My second book of poetry is available in Kindle version (on Amazon) and in paperback everywhere (you may have to order it at brick and mortar shops). This one is just poems and continues the contemplative, observational, calming, style of Conditions.

Also available in other formats on Smashwords.com (10/10/13).

Of course you can preview on Amazon, but here are a couple further into the book:

Little Bird

Little bird, where do you go

When the rain beats down

And the wind does howl and blow?

 

It can’t be far; you’re always out

As soon as the sun

Returns and the kids begin to shout.

 

Your tiny voice is so very loud;

When you leave there’s silence.

So I’m happy to see a break in cloud,

 

Knowing you’ll soon be back!

Passed By

It’s coming!

Wind picking up, gusting, cool.

Clouds piling up, darkening.

The birds excited, racing about.

Thunder rumbling, deep and throaty,

Still distant.

It’s coming!

The wind swirls; you almost

Taste the rain coming.

The trees bend and sway

As the thunder comes closer

And the birds disappear.

It’s coming!

A patch of blue?

The clouds streaming by, breaking up

Thunder less distinct

Wind suddenly weaker

Where’d it go?

Passed us by.

The Bog

 Limpid pools of dark oily water

Call with enchantment strong

As magic can be.

Frogs skitter at the edges

Disturbed by boys’ silent noisy progress.

Muck sucks joyously

At sneakers filling them

With sulfurous black goo.

Spiders hang dangerously close

To the surface, barely visible

In the mystic gloom.

Treasures lurk just below the surface –

Beer cans, half their labels dissolved,

Husks of bottle rockets, and even,

To the lucky, a mud-sodden baseball.

Mom won’t like the treasures

Or the pieces of bog

Tenaciously carried home.

But nothing she says can stay the lure

Of the dim, smelly, bog.

Sandy (and no power, heat, light) - We Ain't Gonna Miss Ya!

I was ten days without power and heat in the "superStorm" aftermath. I know people still out and people who lost everything, swept away in the storm surge or smashed by trees falling or uprooted. It is oft said but intimately observed in the past two weeks by me personally, that trying times bring out both the best and the worst in people.

The below, in chronological order, are personal poetic snapshots. Hopefully we all learn a little from this and avoid the severity in the future.

Hurricane Sandy

 

The wind rolls up in waves.
The roar starts out low and builds
Whipping the trees and bushes
Into a frenzy as it peaks and lingers
The suddenly fades away
Only to begin the cycle anew.

The frenzy starts with a gentle swaying

Back and forth in one dimension
Then, as the wave crests, spreads
To every direction in a madcap dance,
Only to fade to a stiff quivering
As the wave of air recedes.

The sound is my favorite;

It encompasses the whole –
The muffled beginning,
The rapid build-up,
The climactic crescendo,
The equally rapid decline.

Then there is the presence of danger

At the peak, the frenzy’s max,
Will the branches or trunks snap
In the incredible frenetic dance
Or will they recover to face the next
Burst and dance once more?

 

Waiting It Out

Motors thrum a steady background beat

While inside no dance, no light, no heat.
Hurricane’s come and done her worst
Recovering slowly, we’re not the first.
For a few it was deadly, for others, total loss
For most inconvenience, disruption, emotional cost
And now the recovery, unknown progress
Waiting’s the worst of it, can’t trust the press.
Lines for blocks at the rumor of gas
The kindness of strangers, the rude horse’s ass
The best and the worst in a person comes out
You see it all when you’re out and about.
Not worth crying over; falling into a pout.
Move on, make the best of it, this too shall pass.
Nothing worth fighting over, don’t bring out your brass;
It’s a difficult time for all, remember the worst off
When you complain you have it so tough.
No cable TV, or internet? Some people still sit
Buried under blankets, cold meals, lights unlit.
Linesmen working overtime; many from far away
The fault is not theirs, working day after day.
Maybe the execs, and the big utility boards,
Should have planned better, or fall on their swords.
But for the individual, caught in the mess
Do your best, know your limits, pass the test
By making it through, staying healthy and sane
Good, solid decisions, despite the annoying pain.

 

Stupid Is

The gas! The gas! It will never return!

