Tales From The Darkside - Blacklist and Sip Your Numbed Paradise

Like most of my family and friends, Blacklist has quickly become my favorite show.  As an author I'm in awe of both the stories created by the writers, as well as the genius behind the characters.  I recently found this poem again, written by my son, Charles W. Prather, Jr.  And it reminded so much of James Spader's role in Blacklist. A man who appears to be helpful, but has his own agenda.  He will not change, and yet he invites those around him to join him, to take their souls off for just a moment and become a little tainted.  A little taint never hurt.  And are Liz and Red kindred spirits?  I believe they may be.  Is Red leading the FBI into "numbed paradise"?  I truly believe he may be.  What an amazing character.  

If you've watched the show, read the poem and let me know what you think.  I'm sure Charles would enjoy it, and I know I would. I see James Spader in every line.

SIP YOUR NUMBED PARADISE

Crumpled cigarettes litter the table,

Alcohol burns the throat,

The pattern of self-destruction forms,

Cacophony of voices permeate the air,

A den of forgotten dreams,

Washed away with pinpricks to the brain,

Here there are no names,

Faces are all that matter,

Time is merely a formality.

Sit down, take your soul off,

Let it sit in the corner for a while,

You don’t need to worry about it,

We’ll take away the cause,

Sip your numbed paradise.

Dance away your memories,

Who needs them here,

You are in this moment,

Just let go of your future uncertain,

You can certainly be sure it’s worthless.

Sit down, take your soul off,

Let it soak in the view,

A little taint never hurt,

We’ll take away the consequences,

Sip your numbed paradise.

The lights are now less faded,

We’ve got to bid you farewell,

Our time,

Out of time,

So long yet so short,

But come back tomorrow,

A kindred spirit cannot be denied,

Your table will be waiting.

Sit down, take your soul off,

Do you remember where you left it?

We’ll help you find it,

Sip your numbed paradise.

By:  Charles W. Prather, Jr.

The Power of Words

Two years ago I had the wonderful opportunity to work with a rehab shelter for young women, most of them under twenty-one and many pregnant, who were recovering from drug addiction.  One of the most powerful things we discovered for all of them was their inability to use words to express their emotions.  We worked on this for many months with poetry writing, letter writing, and finally they wrote a play which they produced and put on for family, friends and their children.  It was a wonderful experience and one I miss and hope to repeat in the future.

Words are our most powerful weapon.  We use them to convey our love, our disapproval and sometimes to manipulate people.  As a motivational speaker we use words to change the thoughts, beliefs and sometimes the actions of the people we're speaking to.

In writing, authors use words to convey the emotions and sometimes the personalities of their characters.  My sister-in-law commented that I sometimes used "bad words" in my novels.  I laughed and stated: "It's hard to write a hard-core FBI agent who comes upon a brutal murder scene and have him say "sugar-beads.'"

So what gives words their power?  Basically they're hooks.  And the power lies in the meaning of the word to the persons who hear them.  Powerful weapons, or meaningless manipulations.  Words trigger emotions and emotions trigger actions.  I could say "I love you", but I don't know who is reading this post so if I don't know you, how can I possible truly love you.  I could say "I hate you", but the same would hold true.  I don't know you, so how can I possibly feel strongly enough about you to hate you?

Words without an emotional attachment are usually meaningless to the person reading or listening to them, and basically in time will bore a person to tune them out.  So how do we write exciting words that keep our readers turning pages?  We have to combine those words with emotions and meaning.  We do that with body language and punctuation.

Carrie turned back to the sink and continued slicing vegetables. "I said no."
Carrie turned back to the sink and continued slicing vegetables. "I said no!"
Carrie turned back to the sink, sighing deeply as she slammed the knife into the cutting board. "I.. said... no."

Each of these basically say pretty much the same thing, but express a different emotional state.  In sentence one, Carrie is basically just telling her listener that the answer is no. She's said it before, but she's still calm, and conveying the message without anger or frustration.  In sentence two Carrie is getting angry and frustrated and shouting "I said no!"  Her body language is still controlled and she's expressing her anger through her words only.   In sentence three Carrie is basically losing control as she slams the knife into the cutting board, taking her anger out both in her words and her body language.

