Thursday, November 19, 2020

For Opal: My Book of Poetry


When I was seven

I found heaven

my grandmother's house

I was the city mouse.

With a large bed just for me

not one bed, shared by three

awake each morning

to a bird song melody.

Peace and quiet

and a pancake diet

amid the flowers and the trees

I explored every nook and cranny.

A crowing rooster, cows, and chickens

I helped out in the barn and the kitchen

a sewing lesson with needle and thread

soon exhausted, I curled up in my large bed.

Snakes and storms, roses and thorns

homemade ice cream and fresh corn

my escape from a family of seven

Grandma's Earthly home was heaven.

  Yolanda Renée (C) 2020

***

For Opal: My Book of Poetry

     For Opal is a collection of poems written in memory of Lilly Opal Stansberry, my grandmother, and the inspiration for my writing. These poems portray a moment in time. Highlighting love, loss, tragedy, and survival. There are a few done just for fun and several that have a murderous slant. But they are all a small picture of life. Some are real and others pure fiction.

Before she passed, I promised her I would publish a book of poetry. This is that promise kept. Publication date November 2nd - would have been her 108th birthday.

I'm under no illusion, A poet I am not, but each verse has meaning for me.

Maybe it will strike a chord for you too!

*****

Anyone willing to do a blog post for my poetry book. Let me know. I'll send you a copy and we can discuss the subject. 

Or a simple shout out would be most appreciated.

Wednesday, November 4, 2020

IWSG - Purpose


Insecure Writer's Support Group


Purpose of the IWSG: To share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds! Join us!

Question - Albert Camus once said, “The purpose of a writer is to keep civilization from destroying itself.” Flannery O’Conner said, “I write to discover what I know.” Authors across time and distance have had many reasons to write. Why do you write what you write?

 Answer: - I write what I want to read. I write because it’s therapy; it keeps me sane, and because I have something to say. Will it save the world? No. Will it change the world? No. Will it entertain the world? Maybe. I hope so. Will you learn something? Always.

Yes, I share what I know yet learn much, much more. Each story teaches me something new. I hope it will the reader too. Just a few days ago I released a book of poetry. It's my favorite form of expression and I write it whenever I find myself unable to express my emotions any other way.

I made a promise to my grandmother, and I've finally kept that promise. Will it change the world?  No. But it will entertain!

 The outstanding co-hosts are:

Jemi Fraser, Kim Lajevardi,

L.G Keltner, Tyrean Martinson,

and

Rachna Chhabria!

Be sure to say hello!


KEEP WRITING!

"Yolanda Renée had reached a new dimension in her writing and tamed some very wild beasts in the process! This poet has opened her heart, bared her soul, and in the process created inspiring and uplifting verse. But also raw and terrifying."

Author & Poet Cindy Parker

For Opal is a collection of 100 poems written by Yolanda Renee. Influenced by and in memory of Lilly Opal Stansberry, her grandmother. Renée's lyrics portray a moment in time. Highlighting love, loss, tragedy, and survival. There are a few that were created just for fun and several that have a murderous slant. But they are all a small picture of life and written from the heart.

***







Monday, November 2, 2020

For Opal: My Book of Poetry


Eros of Space 

Strangers from the blogosphere

A simple common interest

Yet with your words,

You made me cry

 

How could you touch me

With letters & language

I don’t allow anyone in

But your words were magical

 

To inspire such feelings

Love and desire

Long forgotten needs

Awoken through verse

 

But can I trust

A love that was initiated

By the Eros of space

Without proof of reality

 

Or do I accept

the words

You express and let

Imagination decide?

  Yolanda Renée (C) 2020

***

For Opal: My Book of Poetry

     For Opal is a collection of poems written in memory of Lilly Opal Stansberry, my grandmother, and the inspiration for my writing. These poems portray a moment in time. Highlighting love, loss, tragedy, and survival. There are a few done just for fun and several that have a murderous slant. But they are all a small picture of life. Some are real and others pure fiction.

Before she passed, I promised her I would publish a book of poetry. This is that promise kept. Publication date November 2nd - would have been her 108th birthday.

I'm under no illusion, A poet I am not, but each verse has meaning for me.

Maybe it will strike a chord for you too!

*****

Anyone willing to do a blog post for my poetry book. Let me know. I'll send you a copy and we can discuss the subject. 

Or a simple shout out would be most appreciated.

Monday, October 19, 2020

Sheila's Last Chapter

 It's been a while since Sheila has appeared on this blog. But I wanted to end her story. 

Here is that ending...

