i love spring

So does Dory at Wittenberg Gate. She takes us on a walk through her woods in "If You Weed and Feed You Don’t Have These."

Also check out these lovelies, photograhed by K. Wetterling.
(Hat tip: Wittenberg Gate, above)

Which brings me to the wild bleeding hearts our woods are full of right now, and the last poem of April, poetry month.

Writing

Beside the path that winds
through my waking and sleeping
grow, like wildflowers
scenes, insights, connection
Some days I am too rushed
or distracted to see
On others I am wiser
live with the perception
which gathers a bouquet
chooses one or two to press
between the covers of a book

(Or we could say...

chooses one or two to post
within the archives of a blog)

- V. Nesdoly © 2004.

gross me out!

This mischievous heads-up from hubby has to be the winner in the ‘gross me out’ department...

"Mystery of the exploding toads"

Visitors to Hamburg parks are being warned to watch out for exploding toads.

Several thousand toads in the city's parks have so far mysteriously spontaneously exploded, sending entrails and toad body parts over a wide area.

Vets and animal welfare workers said the mystery has decimated the city's toad population as well as the unpleasant problem of leaving toad parts scattered around parks and open spaces. [read more ...]

Speculation as to what’s causing it includes:
- "Hungry crows are pecking out their livers" - Berlin veterinarian Frank Mutschmann (posited in an Associated Press article, "Exploding German toads alarm onlookers"
- viral infection caught from horses on a nearby racetrack
- toads committing suicide from over-population

The Hamburg pond has been called ‘The Death Pool.’ Death too, to the myth of benevolent ‘Mother Nature.’

shortlisted for awards

I was thrilled to discover yesterday that two poems by colleagues have made the short list for the 2005 Word Guild Awards.

"In a Civilized Society An Adulteress Isn’t Stoned" by Jan Wood
and "I Chased My Healing" by Mary Lou Cornish.

Also on the short list are:

- by my friend Helen Grace Lescheid (a.k.a. Esther Manuel’s) Treasures of Darkness: Finding Hope Stronger Than Our Hurts in the Books - Life Story category. This is a compelling true story about dealing with mental illness (not her own).

- by Deborah Gyapong "The Thong" published by Infuze in the Short Story category. (Deborah also blogs at The Master's Artist)

Congratulations! Awards will be presented June 17th at Write Canada in Guelph, Ontario. I wish they could all win!

a day of lists

I can hardly believe it, but this month of commemorating poetry is almost done. It went so fast...

Anyway, before it slips into history, I want to do something which poetry help books always advise - and that is, make some lists. (Besides, lots of poems are lists.)

Here is a list of some great poetry websites:

The Academy of American Poets
Canadian Contemporary Poets
Glossary of Poetic Terms
Poetry 180
Poetry 4 Kids
The Poem Tree (anthology of metered poetry)
Utmost Christian Writers
The Writer’s Almanac

Here are some sites for poetry prompts:

Poetry Poetry and more specifically The Vault and go to "Workshop Ideas")
Poets Online

And four of poems I like for one reason or another:

"e-poem" by Heather McHugh
"Being Boring" by Wendy Cope
"Tante Tina Puts the Gulf War in Perspective" by David Waltner Toews
"Where I'm From" by Waterfall
"Let Evening Come" by Jane Kenyon


And now this last list – a poem. Would anyone care to guess what it is a list of?


WELCOME

Welcome to the Country Airport,
also called the Loveless Hotel

Would you care for something to drink?
Ultramarine or Blue for their colors passing through us?
Fire aged by Rosicrucian in the basement?

Perhaps a light hors d’oeuvres on the funny side,
otherwise something more substantial –
unholy sonnets or serious concerns?

Our specials today are Nice Fish
caught just above water, down the winter road,
Septuagenarian Stew
and Night Picnic, which
given sugar, given salt will forever
spoil you for the idea of the ordinary.