As a method of power, sentence one might be enough for someone who was simply asking a question, like a child who wants a cookie.  Carrie says no, end of it with a well mannered child or someone listening who is willing to take no for an answer.  Sentence two goes further and could be the mother who is tired and has a  child, or adult for that matter, who repeatedly asks the same question. It insinuates she's said no before and more than once.  Sentence three is basically a woman who has pretty much reached the end of her rope.  Emphasizing each individual word I...said...no.  She isn't shouting, but using what is actually a more dangerous tone of voice.  Most likely deep, bitter and controlled.

With writing, as with life--emotions run the show.  Love, joy, pleasure, anger, fear, pain.  The only way your reader can possibly feel these emotions is if your character is feeling those emotions.  Jacody Ives said it best in The Gifts--the impact of words was in direct correlation to the emotions of the reader. Words could be twisted, knives to open up wounds long hidden. Maneuvered to evoke buried nightmares. Bare the soul, expose the wound, and you had a best seller.  Make them laugh.  Make them cry.  But above all, make them feel something.

A good writing habit is to set aside what you wrote this morning and come back to it in several hours.  Look at the scene, the words or conversation between characters.  Have you conveyed what your character is feeling?  Do you feel it?  Have you conveyed what your character is thinking?  Do you feel it?   If you feel it, then there's a good chance your readers will feel it, making their reading experience far more enjoyable.

Have a wonderful day!

Stop by my new website and say hi.  http://www.lindasprather.com

Author Interview - Trine Daely - "Life Games"

A collection of poetry written over a span of dark years in my life, sometimes with hope for the future, sometimes without. I wrote about the images in my dreams, my daydreams, my nightmares - think of it as a verbal expression of a painting in my brain, with all the variations you would expect from colorful to minimalist, strict verse to free verse.

This is the journal of my dark travails as I came to accept the impending death of my mother, who passed away when I was sixteen, less than a month after my grandmother. I had been watching this happen since I was six, but coming to grips with the reality of it was something I had difficulty expressing until I started writing poetry.

Along that walk love was found, lost, found again, trust trampled, life expanded. I found my way through and learned to live again, trust again, and more importantly, to trust in myself. Here, I share that with you.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Good morning everyone. Today it's my pleasure to have with me Trine Daely, a poet with just a little bit of a dark side. Of course, that appeals to me as I have my own dark side which is often reflected in my writing. I hope you enjoy the interview, and I hope you take some time to visit Trine's blogs, website and download a sample of her book. I don't think you'll be disappointed.

LP: Good morning, Trine. Why don't you tell us a little about yourself? Where you live now, and where you grew up.

TD: Hmm, that might be revealing a bit much. Suffice it to say I grew up down south, saw my share of hurricanes, and moved to the Midwest less than a decade ago. I'm a single mom, my daughter can be very challenging and time-demanding, so forgive me if I don't get written stuff out there as fast as everyone else seems to. The cat is spazzy, the fish are friendly. We're a strange household.

LP: Actually sounds rather normal to me. Having been a single mother myself, only our fish were spazzy and the cat was friendly. Do you feel that the environment you were raised in has any effect on your writing and your choice of genre?

TD: Definitely. I was raised in a house full of books, and got hooked on Edgar Allan Poe and Stephen King early, so even when I try to write a piece of any kind with lightness, there's always a bit of a shadow over it.

LP: Cool! Some of my favorite authors, and shadows can be very enticing. When and why did you begin writing?

TD: Young, maybe nine or ten when I really started with short stories, about eleven when I started writing poetry. As to why, I guess all the questions and rages I had about and at the universe had to go somewhere.

LP: Wow, that's very profound. You learned early to channel your feelings into words, and words into written context to express your feelings. I would consider that an early gift. So what inspired you to take that huge first step and self-publish your book?

TD: Putting my writing out there for people to read is something I've wanted to do for years, but poetry is a bit of a niche item. Legacy publishing does not seem to devote a lot of their time and attention to it, so seeing the opportunity to get it out myself was a wonderful thing.

LP: I totally agree, and I think there are millions of readers who truly enjoy poetry. Do you have any plans to try your hand at a different type of novel in the future?

TD: Certainly. I doubt I'll do anything with my small backlog of short stories, but I have an entire future world that's been running around in my brain since I was about thirteen, and I'm finally writing down the lives of those I see living there.

