Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
preservationman Mar 2017
A narration of an Author with many ideas
Then there’s a caution accompanied with fear
It was many stories to talk about
There was also bitterness turning into a bout
A few of the stories as they were
The Author describes that moment he was hit by a speeding car, and the impact could have been death
The inspiration was the Author still had time left
In between, there was sadness when his Mother died
He had no desire to live and loss all his pride
But the Author remembered his Mother told him often, it is God that you should abide
Yet the Author’s Mother had dignity and honor with divine inspiration that she did provide
His Mother’s living words, “Son, there will be words of utterance, but God is the life in calm and tolerance. Sorrow is only for a day, but tomorrow is the hope and reason to live. However do remember, don’t cry for me, but rejoice in the blessing that is to be. Heaven is and will always be inspiring to one’s soul and spirit and I am going home to be with thee. I lived my life abundantly and you already have the foundation of my uplifting advice.”
Well the Author became energized
His Mother’s true words he did realize
Wonders of behold of thy amazed
My Mother often would give God praise
His Mother’s spirit may have gone up, but the Author’s life was already planned being set up
No one knows what tomorrow will bring
Oh the Author learned well as continued living being the thing
The Author knows all about revolving chapters, but it is God in all that matters
Being committed to complete
Breaking barriers and overcoming defeat
The Author told the story straight
Some might present hate
Others don’t want to relate
Then again, it is about appreciate
But the narration stands by itself, and wasn’t late
Now one might want to debate
However, the Author brought the story together which we all can associate
But again to all readers to appreciate
Now the Author offers all of us advice, “Pull any book from any book shelf and feel inspired”
The truth is not to tire
Time limits are the persons with no time to spare
But the mission is, “Write when you can, and continue to control on when”.
Àŧùl  Nov 2016
An Author Is
Àŧùl Nov 2016
Neither a person is ever born an author,
Nor a person is ever matured into one,
An author is an author is an author...
I became an author when my story's author,
That destiny-writer who controls everything,
Became lazy & stopped my story any further..
As now I am the author of my autobiography!
HP Poem #1249
©Atul Kaushal
What caused you to write a book and have it published?
Thankfully, I’ve enjoyed a career in IT (Information technology) for over 25+ years. However, I’ve been downsized out of a job four times – the last time in 2005, I was unemployed for nine months. During that time, I looked at over 19,000+ companies to find one job. With more jobs in my field being outsourced to lower wage earners overseas, I decided I needed an exit strategy from the corporate world to launch a more stable career and income.


2. How long have you been writing?
I started officially writing poetry in January 2001; it was a natural progression from working on my website. I started my website (Bunganut Lake Online) back in 1999; as I added content over the years, I started writing short stories about fishing, followed by haikus about fishing and Nature; then I started writing senryus about traffic (see honku.org) and later about God.


3. How long did it take to finish your book?
I spent about 13 months to write the manuscript of my current book; once I initiated the book making process with my publisher (BookSurge), I had the final product in hand in 3.5 months.


4. What is the name of your book and what is it about?
The name of my book is “Reaching Towards His Unbounded Glory”; the ISBN numbers are: 1-4196-5051-3 & 978-1419650512. It is a book of poetry, geared to inspire people to develop or strengthen a relationship with God.


5. Do you want to write more books and have them published?
Definitely; I have four completed and unpublished manuscripts; in addition, I have five other manuscripts started. All of these writings are poetry.


6. Who or What was your inspiration when writing your book?
Jehovah is my inspiration; He’s always been my Source, Redeemer and strength; most of my life, I’ve blessed to attended Church and receive Salvation in my youth.


7. What is your favorite author and book?
After the Bible (KJV), my favorite book is: How to Rule the World: a Handbook for the Aspiring Dictator by Andre De Guillaume. (It’s a humorous look at people and their desire for power.) Most of my reading is technical stuff from sources such as PC Magazine, so I don’t have a favorite author (in the traditional sense). There are number of poetry writers that I do enjoy [who are too numerous to mention, such as PDK (AllPoetry) and Gershon Hepner (Poem Hunter)].