Standard menu also includes
smorgasbord of Anthologies, fine array of
New and Selected or, if you like,
Selected and New, as well as 100 Selected
and the always popular Collected or Complete
in flavors from Angelou to Yeats.

Now that you are coming up for air
allow me to tempt you with the bare plum
of winter rain, picked
at the edge of the orchard country –
archaic smile guaranteed.
Will you end with coffee,
or do you hear a summons?

As to further questions of travel, you never know...
May I suggest the movie at the end of the world,
a stroll through the Impossible Toystore
or a sail on the Boat of Quiet Waters?
But beware the Black Riviera
with its bandsaw riots,
lords of misrule,
and the berrypicker who will bore you
with stories of what happened
when he went to the store for a loaf of bread.

–V. Nesdoly © 2003

a song

A Song Came Wearing Music Skin

Of times
a song came waltzing by
wearing warm smiling music-skin stretched o’er
bent white bones
sings itself so sweet seems crimson sinful
through some joy-filled scarlet heart thumps
blessed and blessing all
all alone on Somewhere’s stage
carving word-wings
from break-a-legs
notes flying as shook up frenzy-hair
colored-passions dance forth as angel’s souls
blessing Heaven’s breath
then bows lowwwly humble down and out on back-feet
as naked silence reverberates leaving all ears a-tremble aghast
stunned
dressed with open-mouth-impress
for years, for years trying to catch their breath
dreaming of times
a song came wearing warm smiling music skin
Singing! Singing!
causing angel’s pause with tears a-glow
and demon’s tremble
far below
turning itself inside out through God’s own lips

– James Beard (from Music Fusion: Arias to Zydecos, a music journal created by Jan Wood © 2004, used with permission). Read more poems by James here and here.

************

While we're on the topic of poetry (what other topic is there in April?) the Accidental Poet remembers and recites poems learned in childhood. Take a look--though she leaves out the politically incorrect bits -- bah, we want to see it all!

tagged!

I’ve been tagged by the lovely Waterfall to answer some questions.

Here’s the scoop on how to play: I pick 5 occupations out of the list below and answer my questions. Then I tag 3 other people to post their answers on their blog. If I tag you, and you don’t want to be a part of this, then that’s okay. Just let me know and I’ll tag someone else.

The "questions": If I could be a scientist...If I could be a farmer...If I could be a musician... If I could be a doctor... If I could be a painter... If I could be a gardener... If I could be a missionary... If I could be a chef... If I could be an architect... If I could be a linguist... If I could be a psychologist... If I could be a librarian... If I could be an athlete... If I could be a lawyer... If I could be an inn-keeper... If I could be an athlete... If I could be a professor... If I could be a writer... If I could be a llama-rider... If I could be a bonnie pirate... If I could be an astronaut... If I could be a world famous blogger... If I could be a justice on any one court in the world... If I could be married to any current famous political figure...


If I could be a gardener ... I would have an ‘everlasting’ garden like the one I’ve ogled for years on a walk I take near here. No matter what time of the year it is (except for November through January), something is always blooming. And somehow the gardener lady has planned it so that the plants coming into their own drape over the finished stuff, and it never looks rangy.

But I would want to combine this knowledge of everlasting bloomability with the design of an English country garden I drive past. It graces a house which is mostly hidden by trees, but you can just make out a white picket fence, a verandah with wicker furniture and growing in front of the verandah this eye feast – tall spikes of delphinium, and lacy white heads (maybe Queen Anne’s lace) and in front of that something pink and more white and shades of mauve, so that you know if you drove into the driveway you would be transported to a place of elegance and tradition and tea on the verandah at 4:30 sharp!