LP: That sounds like a fun journey. Is there a specific message in your poems that you'd like the reader to grasp?

TD: Am I trying to get some underlying idea to them? No. I'm not a read between the lines poet.

LP: Are any of your poems based on personal experience or real life issues?

TD: In some way all of them are. Some are just images from dreams that I've written down as poems, some are my version of story outlines, the (game #) ones came out of a challenge over a few games of Scrabble with a friend, some were written after a good bit of introspection. They're all pieces of me and my life.

LP: That's one of the things I love about poetry. Poets seem to have an ability to bring emotions to life and create wonderful images with simple words that take the reader into a dream of their own imagination. Each reader may feel, see or experience something different.

Do you have a specific writing style?

TD: I'm not altogether sure just yet.

LP: Still working on that, huh? I'm often wondered what I'm going to be when I grow up too. So, if you had to choose, which writer would you consider a mentor?

TD: Stephen King, he's got some great works about writing out there.

LP: There's no doubt about the fact that he's the book world's Elvis. What book are you reading now?

TD: Simon R. Green's “A Hard Day's Knight” has my full attention as a physical book at the moment, but it's not unusual for me to have a different book in each of several rooms and whatever room I'm in, that's the book I'm reading there. I also take my e-reader with me a lot so I always have plenty of things to choose from to read. Right now the Kindle is loaded with Valerie Douglas's “The Coming Storm.”

LP: Are there any new authors that have grasped your interest?

TD: I'm not sure if they would be considered “new” authors, but some of the more recent additions to my list of favorite authors are Kat Richardson and Kelly Gay. Always looking for more authors to enjoy.

LP: If you had to do it all over again, would you change anything in your first book?

TD: I would have gotten someone much more tech-savvy than me to format it for everything. Put them in chronological order as best I could. Maybe added an “About the Author” section at the back with some links, too.

LP: All easy changes, even now. Another great benefit of Indie publishing. Are you currently working on a new book, and if so, can you share some of it with us?

TD: That would be the aforementioned future stories. Right now it's looking like it will be a set of novella length stories of different people in that strange and scarred future.

LP: I hope you'll come back when you're finished and tell us more about that. What is the most challenging part of writing your current work in progress?

TD: Finishing it! That and really digesting the feedback from my beta readers when they give it a good (though admittedly needed) kick. Your first reaction is always to protect your “baby,” so learning to swallow that and really listen to them as serious readers has been both challenging and enlightening.

LP: One of the hardest lessons each of us has to learn, but one well worth learning. Who are your favorite authors and what is it that really strikes you about their work?

TD: That's a long list. Beyond the ones I've already mentioned I'd add Patricia Cornwell, Jeffery Deaver, Laurell K. Hamilton, Kim Harrison, Dean Koontz, C. S. Friedman, Piers Anthony, Robert Heinlein, Janet Evanovich. I'm pretty sure I missed some.

What strikes me about the work of my favorites? Their characters and the world(s) they move in seem to exist on their own.

LP: I see a couple of my favorites there and I totally agree. Did you design your own cover, and if so, what inspired you to use that image?

TD: The cover of Life Games started as a photo of the foot (paw?) of a lion statue in front of an abandoned building. For whatever reason, those statues (and others like them) fascinate me. The next cover will also feature the same lion statue from a different angle.

LP: Do you have any advice for other writers?

TD: Keep writing, keep reading, listen to your readers, connect with others. Actually I have no idea what to say to other writers in general, everyone is different, and while I've been writing for myself for years, I'm very new to the indie book industry. I've found some very interesting people among my fellow authors already. Great bunch of folks.

LP: I think that's one of the most amazing things about the Indie industry. I'm sure there's some of the "me" attitude out there, but it's the minority, not the majority. Do you have anything specific that you want to say to your readers?

