-sized breasts. My heart nearly stopped with passion for her. I had never been so warmed. She had assuredly never worn a training bra and told me she had blossomed by age ten. The flowering continued.

Ronalda was a tiny thing. Coy, she had been insatiable in bed. Her grinding pelvis and her shrieks were testimony to her joy. She was, she claimed, reincarnated from Sappho. Her spiritualist had irrefutable proof of it. Ronalda spent most of her sizable inheritance on astrology charts. When she found out our charts were mismatched, she broke off. I had provided her with Petrina’s birth date.

Sophie was my second and final great love. She was Jewish, with bronze skin that looked to be recently anointed. Her eyes were pewter gray and her beautifully coiffeured chestnut hair shined. When she first grinned teasingly in my direction, I would have followed her forever. I would have. We spend nearly sixteen years together. She died in my arms of cancer. But we had traveled Europe together on half a dozen summer vacations. And we had traveled together.

Trudy believed I was the messenger and repair person for broken wings. My mission was to make her laugh. She drove a delivery truck and drove everyone else crazy. Trudy quickly attached herself to me. She drank a six-pack of beer each night, and pretended she was Chita swinging from jungle branches. She was heavy into fantasy and I refused to wear a loin cloth. The relationship was over, almost the same time it began.

Ursula had a very bad habit of chasing every skirt she saw. She was an activist. She went dancing every night of the week, and sweat poured from her as she twirled on the dance floor. Clearly I bored the devil out of her. She filled her garage with placards for Lesbian Liberation. No More War. I couldn’t have agreed more. And I moved out.

Velma was a much younger woman. She was lovely with her lithe warm body and her glows of youth. She was insistent upon making love. I strongly suspected that she wanted to learn new tricks from an old dog. I could teach her nothing at all, but it was enchanting to try.

Wanda was a the other end of the scale. She was much too old for me. She was ready for the bone orchard and didn’t care who knew it. We got on well for attending concerts and plays and a bit of chat. She would not be called a hot number. Any sex drive that she may have had, was long ago set out with the trash. I wasn’t going through anyone’s coffee grinds to find passion.

Xaviera and I had just retired when we met. Someone to golf with, travel, and the catch-all -share companionship. After one golf game, a trip to Acapulco, and a session of talk, I’d had it. The golf greens were hideous, and Mexico was too hot, she complained. And complained. I wanted to be alone.

Yvonne was great fun. But she died.

And I became feeble. Frail, and I wondered how ever I became this Sapphic relic. Nearly ninety-years old, I mused, and wondered how the years had sped away so rapidly. Women must have worn me out, I guessed. I focused my eyes, for my daydreaming had trailed away. Another old soul was standing in the doorway of my room. I squinted. She was an attractive old bird. “Yes, dear?” I said, greeting her. “You’d like to see me?”

“I’m the new resident,” she explained. “I just wanted to stop by and introduce myself. The nurse said that you’re one of the spry old chickens and that I would like you. My name is Zoe….”

A leer replaced hesitation. “Won’t you come in, Zoe. Yes, dear old girl, please do come in.”

Copyright 1989 Kieran York

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If you’re interested in romantic fiction, please check out Appointment with a Smile by Kieran York. Books are available through www.bluefeatherbooks.com. Or order through Bella Books distribution for books or e-books. Books and Kindle e-books are also available through Amazon.

Eternal Beginnings – To Be Continued

Recently I was mentioned in Bev Prescott’s blog – I don’t like tofu-dogs, nor do I want to be one. I had posted a quote on Facebook and it was of some assistance to her. That pleased me immensely – I highly respect both her blogs, and her amazing classic, My Soldier Too. This novel addresses the treatment of gays and lesbians in the military.

Her blog was brilliant, and she explains so much of the writer’s soul in so few words. Bravo, Bev.

That spurred my own thoughts about my generation’s love affair with the printed page. Also our quest to find literature. Yes, it was a struggle to find information on lesbianism. It was a hushed, scorned, and suppressed topic.

Unfortunately, in many areas of the world, it remains so. Yet with each level of elevated education – and empathy, there is a breakdown of bigotry. We continue marching. One paragraph at a time and one book at a time continues our legacy.

Now, there are bookstores for lesbians and gays. There are online opportunities. The publishing world is expanding and flourishing. 

Sapphics are helping Sapphics – we are supporting one another. Many of us recall the days when we were coming out – with only limited support systems in place.

