Poetry "Reborn" Emerges In Thriller Mystery Novel
Since Mohamed Ali-then Cassius Clay-announced that he had written "The world's shortest poem," I have known that I would be a poet. "ME? WHEE!" His triumphant proclamation evoking shivers within my troubled teenaged identity, for I reasoned in rhyme.
Everyday, hundreds-of-thousands of seemingly sane souls satisfy some innate need to bare their concealed character via atrocious alliteration or in delusional doggerel. As in Kris Kristofferson's early works, the marvelous magic masquerades within sweet musical lyrics, providing us with eternal material transcending generational barriers.
Even if none but we are ever allowed to examine our hidden essence, an inner longing is unleashed-only to be squished-should we presume to be published.
In1978, I self-published my first poetry book, Beacon©, to an enthusiastic reception of some uninformed who didn't realize, fearing rejection, I had never submitted my musings to somber publishers. After all, Rod McKuen, suffering countless rejections, had self-published. And he was said-at that time-to be, "The world's most widely read poet."
To the accolade of local yokel fans, the following year, I followed up with Imperfections©, Verse by Russ Miles, songs and thoughts reflecting who, where, and what I was-at that time in my life. Even more well received, I was enjoying the affirmative attention of a metropolitan newspaper poetry editor insisting that I co-chair a college invitational symposium for wantabe poets with the State Poet LaTourette. My books selling well, a youthful, insatiable ego was being satisfactorily stroked.
Then, a strange thing happened. I caught a case of conscience. What if an unforgiving God held me accountable for my wanton actions or the impact of foisting my unholy understandings upon innocents?
Frightening purgatorial-or worse-reprisal prospects triggered instantaneous actions. Removing all remaining copies from the marketplaces which I had developed for distribution, I stopped penning poetry for the next twenty-five years.
Disabled at age fifty-three by Multiple Sclerosis, I found myself writing another book, For Sale By Owners:FSBO©. A mystery thriller novel evolved offering some insights that only a self-absorbed, worldly man of three messed-upped marriages could possibly convey.
I continue learning that God is so forgiving. How He can inspire good to come of all things. Even some of my old songs are once more awaiting discovery thanks to the song-writing, truck-driving character appearing between the FSBO covers.
By today's standards, Red Haring's vivid verse words and wayward rhyme renderings are no longer abysmal. Rather they reflect the subtle "It's all about me" immoral fiber of a masculine male-wrestling with post 9-11 internal issues-choosing to make changes in his so self-consumed life. Red's songs emerge to stimulate reflections within Brooklyn Best, the no-saint heroine, real estate agent with whom he becomes romantically involved-while being knitted together to unravel some horrific homicides-in this reality based novel. Through its use in a sub-plot, my poetry is being reborn.
As for Beacon© and Imperfections©, perhaps I'll offer my few remaining hand signed & numbered "First Edition" & "Limited Edition" poetry books on e-Bay®. After all, John Grisham's originally published novels are now collector's items aren't they?
Free-Reprint Article Written by: Russ Miles See Terms of Reprint Below.
Article Copyright: 2005
Author Contact Email: mailto:MilesRuss@Gmail.com
TERMS OF REPRINT - Publication Rules
This is a Free-Reprint article. The only requirements for publishing this article are:
* You must leave the article and resource box unedited. You are not allowed to change the content of the article. Reformatting is permitted as necessary.
* You may not use this article in UCE (Unsolicited Commercial Email). Email distribution of this article MUST be opt-in email only.
* We ask that you forward a copy of the ezine or newsletter that contains the article inside to the author at: MilesRuss@Gmail.com
* If you post this article on a website, you MUST set any URL's or Mailto addresses in the body of the article and most especially in the Author's Resource Box as hyperlinks. We request that you also send us a copy of the URL where you have posted this article.
If you utilize this article in a printed magazine, or on paper publication, please snail mail a copy in full to Russ Miles 410 W 13th Street #807 Vancouver, WA 98660.
If you find any of the rules to be unsavory or unacceptable, please do not publish this article. While we are happy to make the content available to you for your own use, we must insist on having our rules and *Terms of Reprint* honored in full.
Russ Miles is the author of the novel, For Sale By Owners:FSBO. Seasoned Real Estate NAR® Broker Disabled by Multiple Sclerosis, FOR SALE BY OWNERS:FSBO ISBN 0-595-28703-4,in trade paperback, is available by phone or Internet:1-800-Authors to order direct! Very HOT-LINK Adobe e-book & hard cover editions also available FSBO at Amazon.com at Barnes and Noble and other fine booksellers.
Personal referrals to his publisher
This RSS feed URL is deprecated, please update. New URLs can be found in the footers at https://news.google.com/news
Expressing an Emotion - The Art of Writing Poetry
Writing poetry is an art, a way of expression, finding meaning in few words. A melody of passion flowing out onto the pages, words that flow into each other and yet express the inner most thoughts and feelings of those who read the words.