Race to the station.
Wait on the line, engine idling,
For hours.
Just to top off the tank.
Because it may be
The last
Gas
On Long Island!
Or not.
Every day
More power to the stations,
More tankers to the terminals,
Trucks delivering more every day.

Another storm is bearing down!

It will bring devastation
And the end of the world!
Or at least
More outages
And shortages
And hardship.
Or not.
This one’s just a regular storm
Like hundreds of previous storms.
Nothing special except
In the minds
Of the media
And the cold and the homeless
And the tired.

 

Myths and Gods
 
The storm had passed
Leaving loss and waste
And a darkness, black
Against which stand back
The stars in bright relief.
You feel the Greek belief
In their myths and their gods
Without our technical clods.
Closer to the best of nature
Even in the midst of disaster.

 

Haiku 32

 
Trunks smashed and splintered
Wires tangled and twisted and down
Awaiting repair
 

Haiku 33

Small warbler singing

Jumble of uprooted tree
Recovery begins

 

Memento

 

A child wandered through the devastation
Her mother holding her hand at a sharp elevation
She wanted to know why so many trees fell
And why the garbage had such a terrible smell
Then she found a thin, long, bare-branched bough
And fancied it her memory of the great event
She snatched it up and dragged it home, a moment;
Captured in the object, cast aside by the storm
Summing up her loss and confusion and scorn.
Because it had been fun and terrifying and awesome
And Mommy and Daddy never let the gruesome
Protrude into the excitement and questioning
And so the branch was her silent mentioning
Bare like the shelves when batteries they seek
Thin like the keening of the wind at the peak
And branched like the rest of her life.

 

Nor'easter After

Snow falls in dangerous beauty
On the fragile survivors.
Sharp winter in soft white clarity
Missed in the misery of "others".

The 47 percent and the 1 percent
Lost in the powerless 30 percent.
Gas lines and travel, psychotic breaks
With gentle, pretty, hexagonal flakes.

It is said, this too will pass
If you survive, you will be stronger
But while the snow is falling fast
Please make the dark be no longer!

 

Jack Higgins, Tony Hillerman, and Linda Howard

I've been spending some time working through the "old" inventory from my closed brick and mortar shop, trying to fill in the inventory. For simplicity I am rolling through the books alphabetically by author. I just finished the "H's".

This, of course, led me to wonder who these authors were, especially those that had a lot of titles that I had not read. Three of those are Jack Higgins, Tony Hillerman, and Linda Howard.

Jack Higgins is a pseudonym of the British author Harry Patterson, who has more than 60 novels to his credit, mostly thrillers. Higgins' breakthrough novel was The Eagle Has Landed published in 1975. This novel features recurring protagonist Liam Devlin and was about a fictitious commando raid by the Germans in World War II to capture Winston Churchill. His last series featured Sean Dillon, a former Irish terrorist, and is set in recent times, starting with the publication of Eye of the Storm in 1992.

Tony Hillerman wrote 18 mysteries featuring Navajo tribal policemen Joe Leaphorn and Jim Chee. All of them are set primarily in the Four Corners region of the American Southwest. Hillerman draws heavily on Navajo culture in his novels providing a unique approach to the genre.

Linda Howard is a pseudonym of Linda Howington. She is a founding member of the Romance Writer's of America and was first published in the Silhouette Desire series in 1982. To date she has written over 50 novels and has expanded significantly from her original "serial" romance to include historical romance, contemporary romance and romantic suspense.

Between these three authors my inventory includes over 60 titles, not nearly all of what they have written but a good selection. These and over 30,000 others at biblio.com: http://tinyurl.com/83rz2of

Enjoy.

Fall is in the Air

Fall is in the Air (at least in New York)

Still getting used to the idea that the people who read this may, even if reading it the same day I write it, be in a completely different season than I am.

Anyway, here in New York, where I am, it has felt like early fall the past week or so, with temperatures in the 70s (Fahrenheit, low 20s Celcius), mild breezes, and a nice sun with puffy cumulus clouds. It has been very pleasant, with cool mornings and evenings and no rain to speak of. The leaves on the trees are still green, so summer isn’t really over but the hint is there.