TD: Thank you if you made this far, I hope you will join me on the future journeys. I wish you well and want you to know that I'm still new at this message to the readers stuff. I'll work on that, too.
*adds to list*

Thank you, Trine, for joining me today. I look forward to hearing more about your future works in progress. If you'd like to get to know Trine a little better, download her current work, or just stay in touch so you can see what she's doing in the future, visit the links below. Have a great day and Happy Reading!

http://www.facebook.com/Read.Trine.Daely
https://twitter.com/#!/TrineDaely
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/55168
http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Life-Games/Trine-Daely/e/2940012438911
http://www.amazon.com/Life-Games-ebook/dp/B004WWQA5G / http://www.amazon.co.uk/Life-Games/dp/B004WWQA5G

Tell Me A Story - A tribute to Poet Robert Penn Warren

As an author I truly appreciate the beauty of words. If you've read any of my poetry you've probably gathered that I'm not that great a poet. Occasionally something clicks for me and those moments are precious. Words are about passion, and poetry many times is passion at its best. Like the words of a beautiful love song they inspire us to greater heights. I, as an author, use words to weave stories. Stories of love, hate, fear, good and evil. My words aren't always subtle like the poets. And that perhaps is why I have always loved poetry.

Kentucky has had many great poets, and possibly some in the making right now. Robert Penn Warren caught my eye early on with the subtle messages weaved into his words. And if you've ever been to a poetry reading--they're amazing. To have someone read those lines of verse grasping the passion beneath the words.

I combined poetry and story in my second book because of my love of the art, and the passion in those short verses that say so much. Take the poem below, one of my favorites by Mr. Warren. As an author I immediately have a vision of this young man as he stands in the road. His passion to see the world, experience life as yet unknown. To write his story. Perhaps he is a young man in his early teens wanting to spread his wings. He knows there's a world out there. He can't see it, but he's heard about it. And his heart beats to fly into the adult world. Or perhaps he's a young man and war is going on, and he aches to join the fight. Either way you can feel the passion of this young man, standing on a dark country road, hearing the sounds of life in motion, and seasons changing. Or perhaps it is simply the opposite. A time when the Elderberry blooms. Mid-summer. Perhaps he was seeing the days slip by, moving much too fast toward the end of summer.

The ability for the reader to feel the passion, and place upon it their own feelings and emotions is part of the true beauty of these subtly written words.


Robert Penn Warren 1905 - 1989

Tell Me a Story

Long ago, in Kentucky, I, a boy, stood
By a dirt road, in first dark, and heard
The great geese hoot northward.

I could not see them, there being no moon
And the stars sparse.I heard them.

I did not know what was happening in my heart.

It was the season before the elderberry blooms,
Therefore they were going north.

The sound was passing northward.



I hope you enjoyed my tribute to Robert Penn Warren. Look up his poetry, see what passion it inspires in you. Enjoy for this is National Poetry Month.

Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery - Excerpt

My son wrote most of the poetry used in Sacred Secrets, but I did manage--with his help, to write one. It was my feelings and emotions related to Father Michael's struggle. I hope you enjoy the poem, as well as the excerpt.





Your plangent cries permeate my dreams
Lest I forget
That which I have become
Slipping into the verisimiltude
I have created
A myrmidon of evil
Panoply of secrets
Pulling me down
Into the brackish water of my dreams
‘Tis but a simple deed
To expiate my sins
Simple as life
Or death
I chose this cup
Now I must drink.


Father Michael felt the chasm widen. A vast wasteland of emptiness. Nothingness. He had nothing. He was nothing.

“Isn’t it beautiful, Father Michael?”

Father Peter’s words were a mere whisper, his hands longing to caress the parchment stored beneath the thick glass.

“Where . . .”

Father Peter turned to him excitedly. “A gift from your sister, Claire.”

Father Michael nodded. He’d recognized the painting immediately as one of John’s beautiful fakes. The Revelations of St. Bridget of Sweden. Two beams of light shone down from the hands of the Virgin and Christ, enthroned on the heavenly plane, joining into one single stream entering the eyes of the seated saint. Images were powerful in medieval times.

Father Michael lowered his head, closed his eyes. “Please . . .,” she whispered.

Images were still powerful.

Father Peter gushed on, his excitement uncontainable. “Of course, I know it’s a reproduction, but its beauty, its message is invaluable.”

A beautiful fake, just like me. Father Michael thought, the riving pain opening, surging. A raging river in which he was going to drown.

The words came from the midst of the chasm. Words he’d not intended to say. “I’ve lost all hope, Father.”

The words echoed in the small study, coming from all four corners, dowsing the sun streaming from the window, fading the colors of the parchment. Gripping the heart of Father Peter with pain.