If I could be an inn-keeper... my inn would be a bed and breakfast on the Gulf Islands between Vancouver and Victoria. Saltspring Island would be nice! I would offer bright rooms, furnished with old-fashioned furniture and with large windows that could be opened to let in the sea breeze. Our speciality (my hubby would do this with me) would be the breakfasts, sometimes continental with hot-baked scones, and muffins and buttery toast, served with a variety of cheeses and homemade jams. Other days we’d have the farmer’s breakfast - eggs, sausages, porridge, hash browns, hunks of grainy brown toast. Of course we’d have a goat and make goat cheese and offer goat milk.

In the common room there would be a fireplace, and piped in music, and a library, with books which would speak to people about God, so that when they looked back on their stay, they’d know this had been holy ground. And after the guests would leave, we’d crank up the music to something energizing, and hang out the duvets and pillows on the verandah to air, while we mopped and polished the rooms, and shined the porcelain in the bathroom.

If I could be a painter... I would be a painter like Kim Jacobs, whose jigsaw puzzles are on my walls, and who has made this gingerbread advent calendar. I’d make paintings which were full of detail and homespunness. I would get requests to illustrate children’s books, make calendars, and manufacture my own line of cards!




If I could be a writer... I would like to write two kinds of books. The first kind is talking animal books, of the Adventures of Reddy Fox, Thornton Burgess type, or the Wind In the Willows-type Kenneth Graham type. Can you imagine anything more fun than inventing and then letting loose delicious characters like Reddy Fox, Toad, Badger, Ratty and the Weasels?

Another kind of book I’d like to write is the kind that has impacted my life probably next most to the Bible, and that’s biographies. I have so often felt God’s Spirit reach right through the stories of others’ lives, and mess with my heart, I can think of no higher calling than to have words I’ve written do the same for others.


If I could be a world famous blogger... Don’t you know that I already am! HA!!! Not. But I would love it if someone thought: Her blog would appeal to a segment of our readers. And that day in my little hotmail ‘spam’ box, because that’s where all the emails from strangers come, there would be this offer: "We would like to syndicate your blog– and pay you for writing it! Please continue posting exactly the mix you now have. In fact, if you find Blogger too unreliable, we’ll sponsor a Typepad blog for you!" And forever after, I could blog to my heart’s content, without feeling guilty and that I was wasting time and dodging work that had real value.

Thank you, Waterfall... what fun!!

Now I would like to tag the whimsical Rebecca of Rebecca Writes , the lovely Paula of Listen In... who I think loves words as much as I do, and someone whom I’m sure will give us a fun read – h8s2clean of Accidental Poet.

restitution

There is no restitution for some things done wrong
but to lay them in disgrace
at the feet of Jesus

we crawl up out of muddied waters
with our hands scrambling for safety
and the taste of filth in our mouths

we flog ourselves with the world's opinion
and go down again, choking
gasping for air under the assault of accusing eyes

but there comes a time we realize
the deed is done
and we stand before Christ
mute with longing
helpless in our regret
broken in our sorrow

He draws us to himself
and showers us with radiance
Forgiven
Restored
He lifts each one to new and holy ground

There is no restitution for some things done wrong
but to leave them
abandoned
at the feet of Jesus

-Barbara Mitchell (from I Know You Lord © 1994 - used with permission)

a heart set on pilgrimage

Blessed are those whose strength is in you
who have set their hearts on pilgrimage
As they pass through the Valley of Baca
they make it a place of springs:
the autumn rains also
cover it with pools.
They go from strength to strength
till each appears before God in Zion.
Psalm 84:5-7 (NIV)

pil-grim-age (pil’ grem-mij) - a journey to a shrine or sacred place.

I paraphrase it this way: ‘Blessed (enjoying the happiness of heaven) are those who have set their hearts (who are determined) to make this life a journey from one sacred place to another; from one meeting with God to the next.'

What I like about this idea is how God’s presence pervades my life as a pilgrim; how as a pilgrim I expect God to come through, to be there, to show up and, on the flip side, how I am alert to God and sensitive to Him, because He is all around if I will acknowledge Him.

