God knows your name.
God knows your shame
and you are Beloved of God;
when deep calls to deep,
in the hours you weep
you still are Beloved of God...
if only you knew
what He has gone through,
His Child, so Beloved of God-
your Pain and your Loss
has been nailed to the Cross
You're Free! 

Go -

Beloved of God 

Sing now the song of Habakkuk - 
the song of the defiant Heart;
the bitter space, the barren place
made God, alive in me...

Sing praises! For the way that seems
abandoned flows with living streams;
the tree whose fruit are broken dreams
becomes a flowering tree -

through God alive in me!

~~~~~

“Although the fig tree shall not blossom, Neither shall fruit be in the vines; The labour of the olive shall fail, And the fields shall yield no meat; The flock shall be cut off from the fold, And there shall be no herd in the stalls: Yet I will rejoice in the LORD, I will joy in the God of my salvation. The LORD God is my strength, And he will make my feet like hinds' feet, And he will make me to walk upon mine high places. To the chief singer on my stringed instruments.”
‭‭Habakkuk‬ ‭3‬:‭17‬-‭19‬ ‭KJV‬‬

https://bible.com/bible/1/hab.3.17-19.KJV

*STROKE stands for Stuff That Really Ouches Kranial** Environments

**KRANIAL is deliberately misspelled to facilitate the acronym; it is NOT a sign of stroke***. For now.

***SIGNS OF STROKE: BEFAST: Balance - Eyes - Face - Arms - Speech - Time****

****TIME - if you see any of the BEFAST categories having an issue, it’s TIME to call 911!

My First Stroke (TM) snuck up on May 1st as I was attempting to wake up. Half of my string lights disappeared then reeappeared, then appeared again; intrigued and slightly perturbed, I called my Daughter and she whisked me away to the comfy confines of Big Hospital.

There they determined I had a Cerebral Infarct and kept me overnight because I am a Fragile Flower.*****

**** FRAGILE FLOWER: meaning I was born with Elher Danlos Syndrome, contributing to Fibromuscular Dysplasia with multiple fibrous arterial blockages and high risk for stroke or aneurysm. I've been under a Doctor's care for stroke prevention and my Cholesterol is the BEST cholesterol, I tell you whut - but now I have to take blood thinners because reasons.

I only lost some of my Right Field of Vision, and for that I am grateful - but now everyone and their dogs are hollering for me to SIT DOWN MOM and PUT UP YOUR FEET…

and you know who you are.

I say BOO to feet up because I do NOT like reclining while writing. I can’t sit at a desk with my feet up. I also have to get within a foot of my iPad to see it, and I need the keyboard to facilitate touchtyping since my vision is goofy. I also like to spread out all my stuff around in a regal manner -

so here we have my solution, which allows me to put a fancy tapestry rolling ottoman in front of me as a desk then put my feet up on it.

The Ottoman of Enlightenment - which come complete with handy internal storage - feels pretty swag. It allows me to roll it out of the way when I get up, instead of getting stuck in a corner of the Ginormous Crimson Couch of Entrapment.

Prior to this Author Upgrade, I had been doing hunt and peck while dealing with keyboard logistics, but that setup was severely limiting. Now I can access my keyboard I can get cracking with more meaty writing scenes for LABYRINTHS of LEGION, while awaiting the Developmental Edit for HELLBILLY HIGHWAY.

Please note the Lil’ Dumpster Fire of Love sneaking up on my left. Like the STROKE, it is trying to take me by surprise... again...

I can still see you, lil’ Dumpster Fire - and I will be ready.

Adapt. Improvise. OVERCOME.

I will spread my wings, and you will not see;
I will call your name, and you will not hear - 
yet the Song of my Soul will I sing aloud
and my Word will embrace the world...

What you will not see I cannot make free;
what you will not hear I cannot make known -
yet they still will be, and you cannot stop
when the Song of my Soul is hurled

into the Dark, unfurled...

Life that will Light the World

A lock of hair, a silver pin -
the memories of you begin;
I hear your heartbeat once again,
soft and far away...

how could we be so close, and yet
those little things I now forget?
The sun will rise, the sun will set
on our mortal day -

but you were more than what I knew.
Your passions a stiletto shoe,
that turned the head of someone who
could not help but say

yes to the joy you offered him.
And I am offspring of that whim;
a gift of Life, a sparkle dim,
memories that may

grow old and die along with me -
and yet, that love can never be
erased from time; for I am she
you gave life that day -

Oh! Mother, Mother - if you knew
The worlds you birthed, just being you!
the timelines changed, the me that grew -
heartbeats shared, now lay
beneath red dirt clay...

Happy Mothers Day

Original Publish Date: Mother's Day 2024 

FLYING AWAY