8. What is the best thing about writing?
The best aspect of writing is the freedom of expression and the power to choose words, conveying ideas and concepts that bolster one’s imagination.


9. What are some of your other hobbies?
I love spending time at the lake in Maine where I own a summer property – activities include swimming, fishing, campfires and working on my website; I also enjoy board games, such as backgammon, scrabble and others, as well as computer games (ranging from pinball to Wolfenstein).


10. What caused you to use BookSurge?
I looked at a number of publishers and was disappointed at their offerings and reputations. For me, BookSurge was chosen because they are owned by Amazon.com; in addition, they provided all services required for the bookmaking process. Although I spent a fair amount of money, to me it’s worth it. For now I’m tapped into a global economy with a quality product. No one wants to spend their hard-earned money on an inferior product – so I did what was best for me.


11. What would you tell others that wanted to become an author as well? What steps would they need to take to get started?
Now that I’m published, I find myself more than willing to share my experiences. The first step is to have a notebook or clipboard to store and write down thoughts and ideas. Second, one must identify what one has passion about; one’s writing must come across as sincere and knowledgeable; third is to produce the manuscript; once the manuscript is complete, then start the bookmaking process that is most affordable. Once the book is published, the real work (and reality) of selling comes into focus.


12. How does your family feel about you being an author?
Some family members are very proud and supportive, while others are still mute on the subject.


13. Do you have a website to promote your book?
My marketing plan employs the use of multiple websites; I’ve posted my writing on a number of poetry websites, such as AllPoetry, Poetry With Meaning, Poem Hunter and others; in addition, I have created a “lens” on Squidoo.com. At some, point, I’ll advertise on my own website. In the future, I would like to develop a personal website geared towards marketing my books.


14. Can people buy an autographed copy of your book if they wish to? If so how would they go about doing that?
Yes, people can purchased autographed copies; the best approach is via my “lens” on Squidoo.com; the link is: http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/


15. Do you think in the near future that you may write and publish more books?
Yes, I am planning to publish more books of poetry.


16. Is it hard work being an author?
That depends on the goals one sets for himself; for example, if one’s desire is to earn a comfortable living from one’s writing, then yes it’s difficult. With the presence of the Internet and related technologies, it’s very easy to be published, but no guarantee to make money.


17. What are your dreams and Goals in life?
The ultimate goal is to become the Christian man as seen by God Himself; after that, I would like to assist others to publish their own books, continue work on my website and develop my own business software for the marina operator.


18. Could you tell us a little about your book and what caused you to want to write it?
My book is a personal expression of faith; The Word tells that we are “more than conquerors”; in a sense, I achieved that ideal since my humble book is “now available worldwide”.


19. Is your book non-fiction or fiction?
I would classify my poetry as non-fiction. To me, a relationship with Christ and having faith is real.


20. Could you tell use where we could get a copy of your book? What bookstores are carrying it and what online stores are carrying it?
None of the brick & mortar bookstores are carrying my title as yet. My book can be purchased via Amazon.com, Borders.com or from me directly via the Squidoo.com “lens” at: http://www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/


21. What kind of promotional tools do you use to advertise your book?
I am using several promotional tools; my work has been submitted to two book contests; it is part of the Beijing International Book Fair (in China); I use the Internet and have set-up consignment arrangements with several businesses. I also have printed marketing materials, such as business cards, postcards and bookmarks.
Erin E Esping Mar 2014
I know I am young.
Yet I want to stride.
I have goals in life
I wish to complete,
And pray I might.
Just let me be an author.

I know I am small.
Yet I wish to be big.
To tell people my stories,
And not just in poetry.
Just let me be an author.

I know I am not even a teenager.
Yet I still have feelings.
I have crushes, disappointments,
And yes, I have felt love.
Just let me be an author.

I know I may not get what I want.
Yet I can still try.
I can try to be an Olympic softball player.
Or maybe a amazing actor.
Just let me be an author, also.

