Show Posts - StellaMarieAlden

Quote from: EquineAnn on 25 Mar, 2016 15:22I love that poem.Thanks so much... I appreciate you comment very much.

Aching and hungry for light, I bid the sun, “Good morning.”“Good riddance, endless night.”Birds, full of optimism, chitter.The traffic buzzes its rush hour song.The station wagon door opensand plops the newspaper on the cement next door.The door slams. The old engine vrooms.Another normal day.“How can it be so,” I ask no one in particular,For in truth, I am alone.The pain that cut my gut, only an hour before, is lesser in the day.“Unfair,” I had shouted.“Untrue.”“Lies.”The dark had listened.The light only laughs it all away.As I dress, exhausted from lack of sleep, I day-dream of something more.Of laughter.Of knowing.Of letting go.Of acceptance.Of sleeping without anger.Of waking in joy.“You suck, God, you know that, right?”He laughs.“It’s not funny.”And I know, he knows thatit is not funny.There is tragedy in my life.And sadness.But tremendous joy.“Would you have it any other way?” He asks.“Do I have a choice?”“No.”“I thought not.”Feed the cats, make an egg, drive to work, sit in cube.Normal stuff.Maybe tonight I will forgive, and sleep.Maybe not.

“Are you Marcus Blackwell, son of the Earl of Thornhill?” The cardinal towered in the pulpit and glared down.  Behind the altar, a long faced Christ stared sadly, haloed in mosaic gold fleck. Sir Blackwell, Lord of the Meadows, squinted his eyes and frowned up. “You know I am.” “And are you here of your own free will to confess your sins.” The interrogator’s voice boomed and echoed in the huge church.“God’s Bloo- oomph” He sucked in his breath when his wife’s elbow lodged deep into his side. She flashed him a honey-sweet smile.He tried again, but only for his love of the raven-haired gypsy. “I meant to say, I am.”His lady squeezed his hand, nodded, and gazed brown eyes forward as if nothing was amiss, but her eyes sparkled wickedly.Marcus smirked. Head bobbing with enormous cap slipping over his face, the cardinal read out the accusations in Latin. “Do you admit to these?”What a lot of folderol. Marcus crossed arms over chest to prevent himself from grabbing sword’s hilt. “To being a Templar? That I do. ‘Tis no sin. ‘Tis a great honor.”The cardinal sneered. “There’s no honor in leaving your priestly vows, without the Pope’s sanction.”“Which pope? So many have perished as of late, I can’t keep track.” “The king comes,” a guard shouted at the back of the church.The door slammed open, people bowed and curtsied, and Edward stomped down the main aisle. He growled, adjusted his crown, and pointed at the cardinal. “Know that I have sent formal protest to His Holiness.” The cardinal cleared his throat and his fat face reddened. “Marcus Blackwell, Lord of the Meadows, you are charged with leaving your Templar orders, a fate punishable by dismemberment.”“Oh for the love of all the saints. I was nay truly a Templar.” Marcus gave his renowned scowl, the ignoramus paled, and a woman in the back of the church fainted. “So you posed as one of God’s chosen but were not? Then we are done here. Guards!”  The twit flayed his arms.“Damnation! You twist my words.” Marcus started forward, but his wife held him back.She whispered into his ear, “Calm yourself, dear husband, or I shall needs follow you to an early grave.”“The man is a holy arse-hole of a boar’s behind. I will not stand for it.”She hid a snicker behind a flowing sleeve. If not for her belly rounded with child, he would travel south with the arse in shackles, and get the blasted proof he needed. Marcus looked to his friend, Edward. “With your permission, Sire?”The king nodded, and the crowd parted as Marcus strode to the back of the church. He climbed the back ladder to a small balcony, knowing the acoustics would carry out into the courtyard.“It was 1272, Edward’s father still reigned. We had less than a thousand men against hoards, and yet we proceeded to Jerusalem, to give aide. The Normans, our allies, never arrived in time.The enemy, demon-spawn, had no honor. Late at night, they sent an assassin to kill Edward. Being a light sleeper, I heard the commotion. I killed the coward, but not before he managed to put a poisonous knife into Edward’s arm.”Marcus paused and toned his voice low. “The night was one of the blackest I ever recall. Our future king, in the fever of poison, hacked away at a hundred men. My man and I came to his aide, swords in hand, naked from sleep. The enemy surrounded us. I made my peace with God. I would die brave, buried in the blood of the infidels-”The door to the church swung open. “Si vous plait? May I take the tale from here?”“I was just getting to the good parts,” he growled at the familiar French accent.Edward grinned as Julien, dressed in Templar’s finest mail and armor, clunked down the aisle. Halfway to the altar, Julien turned, and pointed to the church floor. “Come down from there, mon ami. ‘Tis a truly ridiculous stance, even for you.”He knelt to the king when he reached the altar, then grinned up the Cardinal, whose mouth had dropped open.“Allons. Incroyable. No? So. Let me continue. That was where I found them, nigh onto death. Me and my men took pity upon them, and saved their miserable English souls for another day. However, my leader, a man not to be argued with, insisted, on compensation for our hard work. Thus, The Beast of Thornhill joined our holy order, as any sensible man would do, in the same circumstances. Oui?”He waited for the Cardinal to nod.“When the war was over, we stopped to see Pope Gregory, who released Sir Marcus from his vows.” Julien shrugged. “C’est fini. That is all.”“What you say has no proof.” The Cardinal’s face turned a deep shade of violet, matching his miter cap and gown.Julien winked at Marcus and unrolled a huge parchment with the pope’s seal. “I took it upon myself to keep this.” “I thought it still in Italy.” Marcus shook his head and grinned.“Are you daft? Leave such an important document with the Italians?” Julien grinned, kissed Lady Ann’s hand, and raised his purse. “A joust!”