I want to take you back with me to my college days of exploration. In the mid-sixties, my friends and I went on a scavenger hunt to find lesbian literature. When we arrived at the small storefront, I was selected to go into the dive that sold the books we wanted. The other two women hung back. They thought I was the least contentious, so would be up to the task.

I sidled into this questionable retail shop. Being sold were items that might be seen in a petrol service station, a thrift shop, and a porn salon – if they had conjoined into one shabby store.

Trembling, I made my way to the counter. I whispered to the clerk, “Would you have any women’s….er, books about women? Women together?”

His eye gleam told me he planned on playing with my request. “Women together, hummmm.” He rubbed his chin for impact. I glared at his obvious enjoyment. Those rheumy eyes were alive with some weird, lewd, sexual fantasy. “What’s a nice girl like you want with girlie-girl trash? Get rid of the dykes. You can get yourself a guy.”

I’m thinking he should get rid of the bulge in his groin area. Also, I think he’s an absolute p-word, that rhymes with sick. “Do you want to make a sale, or not?” I questioned.

“You’ll buy the book. You can’t find your kind of books in the library.”

He reached under the counter to pull out a few shopworn books. With edges lifting, and with torn, stained covers, these books were my connection to who I am. We were all hidden away, with souls moldering. For literature keeps souls healthy. And ours literature was difficult to come by.

I selected Querlin’s Women Without Men; Bannon’s I Am A Woman; and Rule’s recently published Desert of the Heart. It was a treasure trove, to be sure.

I’ll forever remember that night, and other times we searched to find our tradition. When I read Bev’s words, I thought about the stream of energy that is today’s great sunburst of our culture.

And it’s nice to know that we contribute to one another’s magic – as it is happening. Thanks, Bev. And thanks to all my Sapphic sisters – the writers and readers that keep us inspired.

In an interview a few months ago, I mentioned that I believe we are in a splendid lesfic golden age. I’m proud to be a part of this era. We shall continue to expand freedom – our heart’s and our mind’s freedom. Not only for Sapphic women, but for all women.

Ending as I began – a quote for today:
But since everything is an eternal beginning, I think that in the future there will still be fine days ahead for both men and women. ~ Marise Querlin, Women Without Men, last line in her book, (1965)

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If you’re interested in romantic fiction, please check out Appointment with a Smile by Kieran York. Books are available through www.bluefeatherbooks.com. Or order through Bella Books distribution for books or e-books. Books and Kindle e-books are also available through Amazon.

The Win Column…

Life is remarkable!

Last night was no more or less remarkable than any other night.

I stood on my deck looking out at the constellations above. Through a wrap of tree branches, I spotted a thin curvature of the moon’s glimmer. Both moon and stars seemed to be punching out through the darkness.

I wondered, as I examined the heavens, if those great constellations ever gave themselves a self-exam. Probed around, checking celestial interlopers?

When it got too cool for shivers not to have arrived on my arms, I closed my eyes. For whatever reason – well, my mind scurries at times, I was thinking about life. Large screen, double-wide – well, my mind races at times – I was thinking about 2012’s win-loss column. A bittersweet spring, summer, and autumn, to be sure. Wanting now, to turn my thoughts back into happiness, I thought about my nine wonderful great-nieces and great-nephews.

For whatever reason, my mind sprinted to when my five and seven-year old great-nephews and I played kickball. One of our favorite events, for sure. Cooper, Brody, and I get plenty of exercise.

Brody, the seven-year old is, just as they all are, very special. He was diagnosed with celiac disease a couple of years ago. So he is on a rigid gluten-free diet. He has never complained when being served something different from everyone else. I’ve never heard him complain – period.

He’s a tough kid, and tough contender. When he’s on a field, a court, or in a conversation, he gives it his all. And when we play kickball, he is a champion. I am no such thing, but the exercise and enjoyment does me a world of good.

I recall one game when there was a lot of scoring. I’d lost track. I asked Brody what the score was. He replied, “I don’t keep score – but I know when I’m winning.” Although I smiled at the time, I hadn’t allowed the wisdom of his words to resonate.

Last night, on the deck, I allowed them to ricochet through my mind. My world is family, friends, and writing. I count my schnauzer, Clover, in both family and friend category. My world is rich, and wondrous with what I do have. I should never consider what or who I don’t have in my life.

For instance, I wrote most of the day, yesterday. Words flowed through my brain faster than they could be transcribed. My body performed in every way that I needed it to – including a couple hours of raking leaves. I love the melody of crunching leaves mingling with birds scolding me for intruding on their world. I love the fresh air and exercise.

