Shadow on my Heart

Poor Pasha. He does not know yet that his furry little butt was just placed on some nasty lists of three infamous Goodreads trolls, along with all my other books. It is not his fault that his author uses “condescending” words—such as perhaps “unpublished” as I clearly labelled one of my novellas that nevertheless got shelved under “do-not-read.” Duh!

As far as authors go, I am a nobody but I do write real books with big words, alas almost no sex, but in complete sentences. Few sales here and there, and no controversial discussions anywhere about any subject on any site. So, how did these admirable gatekeepers zero in on me? I haven’t the faintest idea. E tu, Brute? Or maybe they hate "the other Borgs," the ones from outer space.

At least, I found that I am in good company. Many others had to endure their pranks condoned by the GR site. Besides, I trust that the overwhelming “To-Be-Read” listings will wipe out this sorry shadow on my writer’s heart. I am thankful for my readers and supporters.

And, if it is still true that “any publicity is good publicity,” I should even be grateful to these misguided individuals as well. This old gal could use a little controversy; it keeps the juices flowing.

Celebrating Good Samaritans

The Rescue of these puppies prompted me to share my poem with you.

My Arkansas

*

Forests clad in emerald shrouds

An endless sky dotted with cotton-candy clouds

A darling house that I just bought

This is the Arkansas I sought.

Lumber trucks clamor for strong nerves

A yelping puppy tossed; not what it deserves.

Trash and litter does abound

This is the Arkansas I found.

Life’s multi-layered quilts are evident

from ev’ry distant corner of this land.

Where people kindly rescue dogs and cats,

And women still wear gorgeous hats.

Where gardens bloom by masters’ grace,

And peace pervades this quiet place.

This, too, I found—and happily I vow,

That is my Arkansas right now.

(Excerpt from Moments of the Heart)



Do Not Try This At Home

I usually write about my and other people's pets. However, this should not encourage anyone to keep this one at home as a pet. The following is from my short stories and poetry book: Moments of the Heart.

THE OLD SEAL

Fat-sleeked bodies glisten, fins thrash blackening the water until only the old bull is left on his solitary rock; a deposed king without subjects.

The seals had stayed on this island until the brief summer day relieved the arctic night from its long guard. Here, they had fished the bays without fear of being pierced by storm-driven floes. But on this day, they are to return to the far North to bear the offspring of their new ruler.

The old seal watches until they disappear. For uncounted seasons, he had led his herd unchallenged, reining in the impatient, encouraging the weak, beckoning the disheartened.

He attempts to heave his aching bulk toward the water. His wounds are deep and he longs for the icy spray to numb his pain.

Not since his early years had he been defeated as the herd’s leader. The younger bulls had never before attempted to challenge him. Secretly, patiently, they had waited for them to grow strong; and for him to grow old, and nearsighted, and weak. They attacked in the late morning while the females were sunning. His indignant, angry bellows had echoed over the island, then turned into grunts coarsened by blinding pain. One after the other, the cows had left his side to seek favor with the new ruler who impregnated the still wintry air with heady barks of victory.

A streaming mass of raw burning wounds, the old seal can no longer support himself on his frayed fins. Flat on his fat-rippled belly, he wriggles toward the shore, leaving a trail of darkening blood. He must reach the water before nightfall before frost will sink its murderous teeth into his exposed flesh. Red fog shrouds his sight as he heaves himself toward a drop of jutting rock that lies between him and the water. Over the millennia of their predestined journeys the tumbling herds had chiseled smooth slides toward the ocean. The old seal catches a glimpse of white froth and leaps with habitual faith and his remaining strength toward the savaging edge as razor gravel tears through him. Unconsciousness cloaks his senses.  The incoming tide halted his fall.

Crystals of white spray shudder on his pelt. The faint throb of life still pulses through the old seal’s heart. As the next wave crashes over him it carries him into the sea; he is home.