He turned, excitement of the gift still etched upon his wrinkled face. Gasping as he gazed into open wounds, vivid pools reflecting suffering. Never before had he seen such agony. His hands fluttered in front of him, mind sifting through eighty years of life, searching for words to breach the chasm. Words of comfort.

“There is always hope, Father Michael. God is our hope.”

“I no longer hear His voice, Father.” He glanced at the painting. “No longer feel His light.”

“We must pray, my son.” Father Peter walked around the desk, placing his hand on the young priest’s shoulder. “We must pray that God will guide you in your hour of need.”

Father Michael sighed, placing his hand over the knotted arthritic joints of Father Peter’s fingers. “I have prayed, Father. I pray daily that God will take this cup from me.”

Father Peter felt the trembling in the hand covering his. Felt the despair. His words came unbidden. Words he knew not the source. Words he would ponder and regret in the days to come.

“Perhaps you must take the cup and drink from it.”

Father Michael embraced him. He had the forlorn feeling of being alone in the world. And that loneliness threatened to crush him. He whispered the words that sealed his fate. “Perhaps, Father. Perhaps I must.”


Looking for a great way to spend the weekend? Grab a good book--grab two!

The Gifts, A Jacody Ives Mystery
Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery

Poetry, Excerpt and Homemade Pies

It's National Poetry Month. I've always loved poetry, but rarely felt I could do justice to it. My son wrote most of the poetry used in Sacred Secrets, but I did manage--with his help, to write one. It was my feelings and emotions related to Father Michael's struggle. I hope you enjoy the poem, as well as the excerpt, and some great pie recipes.

Your plangent cries permeate my dreams
Lest I forget
That which I have become
Slipping into the verisimiltude
I have created
A myrmidon of evil
Panoply of secrets
Pulling me down
Into the brackish water of my dreams
‘Tis but a simple deed
To expiate my sins
Simple as life
Or death
I chose this cup
Now I must drink.


Father Michael felt the chasm widen. A vast wasteland of emptiness. Nothingness. He had nothing. He was nothing.

“Isn’t it beautiful, Father Michael?”

Father Peter’s words were a mere whisper, his hands longing to caress the parchment stored beneath the thick glass.

“Where . . .”

Father Peter turned to him excitedly. “A gift from your sister, Claire.”

Father Michael nodded. He’d recognized the painting immediately as one of John’s beautiful fakes. The Revelations of St. Bridget of Sweden. Two beams of light shone down from the hands of the Virgin and Christ, enthroned on the heavenly plane, joining into one single stream entering the eyes of the seated saint. Images were powerful in medieval times.

Father Michael lowered his head, closed his eyes. “Please . . .,” she whispered.

Images were still powerful.

Father Peter gushed on, his excitement uncontainable. “Of course, I know it’s a reproduction, but its beauty, its message is invaluable.”

A beautiful fake, just like me. Father Michael thought, the riving pain opening, surging. A raging river in which he was going to drown.

The words came from the midst of the chasm. Words he’d not intended to say. “I’ve lost all hope, Father.”

The words echoed in the small study, coming from all four corners, dowsing the sun streaming from the window, fading the colors of the parchment. Gripping the heart of Father Peter with pain.

He turned, excitement of the gift still etched upon his wrinkled face. Gasping as he gazed into open wounds, vivid pools reflecting suffering. Never before had he seen such agony. His hands fluttered in front of him, mind sifting through eighty years of life, searching for words to breach the chasm. Words of comfort.

“There is always hope, Father Michael. God is our hope.”

“I no longer hear His voice, Father.” He glanced at the painting. “No longer feel His light.”

“We must pray, my son.” Father Peter walked around the desk, placing his hand on the young priest’s shoulder. “We must pray that God will guide you in your hour of need.”

Father Michael sighed, placing his hand over the knotted arthritic joints of Father Peter’s fingers. “I have prayed, Father. I pray daily that God will take this cup from me.”

Father Peter felt the trembling in the hand covering his. Felt the despair. His words came unbidden. Words he knew not the source. Words he would ponder and regret in the days to come.

“Perhaps you must take the cup and drink from it.”

Father Michael embraced him. He had the forlorn feeling of being alone in the world. And that loneliness threatened to crush him. He whispered the words that sealed his fate. “Perhaps, Father. Perhaps I must.”