So last night, as I looked up at the sky, I realized how truly splendid the world is. It probably is a good thing I don’t keep score. Yet as my little hero, Brody, would say, “I know when I’m winning.”

If you’re interested in romantic fiction, please check out Appointment with a Smile by Kieran York. Appointment with a Smile is a 2013 Lambda Literary Award Finalist in the Romance Category.

Books are available through www.bluefeatherooks.com. Or order through Bella Books distribution for books or e-books. Books and Kindle e-books are also available through Amazon. My latest fiction is called Careful Flowers, and will be released in the autumn of 2013.

Please check out some of my other poetry in collections called Wet Violets, Sappho’s Corner Poetry Series, Volume 2,and Roses Read, Volume 3. Edited by award-winning poet Beth Mitchum. Books are available through http://ultravioletlove.com and Amazon.

 

Ranger’s Cough

I’ve always believed narrative poetry is perhaps the most difficult to write. Maybe it is just difficult for me to write. It should tell a relatable story. The narrative is a simple subject with a meager plot. 

The surface remains effortless. The hidden event, however, must more substantive. It should touch nerves far deeper than the story line. It requires that both the writer and the reader become cognizant of other profound levels.

There is a need to delve into thought. The mind’s plow should drag upon earth’s hidden trenches of stone and of rich loom. The sharp instrument should carve within to expose some circular, formerly indigent belief, thought, or dream.     

It should guide us to our own wisdom, making us finer, and more engaged in life – and living life with one another. If “Ranger’s Cough” discloses any part of us – the collective humanity of us, I have not failed. If I have failed…It’s okay. It certainly hasn’t been the first time, and It won’t be the last time.  

RANGER’S COUGH

Limping on a swollen paw, with torn pad, was beneath his dignity.
He’d hobble before when vicious fights nearly incapacitated him.
Years ago he would lick his wounds like a pedigreed canine.
He was barely aware of oozing blood.
Now, each crevice of his foundation required tenderness.
Ranger was a scrawny, piebald-colored mongrel who had lived forever.
Startled, he paused, gasping for breath.
His blurring eyes were matted.
He watched the once familiar woman emptying trash in the dumpster.
A rattling cough escaped from Ranger’s throat.
The young medical resident pivoted to see the bony, old dog.
Hey, Ranger, Justine called out.
Still tormenting everyone in the neighborhood?
Stooped, Ranger backed away, growling as he cautiously retreated.
The young woman laughed as she indicted, you’re a miserable old mutt.
Walking nearer, the woman inspected the torn, matted fur.
Clumps of bloodied matter smeared his haunch.
Clotted splatter nearly covered his paw.
Droplets of pink spittle strung from his teeth.
He wobbled with each breath.
The woman suggested, you could use a dose of antibiotics, pal.
Her words were hollow of confidence and optimism.
She would treat him, and bring him some food.
At least we could give you a chance, old fella, she called out.
Ranger snarled with recognition.
This was the girl, now grown to a woman, who had given him his moniker.
At twelve, young Justine had referred to him as the Lone Ranger.
‘Lone’ perfectly described Ranger.
He had no pack; he had no friends.
Nor did he encourage canine or human companions.
Justine recalled how Ranger had never resided at any one place.
A neighbor took him in for awhile, thinking Ranger could be a guard dog.
Ranger had been tied to a post in the backyard.
Justine’s mother had instructed her daughter to take
the poor, mistreated pup some table scraps.
When the preteen girl offered Ranger food, the mottled pooch took it.
But it was with a menacing glare.
After gulping dinner, Ranger barked.
Girl Justine had garnered courage enough to untie the rope confining Ranger.
With a dangerous, warning whine, then howl, the dog snapped at the youth.
As the rope loosened, Ranger’s caustic rage exploded.
Justine’s hand was torn.
With a quick retreat through the gate, Ranger fled.
The girl was left behind, tears and blood streamed.
Now, memories took Justine back to childhood.
She looked down at the scar on her right hand.
Dozens of stitches, and two surgeries had knitted her shredded flesh.
Suspiciously eyeing the woman, old Ranger coughed again while crouching.
The hack released a hollowness in his lungs.
As he staggered, there was a sound of his deeply ragged panting.
Stay, fella. Let me get my bag,  Justine instructed.
I’ll give you something to help,
she promised as she hastened back to her parent’s home.
The young doctor devised a plan as she retrieved her medic’s case.
She would first throw her jacket over Ranger’s head.
She would then jab antibiotics into the old dog’s hip.
It might give him some relief.
She returned several moments later.
Justine hoped her other hand wouldn’t be torn apart.
She was confident that Ranger was so far gone,
he wouldn’t have the strength to harm her.
Yet even as a youth recovering from a vicious dog bite,
she’d recognized the terrifying emergency room event had changed her life.
After surgeries and stitches had repaired her hand,
the girl was determined to become a doctor.
Now, glancing around the empty alley, she wondered where Ranger had gone.
Justine wadded across a weedy field to Ranger’s favorite hiding place.
She stopped momentarily, summoning youth’s bravery.
Then she entered the leaning henhouse.
Inhaling the stuffy stench inside a dusty, rickety hen-coop, she blinked rapidly.
The young medic’s eyes flooded.
Her throat constricted.
Ranger had folded himself into a tight, motionless circle.
Death’s mask had converted his muzzle to the smile of a benign puppy.