Into the blue they are flying away;
clinging to true as the false falls astray,
waving farewell as you fumble and pray-
are you ready when they fly away?
The wind catches hold as the spinners of dreams
float away from the fold over mountains and streams
'til the ocean tide turns and returns as God deems
to your arms again some wondrous day...

Set them free - they are flying away.

Christ is Risen!

"...and the Stone shall roll from the Human Soul, for no Grave can ever claim
The eternal Flame of Jesus' Name!"

This is not conjecture, or fiction; this is my lived experience - Texas BBQ is a Sacred Journey. To understand, one cannot simply ask; one must seek.

Approach the counter. Respectfully ask the Little Old Lady if you can see the PitMaster; if you are humble, she may deem you worthy and send an emissary.  You must politely wait until the emissary calls you back...

into the bustling kitchen, through a squealing back door, through another door, paint peeling and faded; you will follow him down the narrow way. There you will find an old man, toiling beside a gargantuan repurposed metal contraption they call a BBQ pit. But that first man is not he whom you seek - he is merely the apprentice, still learning at the feet of the PitMaster. He will direct you to an older woman. 

She is holding a cold drank in her hand. She will eye you suspiciously, then tell you to wait while she disappears into the smoke and around the back of the pit.

Wait. You will be summoned. 

You will find him there on a worn-smooth stump, holding his cold drank: a man so old, so wizened, you do not know if he is alive or has merely been smoked and preserved by the power of the Pit.  He will mumble something, and motion for you to sit in an ancient metal folding chair. 

Easing down to sit, you will feel the chair tilt precariously, but it will hold. Hat in hand, tell him you wish to know the truth of Texas BBQ...

then just breath. Inhale that fragrance, the smokey scent of the legends, the power of Men to wrest Epicurean Delight from the sacred gift of Cattle. No, you will not understand; but you will Love, and Love is the secret to all great things - 

especially Texas BBQ.

So the High and Mighty have once again floated down from their Mountain of Self-Adulation of to mock and belittle the peons that write outside the Declared Ideology. The Arbiters of Everything besmirch those who dare who dream in the Colour of Ages rather than the Monotone of Now;  they harp upon the heresy of believing in God rather than the nilhilism of nothing...

they throw out beauty in exchange for emptiness, kill excellence to birth mediocrity and then think themselves Good.

To those who choose to broadcast their Bigotry of Elitist Expectations, I declare:

We don't need you. 

When all the smoke and mirrors of yet another woke contest burn away, people will forget they were ever here. But whatsoever is good, whatsoever is lovely - these will remain.  Let the Neophyte Church of Narcissists fade away into obscurity...

Great Works of Faith, Hope and Love will remain.

GO  WRITE

I woke up this morning to four Heart Alarms:
🔥I will still write. 
This Cat is insane and he's acting a fool;
🔥I will still write. 
The world is on fire and the future is dark-
🔥I will still write...

And all of these things will still happen today; 
The mess and the madness and sorrow and pain, 
But the Sun will still rise, and Life will go on-

We are the record of God in the Storm;
the memory of Love in the midst of the Hate,
and all of these things are our Story, our Song-

🔥We will still write...
🔥Go Write

.

Having been told they are lesser beings, Musashi's Warrior Poets are now supplanted by the Effete Elites who run the world; the experiences of "Common People" denigrated to make way for Elite propaganda.

As an EMT, Firefighter and Stormchaser turn Author, I found that the experience of facing Death in order to protect Life is the element missing from the Effete Elite Authors' lives. They know nothing of real fear or real courage. They only know their own neuroses and empty desires; they know nothing of what it means to actually LIVE with the flames licking at your feet, or the smoke rising above your head -

and they know nothing of what it means to press through the fire for the sake of another. The Effete Elite that dominate the industry are bereft of LIFE -

But the Everyday Heroes are still out there, and they are writing. The publishing industry can no longer stop us. Heroism is still real; Love still exists; Adventure atill awaits...

Read Authors who have LIVED the life. We are out there. We write -

and the next Great Novel is waiting to be read.

SINNA POMME

I know Sinna in words;
the crafted love of Books,
the ones worthy of looks,
your loves in anthems climb- 

I know Sinna in mind;
you came to share your thought;
the chapters, pages, taught
to me in chats that chime;

I know Sinna in truth;