And so what happens? Shrines and altars are everywhere. Not only in the expected places – church, and happy family picnics and in my morning quiet time, but also in fetching the neighbor kid’s stray ball from my back yard, opening the mail, discussing life with a rebellious child, a hospital room...

Where I would normally expect to become dehydrated, woozy, lightheaded – the parched Valley of Baca – I find springs. The desert becomes an oasis not because it’s changed, but because "they"--the pilgrims (and I, the individual pilgrim)--make it so. For where my pilgrim heart seeks the Lord, He shows up with water to quench my thirst and bathe my feet, oil to soothe the blisters and perfume my skin, bread to nourish me, and wine to make me glad.

poetry of childhood

Today’s edition of Writer’s Almanac tells me it’s the birthday of Walter de la Mare. Immediately the words: "Slowly, silently, now the moon / Walks the night in her silver shoon..." come to mind. "Silver" is one of the first poems I memorized, along with "Under a toadstool crept a wee elf / Out of the rain to shelter himself..." ("The Elf and the Doormouse" - Oliver Herford). Another poem I remember from school (didn’t memorize it, though, except for the first few lines) is "Off the Ground,"also by Walter de la Mare.

***********

Silver

Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon;
This way, and that, she peers, and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog;
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in a silver-feathered sleep;
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws, and silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam
By silver reeds in a silver stream.

– Walter de la Mare (1873-1956)

*********

What poems (first lines or entire) do you remember from childhood?

the plowman

God is plowing my spirit
breaking with His Word
through turf of actions
churning it over
to deep motivations
bare and uncovered
furrows laid open
before my own eyes

Mine is a stony patch
lumpy with pebbles
life-habits of thinking
established reactions
plow clangs out warning
when stones hit the plowshare

Then God stops His plowing
takes out unrelenting
shovel of living
methodically patiently
loosens the dirt
proceeds to uncover
not pebbles but boulders
that must be removed

I’m bruised and disquieted
torn wide apart
a field He’s preparing
for purposes
higher than mine

– V. Nesdoly (from Calendar © 2004)

***********

Callmeteem posts a thoughtful poem for Sunday consideration: "I Stand by the Door: An Apologia for my Life" by Sam Shoemaker.

mantle of motherhood

She cradles her infant
tears cascade unfelt
as she rocks
eyes closed, body swaying
‘Ma-ry Ma-ry"
every drop of mother’s blood sings

I am wordless immersed
in her pain
compassion shackles my arms
no gesture no word is appropriate
I am the thief today

a deep breath ripples her body
tender fingertip caresses downy cheek
she inhales memorizes this one
final kiss

she places the baby
in my arms settles
the mantle of motherhood
on my shoulders

–Sue Plett © 1997 (used with permission)

*************

Sue Plett writes from her home in Alberta, Canada. Read a brief explanation of the poem here. Read more of this often very funny lady: a.k.a. h8s2clean at Accidental Poet.

chocolate spoon factory

Well, my ‘mantle of motherhood’ today involves dipping 150 chocolate spoons. Because it so happens this is one of the jobs I’ve happily taken on to help prepare for the big day (daughter’s wedding May 27th).

Chocolate spoons really are a brilliant idea for wedding favors (seeing as how we’re dealing here with the surname ‘Spooner’). Thus I have in the last few days researched chocolate spoons on the internet, come away with several ideas of how to do it, and spent Wednesday afternoon in the kitchen, microwaving, melting and dipping (or not) practically all the plastic spoons I own, into chocolate of various kinds and consistencies.

I’ve discovered that though most of the instructions advise to use the microwave to melt the chocolate, for me that’s a bad idea as it yields an undippable and hot congealed mass with the consistency of flaky concrete. Melting chocolate chips on the stovetop at low heat works much better.

I also realized we needed a note of explanation here. Fortunately I had one chocolate spoon and its helpful little tag left from a Christmas basket which gave me an idea of what to say. So I’ve designed little tags to be attached to each spoon. The top of each tag says (in a sturdy font): "Dip chocolate-covered spoon in hot chocolate, coffee or cappuccino" and below that, (in a finer, more decorative font): "Thank you for sharing our special day..." - and the kids’ names.