Photo by Andre Tan on Unsplash

Karma Comes Killing

 

After Jerry’s death, Sheila trudged quickly down the mountain in a light rainfall. She walked to Jerry’s car in the parking lot and wiped it down. She didn’t want her fingerprints to give her away. When she finished, she locked the extra set of keys in the glove compartment, careful not to allow herself to be seen by anyone. Exhausted, she started for home. By then, the rain was coming down in buckets. “Gosh, I’m horny,” she said and pulled up her collar against the rain. “Time to get back to town and find an able-bodied man to make me whole.”

Those thoughts filled her mind as she arrived at the main road and stuck out her thumb. The man that picked her up looked scruffy and smelled worse, but the inside of his truck was warm and dry.

He offered her a swig of whiskey from a new bottle, and she accepted. “Enjoy,” he said to her. “That’s some top of the shelf stuff. Just won me the lottery and spent my first thousand on several cases of God’s nectar.”

“Thanks. I’ve been walking for hours. Went for a short hike and got lost.”

“It’s easy to do. Been lost a few times myself. You didn’t say where you were going.”

“The first motel you see will be fine. I’m homeless at the moment. But I have enough for a decent night’s sleep and a hot shower!”

He looked her over, his striking blue eyes looked so much younger than his body belied. Almost familiar. Before she could find him in her memory, he dropped his gaze.

“You’re welcome to stay the night at my cabin. I wouldn’t mind a drinking partner.”

Sheila laughed. “You lookin to get laid, old man?”

He snorted. “Wish I could say yes, but the Vietnam War took my mojo. It’s why I love the drink. So what do you say? My turn off is just ahead. Or I can take you closer to town.”

“Your place sounds nice. I could use the company too,” Sheila said, pretending not to notice his lottery comment.

He turned off the road and headed back up the mountain. By the time he arrived at the cabin, Sheila felt a little car sick from all the twists and turns, but the fresh air quickly dispelled that feeling once she climbed out of the cab and took a few deep breaths.

He limped to the door and opened it for her. “Make yourself comfortable. I’m going to carry in a case or two to get us started. If you start the fire, I’ll bring in the wood. That way, you can warm yourself and dry out a little.”

She entered the dark cabin and looked for a light switch. There was none, but she found a lantern and a box of matches on the small kitchen table and lit the lamp. She gazed around the large room. A ratty sofa sat in one corner, a wooden counter with shelves above it sat in the other. The shelves were filled with dishes and boxed and canned food items. An old-fashioned cookstove fed with wood and stacked with iron skillets, and a coffee pot sat near the back door. In the far corner was a bed just as ratty as the couch. One wall held the fireplace, and in the middle of the room sat a rickety table with two chairs. It was rough but looked lived in. She lit the fire that had been prepared in the fireplace.

“A little too rustic, isn’t it?” she said when the stranger joined her.

He grumbled. “Never said it was a fancy bed and breakfast.”

“No, you didn’t. It’s nice enough, but I was expecting electricity. No bathroom either, I assume?”

“Of course, there is,” he said proudly. “Outback. Just picked up a new roll too. Help yourself.” He handed her a new roll of toilet paper that he takes from a grocery bag. If you take that pitcher,” he pointed to one sitting on a shelf by the door. “You can fill it with water from the barrel outside to wash with. Be sure to bring the roll back with you. If you leave it out there, the critters will get to it, or the dampness will!”

With a shrug, she walked out the back door to the outhouse. She set the pitcher on the porch near the water barrel and moved toward the doorless outhouse. When you’ve got to go, you go. After all, I just spent a night in the woods with Jerry. This is a mite better, she thought as she sat down on the cold, wooden seat. She watched the cabin, just waiting for the old guy to take a peek. She was surprised when he didn’t.

Back in the cabin, she found the old man lighting another lantern. He had the kitchen table set with bottles of Jack Daniels, a plate of cheddar cheese and a package of Ritz Crackers.

“Thought you might be hungry. If this won’t do, I’ve got eggs and bacon, but I was saving that for breakfast.”

“This is fine,” she said as she poured some water into a large bowl and washed her hands. She took off her jacket and sat down near the fire. She opened a new bottle, poured a glass, and took a big gulp. “This is so smooth.”

The old man smiled. “I’m glad you like it.”

She poured another glass, ate a chunk of cheese, and finished off that glass too. “You never told me your name—I’m Sheila.”

“I know, Sheila. I know. And you know me. Remember?” the old man said, then began to remove his facial hair and the gray wig on his face. He pulled off the prosthetics that made him look years older.

“Hank. Sheila. My name is Hank. And I’m here to make sure you pay for all the crimes you’ve committed.”

By now, the drug he’d coated her glass with had taken hold. Sheila could not fight him. She could barely stay in her seat, but she was still conscious enough to know she’d been had.