I see you in my heart-
Oh Sinna! Ere we part
Allow me one last time

to speak to you, my friend;
To bid you now Good Night- 
Behold the Dawn's first light! 
The Author writes your rhyme...

Oh Sinna! Your Book's sublime!💖

Mirror, Mirror on the wall
who's the angriest of all?
Friendships fail and empires fall
with the bodies left
behind...

Brothers turn against Brother,
Neighbors turn on each other-
who weeps for one another
When the ties that bind
unwind?

?

Authors Discuss Marketing with R.H Snow and The Black Knight

What do you want for Christmas?

Be honest - say the thing in your heart.

If what you want comes from a bag, then congratulations! That joy is an real-world indicator of a real desire; a chocolate orange or a necklace is a reflection of your Life as it as now - and a giddy excitement over a brand new dishwasher is as noble a sparkle as any other…

and if your eyes are welling with tears because you wish to God it was as simple as that, then congratulations -

you lived long enough to develop a Hole in your Soul.

That hole is shaped like an open space; a chair where someone else once sat, an empty crib, a pair of shoes still sitting in the corner, or the door that never opened. It’s an echo of a dream, a prayer that was never answered. Our arms are so tightly wrapped around that present we never received, we can scarely breathe…

and when someone asks “What do you want for Christmas?” it feels like a stab in the heart.

What did I want?

I wanted you

The Wound That Never Heals can leave a mighty void in our universe, a black hole of yearning that swallows the sun. The hunger never goes away, the emptiness is never filled. So we make a mask of smiles, or self medicate, or drown it in tears, but we keep thinking if we keep trying, we can let go;

But it’s time to stop pretending and embrace the pain.

Some dreams are worth holding, even if they never come true. That longing is baked into our Humanity, the longing for family and children and friends, the aspirations of creativity and hope dangling like a Ornament, just out of reach on a Christmas tree…

to deny that pain is to deny our own Humanity. It is who we are; we long for what we do not have and at the same time, we reject the pain when we cannot fulfill that longing. The double-edged sword cuts both ways. How do we hold on to something that consumes us? The answer is more simple than I thought…

feed something else.

Now, I am not one to tell you that feeding the world makes our pain goes away. That’s a lie, and it’s also an unrealistic goal. But I can categorically witness that feeding a Baby Goat is a number one way to ease the anguish of the world. Why?

1. Cute

2. Adorable

3. Awww

Now, you may say to yourself, “I do not have a Baby Goat”, and this might be true - but you do have you. Use your amazing powers of perception to look around…

it’s there, the Baby Goat of your soul, the Inexorable Joy. It probably doesn’t look like a Baby Goat, though, because it is disguised; it looks like an elderly neighbor, or a potted plant that is wilting, or a mangy cat in the alley. You must seek it with your whole heart…

then you must feed it what it wants.

It may want a bottle, but more than likely it just want a kind word, or a person to listen to them talk about trains. It might even want a text saying howdy, or a scratch behind the ears. One never knows, until one find that Joy. I am witness to the extraordinary power of kindness to heal our own hearts. Those who have holes in their souls recognise the emptiness in others…

go fill it.

Now here’s the tricky part. YOU ARE PROBABLY NOT WHAT THEY ASKED FOR. Their arms are wrapped tight around an empty space in their own soul, shaped like an unborn child, or that girl from math class, or a hay bale-

or in this case, a Mama Goat.

I am not a Mama Goat. I am not shaped like the hole in that Baby Goat’s soul; he wasn’t looking for me when he found me - or did I find him?- when God led him to cry at my door. He was looking for his Mama.

I am not his Mama, but I am me, and I can hold a bottle.

Tonight, that Baby Goat is still going to cry for its Mama, and that Mama Goat won’t be there because she’s out in the back pasture and she has forgotten her own child…

even as one of you is weeping now, for your own mother-

and I have never forgotten you, the Hole in my Soul, the longing of my lifetime; you are imprinted upon my being, the immeasurable sorrow of my Humanity

but after crying, this Baby Goat will go to sleep with a full belly; and it may dream of its Mother, and her warm fur. But then he will wake up in my arms, and want another bottle, for we have found each other. The Holes in our Souls are only filled with that Christmas Present for which we never asked, the Prayer for which we never prayed, the Life we never knew we wanted…

the inexorable Joy of unexpected Miracles, made real in Love.