I used my business card label template and cards for these, putting two columns in the format of the card, so that each business card makes two labels (and I only have to cut each card in half, as the remainder of the divisions are perforated – oh yes, and also punch a hole in the top of each little tag).

My thought was to have the official wedding spoons in gold, and slip them into little cellophane baggies instead of wrapping from scratch with a roll of cellophane. Thursday afternoon was devoted to getting those supplies. We found a party supply place near here (Turkey’s), which carries plastic spoons of every color imaginable. We found gold.

They sent us to Essential Packaging which had the little cellophane baggies (with gold dots no less) and we also picked up gold twist ties.

So with all that plus 2½ kg. of chocolate chips (and who knows, I may need more!) gathered, today my kitchen becomes a chocolate spoon factory. Which should be a lot of fun. (...if all goes well– and why won’t it? I’ve so slathered all this in prayer, I’m convinced God is making the way smooth before me, what with finding the exact supplies I had in mind, for starters). Plus my house will smell delicious!

rhyme time - poetry homework

Can you answer these in rhyme (in comments, or in the privacy of your own back-of-the-envelope)? Answers here.

E.g. a pup which has just fallen into a lake = wet pet

1. a sorrowing boy
2. a rude ill-tempered female youth
3. a tale of much bloodshed
4. a clown in class
5. a rose dipped in vinegar
6. well behaved rodents
7. extraordinary food at a banquet
8. a timid insect
9.a stupid horse
10. a fowl that has escaped its coop
11. a hobo in the rain

calendar

Essence of spring drifts from the sticky buds,
Robin’s lively lilt now wakes me early.
Under the clouds, crocuses clutch a tight bouquet.
Humming lawnmowers are summer’s elevator music.

Robin’s lively lilt now wakes me early,
The smell of sunscreen seeps through all my clothes.
Humming lawnmowers are summer’s elevator music.
Fruit stand has berries and apples by the box!

The smell of sunscreen seeps through all my clothes;
Your fun is over, mocks the drenching rain.
Fruit stand has pears and apples by the box:
Houses don sequins and tuxedos.

Your fun is over mocks the drenching rain.
We laugh and push each other’s cars through mounds of snow.
Houses doff sequins and tuxedos:
Naked trees stand pensive in the cold.

We laugh and push each other’s cars through mounds of snow.
Under the clouds, crocuses clutch a tight bouquet.
Naked trees stand pensive in the cold;
Essence of spring drifts from the sticky buds.

– V. Nesdoly © 2002

*****************
"Calendar" is my poem for ‘Earth Day.’

I am not an earth worshiper. But I do love my terrestrial home. I love the beauty of nature, the place I live (on the south-western edge of Canada) and am fascinated and reassured by the cycles – of the seasons and of life – not in a new-agey way, but in a "there is a time for..." Ecclesiastes 3 way.

I used the pantoum form in ‘Calendar’ to try to show those cycles, and the way they bleed into and circle back to each other.

rhyme time - poetry homework: answers

Okay kiddos, get your red pencils. Of course any rhymes which make sense are correct...

1. a sorrowing boy: SAD LAD
2. a rude ill-tempered female youth: SURLY GIRLY
3. a tale of much bloodshed: GORY STORY
4. a clown in class: SCHOOL FOOL
5. a rose dipped in vinegar: SOUR FLOWER
6. well behaved rodents: NICE MICE
7. extraordinary food at a banquet: IDEAL MEAL
8. a timid insect: SHY FLY
9.a stupid horse: SILLY FILLY
10. a fowl that has escaped its coop: LOOSE GOOSE
11. a hobo in the rain: DAMP TRAMP

You rate:
10-11 correct: you’re a lean, mean rhyming machine. (Someone – I don’t remember who – once said – I don’t remember where, so take my word for it – people who write rhyming poetry successfully need to have a large vocabulary. Now that’s not necessary for this little quiz, but it is probably a quality you possess if you tend to rhyme and do it well).