COPYRIGHT Poetry of Kieran York

Please check out some of my other poetry in a collection called Wet Violets, Sappho’s Corner Poetry Series, Volume 2  edited by Beth Mitchum. Books are available through http://ultravioletlove.com and Amazon.

For an excellent poetical experience, please don’t miss the link of Meli’s Musings: https://www.facebook.com/melismusings. Acquaint yourself with a true poet’s heart.

In you’re interested in romantic fiction, please check out Appointment with a Smile by Kieran York. Books are available through www.bluefeatherbooks.com. Or order through Bella Books distribution for books or e-books. Books and Kindle e-books are also available through Amazon.

Abandoned in a Manger & Going to Hell Might not be such a Long Trip

There is no need for an introduction. No allegory, No hidden meaning. Just two of my narrative poems.

ABANDONED IN A MANGER

The infant was left for dead – forgotten by fate.
Music of her mausoleum birth was a choir inside the vacant cathedral.
Infancy happened within the tabernacle’s stench of decaying timber.
She was beneath the crunch of crumbling plaster.
Her birth announcement was scrolled by times deformed signature.
Within a sacred, musty darkness, she’d arrived.
Garbled in her robe of shadows and solitude, she was.
A dank, breaking day chased her chanting sobs.
She was whelped there in that corner – there, squint your eyes – there.
There, where bloodied, second-hand swaddling decomposes.
Rotted cloth ovals merge with rotted lumber.
Clumps of viscid afterbirth once clung to planks of termite-infested flooring.
By now the straw has disintegrated.
It was told how she’d been left for dead – history’s homily corroded prior blessings.
A stranger wailed an operatic solo of pain when joined by the infant on that morning.
It became a duet of weeping, or was it the lamb gently baa-ing?
No matter, she had heard what she’d heard, and felt what she’d felt.
Stabbed in half, her umbilical tether was carved.
A handheld paring knife has sliced.
Concern was gone when severed – but then, she was left for dead.
She was only alarmed by a chilling breeze as it snuck through a boarded window’s crease.
Bright stars paled toward a maiden day as she struggled in death’s opposite direction.
Living was a flashy lure in front of her surrender.
Life lulled, twilight provided white vespers, as she continued.
Her entombed heart ticked its shallow drumming, while limbs batted shivering flails.
Silhouettes were cast, as if they were a dozen thrashing hummingbirds.
Wizened flesh would not become a delicacy to be ripped by gnawing fangs of roving rats.
Their scurrying feet played hurried hymnal scales over keys of mosaic glass.
And chords lifted from rusted tin.
She was alone in the audience.
Newspaper accounts would verify the birth – no psalmody was added.
Breath would not be pilfered by oily rags that corked her mouth, it was reported.
But had her gag been gathered away by a phantasmal savior?
Had her moans expelled the obstruction from a raw and choking throat?
Was death repelled by a sneeze of survival – the facts were unknown.
This condemned building was not earth’s altar emptying itself of answers.
This house of worship once was filled with a genuflecting parade.
It was not muted with rubble, and leaning walls were purged of truth by time.
A wrecking ball, with chiming globe, demolished the hollow, skeletal structure of her origin.
Investigations reveled she was left for dead.
No room at Metro General; no room – no room at all.
No room at Memorial Hospital; no vacancy – no room.
No culprit and no crime remained.
A commission of sin had faded into ethereal oblivion.
Wiped away by season was the evidence that rain had melted.
Gone is the blessed holy water, gone – all gone.
An offering lingers, embracing yesterday’s secret creed.
What canonicity solves the attempted murder?
What answer locks itself beneath the scriptural grace?
She knew the chant was there – she knew the prayer by heart.
Worn away by years, blaring city squalls seem out of tune – but she hears them yet.
She recalls a time when they were together alone for the first and last time.
That time when she was nearly murdered by the song of sadness.
That time where her eyes turned blue and she was abandoned in a manger.
Among yesterday’s debris, she was left for dead.
She often listens in on the lyrics of her birth.
She sees the video replay, and touches nearly worn-away fear.