Beautiful!

1275-1325;  Middle English < Latin  dīvīnus, equivalent to dīv (us) god + -īnus  -ine1; replacing Middle English  devin (e) < Old French  devin < Latin, as above I love etymology.... Thanks for stopping by, Divine, and for the encouraging words. You become what you dream about all day long.

Thank you, Clay, for the lovely pictures!

Likin' it!

Just stopping by, to say hi!

Welcome! I hope you like it here!

Thank you, Lady Ann... Therapy Poetry.

I wanna go home but it’s not there anymore.The place I lived has been broken by the storm.I dream in color, the beast at the front door.I hold it shut, but he comes across the floor.I can’t sleep, damn you.I can’t eat, damn you.And my nights go on forever.I’ve wandered on and on, a stranger to myself.And I should know by nowThat I can’t go home again. No, I can’t go there again. I wanna be whole, but am scattered by the windI should be strong by now but you have done me in.My nights are laced with times that should’ve beenMy days go forth, I fight, but will I win?I can’t work, damn you.I can’t live, I hate you.And my days go on forever.I wander on and on, a stranger to myself.And I should know by nowThat you can’t be home again. No, I can’t be there again.The cuts you made have healed a thousand times over.The wounds still bleed perhaps now and forever.But I still cry, damn you.And you can't die, damn you.Because just one more timeI want you to want meto come home again.

Thank you. It's very exciting. It takes a while to become a 'financial' success, (working on it), but the artistic success is amazing. I have sold some watercolor painting of ocean scenes. But only one person buys that painting. And, although wonderful, it's sad because you say goodbye forever. Writing is a different thrill because you never say goodbye. If I want, I can re-read or bring the characters back to life in another book. Also, I've sold hundreds... not one.Ramblings of the 5:30AM brain. Time to write before I lose my prime time. Thanks for stopping by, Divine. Your presence here in Camelot is ... hmmm... hard to find the right word. It is.. beautiful... not just physically, more the kind that transcends. Have a beautiful day.

I killed off my coworker, today.Yup. I threw him out a porthole window, the ship’s propeller sucked him in and shot him out as shark bait.God, what a catharsis. It was GREAT!I laughed so hard. My hero in the book said, “Oops.”The heroine gave him a high-five.Poor Mohammad, evil terrorist.In real life, he’s just a pain-in-the-ass project manager and misogynist.Writing is therapy.Yup.I think I’ll kill off another project member this week.I shall write her as a real witch, who is working with a dark lord to destroy the world.She’ll have to die a terrible death, don’t you think?In real life? She made it a point to be abusive and condescending on a phone call.In that she works for a multi-million dollar partner, I bit my tongue.I wrote her into my next book, during that call. Bwa ha haaaa.If they only knew.I write fiction.It is my therapy.It is my joy.It is my escape.A young man left the gym today and made it a point of removing his shirt for all to see.Guess I’ll write in those biceps, and tattoos, as well.And my fears, and my tears.And my emotional issues.And share myself with you.You know me from my writing.

Welcome into the magic, Love,Stella