Stone Beds [A Poem and an Advance]
Stone Beds [Pompeii's surge]Advance: after the great eruption of Pompeii's nearby volcano, Vesuvius, some two-thousand years ago in the heyday of the Roman Empire, what was left of the city were mostly ashes of stone from an unleashing furnace; it is hard to imagine what the people went through (none, not one person survived). I can only guess from the looks of the city today, and in its early excavations, its people were baked alive or asleep, like pottery.
Azra, Azra, Wake up Azra. Wake up Azra, It is time to go.
A World That Doesnt Care
War bombs may explode demolishing man and land. Hurricanes may devastate and leave us entirely bare.
Four Poems: Harvest of Apoplectic Horses [Katrinas Pathway]
Four Poems: Katrina's PathwayHarvest of Apoplectic Horses ((Dedicated to: Katrina)) crisis)It has happened before: Nearby and afar, Where the four-horses of Apocalypse With their flaming nostrils Breathed in the fury of the winds Only to vomit out, disaster; - Then galloped away, Against pale faces!..
The King and Delka & Moiromma: the Cold Planet [Parts 25 and 26]
#25The King and Delka [Split Mawkishness-on Moiromma /Part V]Sickly SentimentalityI have sought out friends Only to find rawness Of their passion; And the uniformity Of their vision.Who out there can know My cerebral verve?(Only the long dead)By King Moir I[Of Moiromma]Ah! the aimless cosmos come back to his mind as he stands on his balcony looking up into he eerie dark.
Writing Innovative Poetry
Writing innovative poetry, the kind of poetry that reputable literary journals publish, entails knowing exactly what each word of a poem does to the reader. A good poem should be evocative, skillful, and cohesive, but before attempting to hone these attributes, a potential poet should be knowledgeable of the various forms and attributes of contemporary poetry.
Here And There
My eyes opened. I am still alive; Living on planet earth.
Contract of Death [Now: in SPANISH and English]
Contract of DeathI heard today, the preacher say: "Daniel has warned us long ago, Of the trials and tribulations we Are now facing, with our foes?"He says the 'Antichrist' was now In Europe crying: 'peace,' and the 'Axis of Evil,' had already placed Hidden Atomic Russian weaponsUnder our feet, here in the good Ole heart of the United States; 'Palestine's cry for peace,' he adds, Is a loaded Gun for Revelation 3:10;America. A 'Contract for Death,' Is what he called it.
Way of Life: Rhymes of the Inca [four poems: see in Spanish and English NOW!]
Way of Life: Rhymes of the IncaPizarro (Spanish conquistador ((1525))The blind follow the blind The dumb follow the fool But the cleaver, like 'Pizarro,' (who could not read or write) Followed human-nature? And ruled the Inca world!Thus, Atahualpa was Beheaded out of pride and Indolence-: one might say, And ignorance ruled? .Note: don Francisco Pizarro #689 5/27/05Cepeda the Sly [Lima, Perú-l546 AD]Cepeda the Sly-, judge With two sides; one false, One pride-both mixed with lies.
The Treasure of Catalina Huanca (In English and Spanish)
Note: written after seeing the little adobe 16th century church San Sebastian, in San Jeronimo, by the mountains of Huancayo, Peru, after being taken there by the Wandering Quechua guide, Enrique (4-13-2005).The Treasure of Catalina HuancaWritten by Dennis L.
Whats A Prisoner to Do?
What's a prisoner to do when justice fails and the innocent is escorted off to jail?What's a prisoner to do once stigmatized, caged and abandoned and ostracized?What's a prisoner to do there's no one to trust; the system fails and the outcome unjust?What's a prisoner to do when family decide the punishment is warranted and justified?What's a prisoner to do while confined in a cell; the perpetrator's free and faring quite well?What's a prisoner to do once his reputation is dead and his life has been ruined because of what someone said?What's a prisoner to do when he's not believed, though he's telling the truth, he's thought to deceive?What's a prisoner to do as he sits all alone, no one seems to care; former friends all gone?What's a prisoner to do sitting lost and idle and most of one's thoughts become suicidal?What's a prisoner to do when freedom's taken away and the will to live diminishes each day?What's a prisoner to do when hedged in by strife; with no escape possible; no chance for a new life?What's a prisoner to do when he can no longer see the beauty of the sky or the waves of the sea?What's a prisoner to do when the sun he can't feel, nor the breeze of spring because his fate is sealed?What's a prisoner to do when doomed to despair but still praying to escape the electric chair?Tell me, what's a prisoner to do?Rev. Saundra L.
There are many times I set up barriers and walls, invisible unless you come too close, And then you hit them.You wonder what happened.
Three Sweet Poems, and Two Not So Sweet [now in: SPANISH and English]
1) End PoemWherever you are today- Is where you were meant to be; It's where God, dotted the 'i' and the 't'?!2) God's AngelsGod asked his angels: "Why do you look so sad?" Responded one angel: "Sir, we can't find the shade."3) An Empty SpaceOut of wisdom one will wait, travel far for love; the thirst will not kill them.