GOING TO HELL MIGHT NOT BE SUCH A LONG TRIP

Going to hell might not be such a long trip, the street person contemplated.
With pulse beating, and through a wheezing gulp of air, she waited for the next installment.
Although lassoed to a problematic life, she searched escape.
Or perhaps more correctly – she retreated.
The thin, haggard woman recognized one thing early on – death is a brutal poacher.
We are, she considered, a wall of people buzzing around our own existence.
We don’t select ear caning, or being placed on a rack.
No fire is friendly fire.
Rights are not secured by past glories.
And fate contributes to what we are – and we make us who we are.
Our calling cards are locked away – lost as we turn out our pockets.
The emptier the pocket, the more precarious the days.
Although life is provisional, earth is no guaranteed cornucopia giveaway.
She wondered if the wheels on her chair would rotate fast enough.
Racing the red light always left her breathless.
Just as fear had left her a few years ago.
Her lungs were as dry and empty as they’d been on dusty marches.
Those processions included exploding bombs – buried with alacrity and precision.
Now, as she gasped for air, she acknowledged she was only combating a traffic light.
And an angry driver telling her to go to hell.
Hell was a location she already knew intimately.

COPYRIGHT Poetry of Kieran York

Please check out some of my other poetry in a collection called Wet Violets, Sappho’s Corner Poetry Series, Volume 2. edited by Beth Mitchum. Books are available through http://ultravioletlove.com and Amazon.

If you’re interested in romantic fiction, please check out Appointment with a Smile by Kieran York. Books are available through www.bluefeather books.com. Or order through Bella Books distribution for books or e-books. Books and Kindle e-books are also available through Amazon.

Prelim Insights on Book Creation…

There is always more than enough to do with house, yard, my trusty schnauzer – Clover, correspondence, watching and interacting with my nine great-nieces and nephews, etc.

I’m between a major project (book writing) and next major project (book edit) – and it is a book heavy on my mind. Although it will probably be out Spring of 2013, I wanted to share my preliminary thoughts on this book.

It is titled Careful Flowers. I began writing it a couple years ago, and it is a story very dear to my heart. All an author’s writing becomes important, if not – how can it be important to the reader? As most writers know books of fiction become personal – and we think of them as family. Selecting a favorite is difficult. I’ve come to conclude that each of my endeavors is most loved when I’m writing or rereading it.

When the growing of CF began blossoming in my mind, I felt it was something very important that needed writing. As it began blooming, it took on its own meaning and messages. Uncertain if it would be of interest to my publishers, I wrote only fifty thousand words. But more was needed to be said.

I am so blessed! Blue Feather Books courageously takes chances on controversial material. With my last book, AWAS, Blue Feather Books published a romance about a senior Sapphic woman.

After submitting CF, I was encouraged by Blue Feather Books to write an additional fifteen-thousand words, expanding on my universal messages. They are bravely willing to publish controversy.

Fleur Hamilton is a botanist, is in a relationship, and finds crossroads before her. Life isn’t as simple as she had believed before she entered her fourth decade. For me, her story was written through my own obsession to detect and relay historical truths. Love, hatred, kindness, evil, and the decency of both forgiveness, and remembrance, became my starting point.

A manuscript that means so much to me was expanded to allow the flowering of my completed fictional treatise. Interweaved with the main character’s emotional journey, a tour of history is included. It takes her on an odyssey to discover both her personal past, as well as her unique humanity.

She locates her true past as she glances back into the unwrapping of her parent’s Hippie Era. She more importantly uncovers her beloved aunt’s understanding of both love and hatred, as the world of a Holocaust survivor unfolds. And as these two worlds converge, Fleur Hamilton locates herself.

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If you’re interested in romantic fiction, please check out Appointment with a Smile by Kieran York. Books are available through www.bluefeatherbooks.com. Or order through Bella Books distribution for books or e-books. Books and Kindle e-books are also available through Amazon.

Please check out some of my other poetry in a collection called Wet Violets, Sappho’s Corner Poetry Series, Volume 2. Edited by Beth Mitchum. Books are available through http://www.ultravioletlove.com and Amazon.