Looking for a great way to spend the weekend? Grab a good book--grab two!

The Gifts, A Jacody Ives Mystery
Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery

Now, let's have some homemade pie!

No-Bake Pie

3 oz. cream cheese, softened
1 cup powdered sugar
8 oz. frozen dairy topping, thawed
1/2 cup smooth peanut butter
1/2 cup milk
1 prebaked graham cracker pie crust

In a large bowl, with an electric mixer combine cream cheese, peanut butter, sugar and milk. Beat until smooth. Gently fold in whipped topping. Pour into pie shell. Freeze 4 to 6 hours. Thaw 10 minutes before serving.

Sweet Potato Pie

1 large can sweet potatoes drained and mashed
1 cup sugar
2 eggs
1/2 stick butter
Dash of cinnamon
1 cup evaporated milk

Mix all together. Bake at 400 for 20 minutes in buttered casserole dish.

Topping:
1 cup crushed corn flakes
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/2 stick butter

Sprinkle over top and bake 15 minutes.


Cherry Macaroon Pie

1 can cherry pie filling
1 9" crust
1 egg
2/3 cup evaporated milk
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 cup flour
1/4 tsp. vanilla
1 tsp. almond extract
1 1/4 cup coconut

Pour cherry filling into crust. Beat together egg and milk. Add sugar, flour, salt, almond extract and vanilla. Beat until smooth. Stir in coconut. Pour over pie filling. Bake at 375 degrees for 40-45 minutes or until puffed and light brown. Cool before serving.

Buttermilk Pecan Pie

4 cups sugar
7 Tbsp. cornstarch
3/4 cup milk
2 Tbsp. vanilla
5 eggs
1/2 cup buttermilk
2 sticks melted margarine
(can also add 1 tsp. lemon juice)

Mix above ingredients well with mixer. Stir in 1 1/2 cups chopped pecans. Pour mixture into 2 deep dish pie shells and bake at 350 degrees for 40 to 45 minutes or until golden brown.

Strawberry Sour Cream Pie

2 1/2 cups strawberries
1 cup sugar
2 Tbsp. Flour
1 cup sour cream

Mix sugar, flour and sour cream. Add sliced berries. Pour into unbaked shell and bake at 425 degrees for 15 minutes. Reduce heat to 325 and bad an additional 30 minutes.

Chocolate Cream Pie

2 eggs
1 cup milk
1/4 cup butter or margarine softened
1 cup sugar
2 squares (1 oz. each) unsweetened chocolate, melted and cooled
1 tsp. vanilla extract
1/2 cup biscuit baking mix

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Combine all the ingredients in a blender and on high for 1 minute. Pour the mixture into a greased 9" pie plate. Bake for 3 minutes or until set. Cool before serving

A Lone Traveler. . .

Can't do too much of a set-up with this one without giving away a spoiler for Sacred Secrets, but I loved this poem.


Like petals on the rose

Clinging tenaciously

To the flower of reality

Only to wilt and break free

In the winter of disillusion

Though plucked early

For the marriage rite

And showered for hopes and dreams

Scattered like frail droplets

Looking to be found in cracks

The wind of lies would blow

Dispersed over a thousand lands

Hiding in the darkest of reaches

Until a lone traveler

Stumbles into the pit

Crawling out of the thorns

With beauty for all to see

Charles W. Prather, Jr.

Whisper to me. . .

Another poem from Sacred Secrets. In this Chapter Billy and Katie enjoy a "moment in time" which may prove to be their last.







Whisper to me with eyes that cannot lie
Touch my cheek with truth
Sing unto my soul a soothing song
This moment is fleeting
Our masks have slipped
A short time of nakedness
Your smile is a razor
It cuts away the callousness
My breath is a baptism
Wash your unclean memories
The short embrace of our hearts
Fades like morning dew

Charles W. Prather, Jr.

Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery
The Gifts, A Jacody Ives Mystery

UK
Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery
The Gifts, A Jacody Ives Mystery

Saturday's Satire - Sip Your Numbed Paradise

When I started writing Sacred Secrets, I had found a collection of my oldest son's poetry from earlier days when we both wrote things that we were pretty sure would never see the light of day. Some of those poems were so beautiful, so sad, and so appropriate for the emotions I hoped to inspire in Sacred Secrets that the two of us collaborated on the book. The majority of the poetry in Sacred Secrets was written by Charles. When I started writing Passing Judgment this poem was truly an inspiration for part of that work. A satirical look at drunken days, and the devil's call. I hope you enjoy it. And I hope you'll check out Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery and let us know what you think. Charles and I have talked about writing a story together. Our styles are different, which I think would compliment each other. We'll see.