Just around the corner are the bright colors of full autumn foliage, crisp morning air, where the frost is a short distance away, kids are busy with school and the myriad of activities that seem to be the modern schoolkid’s life, and the animals in constant motion, either preparing for the coming winter or preparing for a trip to warmer climes. In short, it’s a time of heightened activity and constant change compared to the summer where the heat and humidity can cause a lethargy and the number of “required” activities feels smaller, even if it may really not be.

 Once school starts one becomes instantly aware of the upcoming holidays. Here, in metropolitan New York, they parade at a pace to ease the kids along the school calendar – Rosh Hoshannah, Columbus Day, Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas; enough for the children to have something to look forward to, outside the normal routine.

From a bookseller perspective it provides both opportunities and headaches. Opportunities because the holiday-themed books sell much better near the holiday and headaches because you need to try to adjust things quickly and constantly, hopefully when the customers are looking for it.

For example, as Halloween approaches, you want to make sure the back titles of the likes of Stephen King and Peter Straub (for adults) and R. L. Stine (Goosebumps) and all the series themed Halloween books (Arthur, Franklin, Sesame Street, etc.) for kids are up and, if possible, prominently featured. But as soon as one holiday is done you need to get the next holiday’s themed books up in rotation.

And, of course, if you are also holding down a full time "real" job and getting into the holidays yourself...

All that being said it is an exciting time and one filled with plenty of projects and opportunities. My best wishes to everyone to enjoy the holidays as they roll in one after the next. I knwo I am going to enjoy the ride.

Two (very) short stories

I’ve been a parent for over half my life, now. While that is not very remarkable, it does serve as an introduction. I like the job. It has a lot of aspects to it and I don’t do all of them well but it is the most rewarding job I’ve ever had. Like most parents, I’ve grown into the job with time and know I am a better parent now than when the first child was born. One of the things I’ve learned is to be active IN the lives of my kids. Today’s post is 2 (very) short stories on that theme of participating IN the life of your child.


Wexler

       Wexler studied the terrain through the cracks between the boulders

behind which he sat, propped against a flat slab of granite. His tan

polo shirt was plastered with sweat; a stray oak leaf stuck in his

short gray hair.

      The late afternoon sun dappled the scene in a deceptively peaceful

pattern.  Somewhere out there was the shooter who had barely missed a

few short minutes ago. Wexler saw nothing out of the ordinary.

      Undergrowth disturbed only by the slight movement of the wind, trees

likewise gently and naturally moving.  A sparrow landed in a bush 50

feet away and noisily burst into conversation.

      Wexler carefully levered himself up and through a slightly larger gap

between the rock and moved quickly another 30 feet behind a clump of

chokecherries. Just that short burst brought more sweat and hastened

his breathing – damn, he was more out of shape than he thought.

      Peering through the chokecherries he saw a cardinal’s brilliant red

plumage suddenly burst out of hiding in a stately elm and two smaller,

more nondescript birds at the same time from the same tree. Tracing

the line of the trunk to the ground he saw what he hoped: a human

figure clad head-to-toe in a camouflage jumper.

      Wexler crawled to a clump of new maples and drew up onto his knees in

a small depression behind them, bringing his gun up to his shoulder.

Just one mistake, he breathed to himself. The figure in camo was on

the move, cautiously edging from one tree to the next, a few long

strides at a time, forty feet away, thirty.

      The figure suddenly halted and swung its gun up. Wexler fired, center,

left, right, and rolled to his left, came up to a crouch, and raced 15

feet to another clump of maple saplings. Shots spattered his hiding

place and peppered the undergrowth in his trail. He fired another pair

of shots blindly and went to ground, counting slow five before raising

his head ever so slightly.

      His antagonist was barely visible behind a full-grown maple not ten

feet from Wexler’s previous position. Wexler dropped his head and

counted another five before peeking once more above the leaf litter

and grass.

      The figure in camo was inching along Wexler’s back trail, gun at the

ready in a deep crouch, carefully placing one foot forward making sure

to make no sound. Wexler eased his gun to a firing position just as

the other figure loosed three shots.  Wexler dropped the gun and

raised both hands over his head as he stood up slowly, then dropped

his right hand to clean the paint from his visor.

