While becoming an author was not something the author had thought of in her childhood, she stresses that because she always possessed a vivid imagination, she could not but put pen to paper. ‘As many ideas constantly swim around my head, it is only natural for me to feel the only way to eliminate the thoughts is to write them down,’ she tells us.
Carrying gifts, comes the Santa;
He guffaws upon seeing us.
Riddling and giggling, he dances,
Illuded by the merry fuss.
Santa shakes the bag he carries,
Times each move ere catching a bus
Merry Christmas! He hoys cool gifts.
And says, ‘You shall grow happy thus.’
Shouts of elation now, no fuss.
While Mr Mana tries to keep a schedule, writing from 10 AM to 5 PM, with a short break for lunch and several pauses, he concedes that many unexpected events tend to shatter his schedule. ‘But that’s life I guess,’ he states. ‘Also, I sometimes just sit at the keyboard and write for the fun of it – without a deadline or a target market, or a contract. Especially when the going gets rough, and it happens, writing is a good way to clear the mind and stop worrying about those things you can’t control anyway,’ he adds.
Cyclical are storms of sadness
Starsheen parts the clouded skies
Eternal is the endless ocean
Fading are the tides
Winds the Lord sends in His anger at your folly and man’s; winds the Lord sends in return for your heathen sacrifice of His love for a man’s. And when those same men deem you shipshape no longer, too old and no longer fair in their eyes, they’ll replace you with another idol and cast you coldly to the sea once more.
I see Him in the seed, the bough, the tree
I see Him in your smile, your cry, your pout
I see Him in scenes that are, that can’t be
Oft marvel do I at His mighty clout
He knows it all well but without a scout
The worlds exist so He may joy and fun
He wills it so rivers flood, there is drought
None but Him can make us perceive we’re one
I oft wonder how the ball of light and fire not once reels;
Moving with a wondrous flair, the Sun hardly seems hoary.
Oh! Behold the skewing rays of our majestic Sun that wheels!
She wrote the Christian superhero series entitled ‘Science, Meet God’ while being crippled for four years after having undergone knee surgery at the age of twenty four. ‘I was on the verge of paralysis before a doctor finally figured that slipping disks had severed my spinal cord in half. I had spinal surgery in 2014. The healing process was slow and painful, and I would like to thank Cliff for being the best nurse a girl could ever hope for,’ she shares with us.
Every Sunday he herds cattle,
battling many hardships, pains;
Like a cloud that seems to prattle,
rattles all the weeds for gains.
Dancing and rejoicing, he heads
to the lands where grounds are beds.
Isled, forlorn are those plain lands;
People there don rustic bands.
We can be each other’s love if you will;
Shall I beseech you thus to feel my love
So both may joy in little things, have fun?
Be guided not by fame but one’s own will!
In shame, guilt and regret we shan’t down bow;
Love. Oh, that feeling we should not once shun.
I can’t feel bad if good you do;
I can’t rejoice when you so rue.
I can’t say lies and myself fool;
I can’t break that unspoken rule.
For in you I see the holy spark,
Which does guide me as well in the dark.
My asymmetric assumptions, they bury
twisted tales of absurd desires
How I learn to hide my wound and heal
worshipping the new face of the devil!
A filthy business to revamp my soul
coated with skimmed pinks
of the blood moon from your sky
So, tell me, when you see the face of the governing body of this great land and all they uphold as true, this fairy tale they call democracy…do you see a faultless image, like a dream without any error at all or do you see it? Do you see the port-wine stain? Red and glaring? Signalling like the truth? May the spirit of my forefathers, the calloused over hands of the blue-collar workers, and the sackcloth covered corpses that line the front lines, as I…may you be the port-wine stain on this country now.
Fill our paper birds with love
And we’ll never truly grow old
And we’ll never truly fade
Write our names in the heavenly sky
Forever immortal are our pages
Paper birds fly
Forever lasting in black and white
Continuous, the landscape coarse
and choked by urbanite decay,
I tried to sing but sounded hoarse;
a tuneless note of dank dismay,
ten thousand trampled daffodils
destroyed by deeds and dollar bills.
Standing on his doorstep was Maisie Beck. It had been years since Samuel had seen her, but he recognized her straight away. She was standing a few steps back from the door. Her hair was untidy, and her mascara had run down her cheeks. Also, her lipstick looked smeared. She was wearing a short party dress and had streamers strewn over her shoulders. She was bleary-eyed and tottering on her high heels.
The author tells us that Nevada Noir is a dark, atmospheric trilogy of intertwined tales of greed and temptation in the Nevada badlands. ‘In these three dark and brooding short stories, set in and around the US state of Nevada, a cast of disparate characters struggle with greed and temptation and the cursed lure of easy money. An old man goes in search of his son in the aftermath of a terrible storm, a couple down on their luck make a life-changing discovery, and an ex-cop has one last impossible decision to make,’ he explains, adding, ‘It’s an action-packed meditation on death, temptation and flawed humanity.’
Who knows what an eye with little knowledge sees?
A xylophone with pink and yellow notes;
Tink, tonk your sounds fly up to the trees.