SIP YOUR NUMBED PARADISE

Crumpled cigarettes litter the table,
Alcohol burns the throat,
The patter of self-destruction forms,
Cacophony of voices permeate the air,
A den of forgotten dreams,
Washed away with pinpricks to the brain,
Here there are no names,
Faces are all that matter,
Time is merely a formality.

Sit down, take your soul off,
Let it sit in the corner for a while,
You don’t need to worry about it,
We’ll take away the cause,
Sip your numbed paradise.

Dance away your memories,
Who needs them here,
You are in this moment,
Just let go of your future uncertain,
You can certainly be sure its worthless.

Sit down, take your soul off,
Let it soak in the view,
A little taint never hurt,
We’ll take away the consequences,
Sip your numbed paradise.

The lights are now less faded,
We’ve got to bid you farewell,
Our time,
Out of time,
So long yet so short,
But come back tomorrow,
A kindred spirit cannot be denied,
Your table will be waiting.

Sit down, take your soul off,
Do you remember where you left it,
We’ll help you find it,
Sip your numbed paradise.

By: Charles W. Prather, Jr.


Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery
UK: Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery

Breathe

Breathe into me,
The breath of life,
Once again, my love

For without you,
My soul has withered,
In the darkness,
Of my loneliness.

A Grandmother's Poem - In memory of Caleb Gavin Fuson

A GRANDMOTHER’S POEM

In just a short moment,
you became the softness
beneath my smile,

In just a short moment,
you became the twinkle
in my eyes,

In just a short moment,
you were my dreams
of the future,

The things we would do,
The things I would teach you,
The things you would teach me
In just a short moment we shared,
A lifetime of love,

And then you were gone,
To sleep with the angels.

Spoken Words

I shall speak softly
For my words may lie heavy
On the hearts of those
Who hear.

I shall speak truthfully
For my words may be chronicled
Through all eternity

I shall speak lovingly
For my words have no meaning
If spoken without heart

If I speak not softly
If I speak not truthfully
If I speak not lovingly
Let me not speak at all.

Poetry - A Grandmother's Poem

I used this as the dedication in Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery. For 7 months I watched him grow, looked into his eyes on ultra-sounds, listened to the tiny beat of his heart. Just a moment in time.


To Caleb Gavin Fuson. Born December 7, 2008. Died December 7, 2008. A precious moment in time.

A GRANDMOTHER’S POEM

In just a short moment,
you became the softness
beneath my smile,

In just a short moment,
you became the twinkle
in my eyes,

In just a short moment,
you were my dreams
of the future,

The things we would do,
The things I would teach you,
The things you would teach me
In just a short moment we shared,
A lifetime of love,

And then you were gone,
To sleep with the angels.

Sacred Secrets, A Jacody Ives Mystery

Streams of consciousness--Be Still My Child

Never too old to learn I remember when streams of consciousness writing started to appear in books, articles, etcetera. I didn't particularly like it. It felt strange. But it can be useful at times.

I can hear it now. I know it's coming. Am I strong enough. Can the light of my love overcome the shadows of hate? My heart flutters. I'm scared. To not be scared is to be stupid. Years have passed. I miss you. You were with me in the beginning--be with me now. If I rise or if I fall it makes no difference if you're at my side.

Love shall lift me
On its wings
As truth clears the way
God has forgiven all my sins
as I knelt to pray
Forgive me Father, touch my hand
Dry my crying eyes
Love shall lift me on its wings
Love shall help me fly

Be still my child
For I am near
My love shall set you free
Be still my child
For I am light
The darkness is not in me
Be still my child

In context of a story--it has no meaning. But in context of inner thoughts of a character it could be invaluable. The struggle, the prayer, the answer. Perhaps it is all that simple.

I had a writer tell me she was going to pitch her novel and start over. Never pitch your writing. Perhaps the story as a novel doesn't work, but if you comb through it there are probably many little jewels just waiting to be found.