      The figure in camo reached one hand to pull the helmet off, revealing

a pretty, strawberry blonde of probably half Wexler’s 35 years. She

smiled. “Too slow, Dad!”

      Wexler laughed and took his daughter’s hand as they walked together

back to the staging area to go home.

Dichotomy

He just made a spectacular play

Determination and skill on display

From deep inside the pride swells over

But the impact! He’s hurt his shoulder.

The striker’s still down, his knee

The keeper waves off assistance, see.

He won the battle and despite the bruise

There’s a lot of game left so he’ll refuse

To show even a smidgen of weakness

It’s that macho, leadership toughness.

Now they’re carrying off the striker

While the keeper stretches out his shoulder

And what of me, what to do?

The pride of the play but concern too.

How hurt is he really, behind the motion?

Is it a drop or the whole ocean?

Play resumes and I watch closely

Fortunately it seems to be mostly

A discomfort not an agony

Not like the striker’s knee.

Oh, the dichotomy of a dad

Loving the good but dreading the bad.

So proud he’s growing up.

So sad he’s growing up.

 

Romance Novels - A General Discussion

All my previous posts have been personal observations and non-commercial. This one is different, in a way. This one is targeted specifically to helping sales at my various pre-read book outlets, but it is also a(n) (interesting?) personal story.

When I owned an actual brick and mortar (funny thing is, it WAS made of brick and mortar) used book store, the majority of sales were romance novels of one subtype or another. Probably 60-70% of the inventory and in-store sales were romance. Until I bought the store I knew nothing of the genre, its writers, publishers, history, nothing.

But I would talk with my customers and learned what they liked and why. I also developed a business relationship with Harlequin, THE biggest publisher in the genre. I now consider myself the most expert straight men on the subject of the people I know.  Perhaps one day I’ll finish editing my “History of the Bodice-Ripper” and publish it.

As with most everything you learn because you choose to, I have enjoyed the process. I also have enjoyed the conversations I have had, with stronger and stronger grasp of the topics, with readers. I still prefer, personally, to read what would be dubbed more manly fiction – historical yarns like the Age of Sail in the previous blog, or thrillers/mysteries like John D. MacDonald and westerns like Louis L’Amour and Luke Short.

Surprisingly (not!) I still have a very large inventory of romance novels, all subgenres, dating from the 1960s to about 2007 with any selection (only scattered titles after that).  This includes significant selections of serial romance novels (generically known as harlequins, even though published by many labels).

Some examples:

I have 29 titles written by Robyn Donald, 32 by Anne Mather, 25 by Lisa Jackson, and 25 by Diana Palmer.  I have literally hundreds of titles in the main series: Harlequin Romance, Silhouette Romance, Special Edition, Desire, Loveswept, etc. And I have hundreds, if not thousands, of “stand-alone” titles from Daphne du Maurier through Barbara Cartland to Nora Roberts and Luanne Rice.

If this is an area of interest to you and you are missing one or more back titles, please browse along. At least on the Biblio account linked here there is free shipping and a coupon for 50 cents off your second and subsequent books on one order.

Pleasant reading!

Captain Monsoon by Victor Suthren

Just finished reading Victor Suthren’s naval yarn, Captain Monsoon, originally published in 1993. This is book 4 in Suthren’s Mainwaring series and is set in the Indian Ocean in 1744.

I cut my Age of Fighting Sail reading teeth on the Bolitho series of Alexander Kent as they came out in the 1970s and have loved C. S. Forester’s classic Hornblower series as well. Most recently I “sailed” through James L. Nelson’s Biddlecomb series. No other series has grabbed me such that I’ve ravenously read through them, though I do keep trying.
Suthren’s book started out well with good characters and an interesting plot line. The first 180 pages or so are very good. However, it ended fantastically with three tiny ships attacking and defeating a squadron including a line-of-battle ship in a driving monsoon.  Another 80 pages to develop the end and come up with a more plausible scenario would have made this a much better book.

I'll try Suthren again (he also has a second series and some nonfiction) but this one was not in the same league as Forester and Kent.