6-9 correct: your ability to rhyme is passable. After all, many rhyming forms only need rhymes in every other line anyway, so go for it!

0-5 correct: uh, maybe stick to unrhymed verses...

poem in your pocket day

Apparently today is 'Poem in Your Pocket Day' (Hat tip: Wittingshire).

Thank you to Jim, who gave me permission to pull this one of his out of my pocket:

************

Pocket Poem

soiled by sweaty fingers
creased and creased again
opened up a thousand times
to view the words I'd penned

it records a life of hiding
with nothing grand to offer
just the words, "I trust you"
on this paper's humble altar

a crumpled composition by a
carefree crowd unseen,
thanksgiving penned in words...
and when you find it in your pocket,
it'll still be warm from me

here it is Lord.

- Jim Cox (Inspirational Poetry © 2004 - used with permission)

*************

Jim writes from his home in California. At the moment he's forsaken poetry and is working on writing stories.

promptings' potpourri

First, I must alert you to the newest Christian Carnival - up at Polypseudomath ....shhhh you’re entering a sanctuary...

Rebecca Writes continues to post Faith Stories. This one, "How the Lord Made Me Into A Christian" is told by her friend Scott, and is a gripping read (how great and loving and individual is our God!)

Teem at Callmeteem regularly posts "Operation World Today" – a focus on a specific place on our globe, and a prayer for that place. I love these!

I’ve heard it said a good writer can write about any topic and make it a memorable read. Waterfall (A Sort of Notebook) sure qualifies in that department. Spinning ideas off the current rage to discover your personality type, she writes about hers and the resultant housework shenanigans in "J-Hat Cleaning Frenzies for a P-Brain"

I’ve pointed you to Wittingshire, blog of Jonathan and Amanda Witt, before. Jonathan writes mostly about things scientific, and Amanda fills in the spaces with beautiful photos and an ability to discourse on almost anything! You’ve got to read this piece of hers, "On Boys and Bikinis" in the ‘kids say...’ department.

Thanks to Dory at Wittenberg Gate, for highlighting the poetry on my blog this April Poetry Month, with a trackback in her Monday's "Beyond the Gate" post!

book review: the jordan tracks

Book: The Jordan Tracks
Author: Steven W. Wise
Genre: Young-adult to Adult Fiction
ISBN: 1-4208-1360-9

From the first sentence of the ‘Prologue’:

"Clarence Bates plopped down heavily in his chair and looked past lazy eyelids across the supper table at the twelve-year-old son who would kill him within two minutes."

I knew that in The Jordan Tracks, I was in the hands of a skilled storyteller.

This tale of Ernie and Christa Bates set in California, Missouri, takes place in 1968. It opens with Ernie and Christa eagerly awaiting the return of Aaron, their only and beloved son, from soldier duty Vietnam.

As the story progresses, we are introduced to a cast of characters you would find in any small town. Besides Ernie, Christa and Aaron, Harley and Fudd, Ernie’s buddies from the turkey plant play the most important roles.

Wise shows his characterization skills in numerous scenes where his people strut their stuff. Here, for example is a taste of his gritty and sometimes humorous style as we join Ernie, Fudd and the rest of the crew at their lunch break:

Ernie stepped out of the blood room, shook his head at Fudd. "How can anybody covered with turkey crap be that hungry?"

"Ain’t nothin’ ever slowed down my jaws in eatin’ or talkin,’ you know that, Ernie." He paused, swiped at a feather clinging to his eyebrow. "If my Margie packed another egg salad sandwich I’ll break down and bawl. Man’s got to have a sandwich his teeth can feel, by dang. Good cookie needs to be soft, but not a sandwich!