“How? How did you find me?”

“It wasn’t difficult. I almost had you, but then you disappeared up here. While I waited for you to reappear, I perfected my disguise and rented this place. I’ve been searching for you for days. What I don’t understand is why you were hitchhiking.”

“I couldn’t very well get caught in my last victim’s car, now could I?”

“So, you killed Jerry too? You work fast, girl. Too fast. Damn!” he shook his head. “You are one evil bitch, but I knew the minute I mentioned a winning lottery ticket that you couldn’t resist another opportunity.”

“You’re a bastard. But don’t worry, I’ll escape again,” she said before the world went dark, and her head hit the table.

*****

But Hank wasn’t about to leave escape to chance. Sheila awoke to find herself in a sleeping bag on the porch of a very rustic cabin. As she stretched herself awake, she saw that several large, brown bears stood nearby. She immediately hurried inside but found that the place had no door. The door had already been torn off by the bears. It lay at her feet, and the smell of blood and meat assaulted her nostrils.

Realizing her error, she turned around and came face to face with a bear. The beast swatted her with his massive paw, and she went down in a heap. Blood poured from open wounds as the bear began dragging her outside where three smaller bears attacked.

Sheila was eaten alive. Her bones were found that next summer, and ID was found in the pocket of her jacket. The papers in Alaska carried the story of how an escaped murderer met her match in Alaska's wilderness. When the AP picked up the story, Hank read it and smiled. “Justice has finally been achieved!”

The End of Sheila

*****

Want to know more about Sheila
Follow the links for her story:

Remember folks - this is all fiction -

an exercise of the imagination!

Happy Halloween!

Photo by Sašo Tušar on Unsplash




Wednesday, October 7, 2020

IWSG - Aspiring

Insecure Writer's Support Group


Purpose: To share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds!

Question - When you think of the term working writer, what does that look like to you? What do you think it is supposed to look like? Do you see yourself as a working writer or aspiring or hobbyist, and if latter two, what does that look like?

 

Answer: I’m a writer aspiring to be a working author. Someone who writes at least one book a year lives off the money earned and does regular book signings. But the reality is I’m a hobbyist looking for the right formula.


Photo by Nick Morrison on Unsplash


On a personal note: I recently deleted my Facebook account. I’d love to know if there are other networking sites that I should consider. Suggestions welcome!

The hardworking co-hosts are:

Jemima Pett, Beth Camp,

Beverly Stowe McClure,

& Gwen Gardner!

 

!Be sure to say hello!
********************


Are you gearing up for Halloween?
I hope so!
The WEP invites you to post your own
Halloween Tale!



A Grave Mistake, you ask?
Well, what in the hell is that?
Well, dear friend
It’s the next WEP task.
And believe me
there’s many away
Where errors take sway
Where ghosts and ghoulies will play
and many unorthodox ideas
 rue the day.
So, get out your pens and pads.
We’ve given you
A dare for your best scare
Because Halloween is for all
And who knows?
You may take 
first prize for your Grave Mistake!
**

Join us for some spooky fun!





Wednesday, September 2, 2020

IWSG - Inspirations

Insecure Writer's Support Group


Purpose: To share and encourage. Writers can express doubts and concerns without fear of appearing foolish or weak. Those who have been through the fire can offer assistance and guidance. It’s a safe haven for insecure writers of all kinds!

QUESTION:        If you could choose one author, living or dead, to be your beta partner, who would it be and why?

ANSWER:            So easy to answer, Margaret Mitchell, on the one hand, and Stephen King on the other. I would love to talk with Margaret about her approach, and of course, Stephen King about his. Two people, two different genres. But what a conversation!



The co-hosts are PJ Colando, J Lenni Dorner, Deniz Bevan, Kim Lajevardi,Natalie Aguirre, and Louise - Fundy Blue!Be sure to say hello!
********************

Are you gearing up for Halloween?
I hope so!
The WEP invites you to post your own
Halloween Tale!



A Grave Mistake, you ask?
Well, what in the hell is that?
Well, dear friend
It’s the next WEP task.
And believe me
there’s many away
Where errors take sway
Where ghosts and ghoulies will play
and many unorthodox ideas
 rue the day.
So, get out your pens and pads.
We’ve given you
A dare for your best scare
Because Halloween is for all
And who knows?
You may take 
first prize for your Grave Mistake!





Tuesday, August 18, 2020

A Short Poem

Photo by Pacific Austin on Unsplash

Shadow
Is light diffused
a body reformed in casting
ever-present
a gloom of gray.
The companion of fear
with a chill, unexplained.
Whether dark or light
night or day
the shadow is a companion
you can’t wish away.

     Yolanda Renée (C) 2020