Looking Out the Rear Window
The funeral rite concluded With the pastor shaking hands, Offering words of comfort I didn't quite understand.The undertakers came forth And summoned pallbearers' four.
Caught in the Arms of ED
YOU MIGHT THINK I AM STRONGI THINK YOU GOT IT WRONGI LIVE LIFE DAY TO DAYHOPING IT WILL GO MY WAYI HAVE MY FRIENDS AND MY FOOD PLANMY THERAPIST AND MY THOUGHTSMY EXERCISE AND MY EXCITEMENTTHEN SOMETHING HAPPENS AND I GET CAUGHTCAUGHT IN THE ARMS OF EDTURNING MY EYES AWAYFROM MY FOCUS TO WIN THE FIGHTTHAT I THOUGHT WAS GOING TO STAY.HE TELLS ME THAT I AM SELFISHTHAT I SHOULD DOUBT MY EVERY MOVEONE MINUTE I AM HAPPYDO I HAVE A RIGHT TO FEEL THIS GOOD?DOUBTING MY STRENGTH AND CONFIDENCEAS ED ALWAYS KNEW I WOULDI AM LOSING INCHES AROUND MY WAISTAND MY PANTS ARE FALLING OFFI SEE THE FACE OF ED IN MY HEADAS HE BEGINS TO LAUGH AND SCOFFYOU THINK YOU ARE GOING STRONGYOU THINK YOU GOT ME BEATLET ME SEE YOU LOSE EVEN MOREYOU WILL SEE THAT YOU WERE WRONG.
Testimony to the Night [In English and Spanish]
In the quiet of the arctic night- In its deep northern skies, Dim are the lights, in its coldEvening frost?! Even the stars of the arctic Seem silently stone frozen!Here, here is where you find Peace and the beast within-! Remote, no ears or wordsTo clutter the mind To entrench the throat; Here, here is where you die?(for a moment).Here, the sky has eternal eyes Eyes with cosmic tides Tides that never rest: they warWith the Universe- Likened to a dark deep abyss; Endless and never resting?Here my eyes seek and search In countless hours, ebbing and Sweeping the heavens aboveNumbing, changeless- Are the cosmos, the heavens? Here resides a strange peace?Here, resides a strange peace With an army of stars to defeat Shinning, silently in the darkThe ebbing, eldritch dark; Time has no relevance here, Here, resides a strange, peace?Cold and oddly numb are my feet, As I look up, upon the many bridges One star bridging the next-as if,If Kings and Queens were Guarding them-the Hosts- O-Yes! A strange, strange peace?Ah! Praise, praise be to thee, to thee Flaming, blazing firmaments-ye, Ye, remind me not, of the wars I left,Of the foes, divine immortals?The enemies that never rest Ah! Praise, praise be to thee, to theeI hear music, harmony from afar (there) There are storms hidden in a storehouse, For tomorrow-war beyond, beyondOrion's dust?perpetual dust; There, there the sun is dim to bleak.
Grandpas House & From Iraq with Love [Two Poems]
Grandpa's House [The ole Real House]The house needed painting Sun-blistered and flaking Grandpa started to have us Boys-Mike and I- start Doing some scraping-While he, pealed off the ole Paint, and started painting?Just a humble wooden house With several rooms, but Strong enough to keep the Winds and winter snows out, How he loved that ole house!..
In Poetry: Meaning of Words [And ...Rocket-belt]
In Poetry: Meaning of WordsWhen I write poetry, I check out the meaning of words for too often they sound the same, but once written, and if spelled wrong, in consequence, give a complete different meaning of what I had intended; this I call a moment of damage control. If my rhyme is flat, and my cadence is off, so what, I can survive, as long as the meaning of my words are not; and are as I meant them to be.
Life is a Fantasy
LIFE IS A FANTASY!A pink-eyed rabbit, fuzzy whiteHops in bedrooms filled with frightA child of six with much to knowHer father's basest feelings showShe knows of LOVE, only through himHe satisfies his every whimHe leaves, she wipes himfrom her chin!Her mother NEEDS to see the bestHe answered her God requestTo have a roof to comfort bringA yard where all the birdies singTell me how she could really knowWhat source for learning could she go?Her mother regularly beaten if not worseThe cycle of violence - a woman's curseConflicting visions, dependenciesOne can endure many idiosyncrasiesShe could not make him defendant beDenial, avoidance? she disbelievesThe rabbit hides beneath tall trees.At thirteen a step-grandfatha'Finds a well-trained girl that oughta'Do what powerful men requestNever knowing what is bestAnd run away she does at lastFreedom can be such a 'blast'A rabbit's foot upon a chainThe FANTASY her 'safe' domainHow long in life must it remain?To protect her from these menWho always for her lips, do 'yen'A state trooper in Tennessee Like every other man does see Her lips so full and luscious red Through the bars, not in a bed.
|home | site map | Art of the Ocean|