...After several gallons of hot water and two dizen paper towels were expended, the men pulled metal charis up to the long Formica-topped table and popped open their lunch pails.

"That’s more like it...spiced beef and onions," Fudd purred. "A man can make some energy with this kind of grub."

Dorsey shook his head and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Why don’t you just breathe on the birds while they pass by, and I’ll turn off the shocker...they’ll be stunned worse than electricity."

Fudd swallowed a gigantic bite and slowly licked his lips as he grinned at Dorsey. "Didn’t know you were gettin’ so dainty in your old age, boss man."

That’s the tone of the story throughout. It’s real life. It’s common people, poking fun at, crying with and loving each other. The themes it tackles are the themes of real life: work, celebration, family, death, depression, living with a non-Christian husband, making peace with a dark murky past, recognizing the ways God brings people to Himself. If it were a play, one stage set would be the interior of a middle-class home, another the woods, a third the turkey plant where the job of the three main characters is to catch, clamp and behead the birds (all described in technicolor).

As I said at the outset, Steven Wise knows how to tell a story. He heightens suspense when he flashes to scenes of Aaron in Vietnam, using as a transitioning device, the fact that Ernie and Aaron’s thoughts are often with each other. In several places he hooks the reader even more obviously with outright premonitions experienced by Ernie, Christa, and Aaron’s best friend Pima.

The Christian angle of the book is delivered mainly through Christa and Ernie’s caring friend Harley. It is Harley’s name for his favorite spot to pray, the railroad tracks which run between the cemetery and the turkey plant (and which he dubs the Jordan Tracks), which gives the book its name. The ‘Jordan’ gains significance in another way as the story progresses. By the end of the book, the spiritual ‘plot’ usurps the story’s plot in importance.

One of the ways I judge the success of a book is by how conscious I am of the writer’s devices. For me, the least successful (1's) are books in which I’m aware of what the author is doing, and the most successful (5's) those in which I forget all about the teller and am gripped by the story. I’d rank this book a 4.75, with marks taken off for, in a very few places, boggy prose, wordiness and awkward sentence structure.

For anyone who enjoys a finely written, substantial tale, delivered through the lives of next-door-neighbor-type characters, with about as much of the unexplainable (read ‘miraclulous') as one finds in real life, and pervaded by the perfume of the Father’s love throughout, The Jordan Tracks is a book I’d highly recommend for young-adult to adult readers.

*************
Disclaimer: The book The Jordan Tracks was sent to me by Mind & Media as a gift from the publisher who donated the books for reviewers.

reason to self-publish?

On reading Steven Wise’s The Jordan Tracks (review here), I wondered why he decided to use Author House instead of going with a CBA royalty publisher. He’s a master storyteller and his writing style and character portrayal is not unlike Dale Cramer’s.

After reading the last few days’offerings at faith*in*fiction (especially this post) I think I’m beginning to understand. Instead of subjecting his novel (which refuses to shy away from reality but at the same time, isn’t offensive in a gratuitous way) to the red pen of someone who serves three or four masters, he has become his own publisher.

The more I think of it, the more it seems like not a bad idea. He gets to tell the story he’s passionate about in the way he wants to tell it, and in the process I’m sure he’s growing his own following. Admittedly he does have to do his own marketing – one prong of which is using blogs to spread the word. In the end, though, he keeps his integrity--and all the profits, if there are any.

birthing a comet

How We Chose the Album Title Birthing a Comet

It was a spring shindig
and we were jammin’
in the town hall one night
when stardust fell
on Jerome’s accordion
and exploded

A song was born
right there
all wet and new
We danced around it
exuberant
clapped time to its heartbeat

The moon dried and caressed it
We harmonized
until Johnny’s violin
coaxed and whispered it
through the windows
to a space in the sky

Its shimmering tail spread
for light years
we walked home at dawn
still mesmerized
by the blue light
of burning ice.

–Jan Wood (from Music Fusion: Arias to Zydecos © 2004 - used with permission)