I know many people do not know my name.
Yet I keep meeting new ones.
And one day I will be the star.
One day.
Just let me be an author.
Pagan Paul Jan 2019
.
Jerrica had found Lost.
The treasure buried above ground.
The memory foam with dementia.
The quill with no nib …
she thought about feather pens.
Catching herself from falling
the swoon had caught her cold.
This **** ****** sword
was proving to be elusive
and now she was under sustained attack.
From a personal fetish.
It just wouldn't leave her alone,
creeping into her mind unbidden.
She needed to scratch an itch,
if only she knew what that itch was.

Trolls are magickally bound to their bridge.
Leaving it is usually fatal.
But Gyb had bones to gnaw,
and once he had his teeth employed
his mind was a captive onlooker.
A crazy plan formed in his head,
possibly avoiding the brain.
He took mud and formed a figure,
then some of his hair clippings
moulded into the head.
Then he took a leap of disbelief!
He looked into the river and … Click!
Snapped his fingers and fixed the image.
He cut it out of the meniscus
and attached it to the doll familiar.

“Did Achilles have damp ankles
or was he well heeled?”
Morfine had asked Choklut.
“Neither. He was the one who sneezed
and opened the Fête of the Suitors”.
“No. I think he was called Telemarketing,
he sneezed and they drew the tombola raffle”.
“Wasn't there a Goddess involved as well?”.
“Um … Yes, maybe the Goddess of Tissues?”.
“Snivel? No, she is more tears than snot.
I think its the one who turned her husband
into a swan, and made him ****** her handmaiden”.
“Oooo Nasty!”
“No, Nasty fell in love with his own profile,
and called things off with his nymph,
the reverberations can still be heard today”.
There was a brief pause … then,
“What are we doing Choklut?
We found a magickal sword and …
talking of which, where is it?”.
“I don't know. You had it last”.
Just then a serving girl gave them a note.
It said. Tomatoes, Peppers, Onions, Eggs …
“Not that side you dyk” she said.
Morfine turned the note over and read.
“Quick, no time to lose.
Someone saw the sword in the river.
We have to get to stanza 8
before it goes over the waterfall!”.
“Oh” said Choklut “I've never seen a stanza belly flop”.

It was true.
Contrary to the laws of physics.
Kelm saw the sword floating down river.
It looked like any other sword.
So he let it be, dismissed it.
He couldn't swim anyway.
He mused on the irony of that.
Nobody learnt to swim and yet drowning
was an undignified death for a barbarian.
If he could swim
he could find the fishes hiding places.

Jerrica had also been musing.
With a Poet.
That was during the last 3 stanza's.
But now …
she saw a sword floating in the river.
Something didn't quite fit.
Something was not in the right place.
She placed the Poet back in her breast pocket.
'If only he wasn't just 4 inches high' she thought
'he is rather handsome and intelligent'.
Bingo! She had it. But she didn't want it.
Armydiseases Principle of Liquid Dispersement!
It states!
Introduce a solid object into a body of liquid,
then the corresponding volume of liquid is dispersed
back to the nearest solid.
So, right now there is a very small flood
in the shape of a very small sword
ravishing the local area.
She decided, quite rightly as it turns out,
that she was feeding herself a red herring.

Slim stood on the bridge
staring at the churning water below.
How did it happen?
A stanza all of his own,
ruined by the intrusion of morons.
“Morfine and Choklut” he bellowed
“I'm going to eviscerate you”.
The wind carried a few of the words away,
but that was the gist of it.
“Hello” a voice said.
Slim had an accident, and jumped out of his skin.
And plunged into the cold water.
A strong arm pulled him out,
and he was face to face with a troll.
“My name is Gyb. I hate Morf Chok also”.
Nothing had prepared Slim for meeting a troll.
Not even the etti-queue-etti lessons at school.
'Would you care for afternoon tea?'
seemed rather inappropriate.
Gyb broke the awkward silence.
“Look! Sword floating”.
Slim didn't look.
Convinced the troll would eat him.
Thats their way. Distract and devour.
But he couldn't help it, he snuck a look.
And the sword slid on by gently bobbing,
tiny little runes glinting in the sun.

For its part the sword was serenity itself.
Chilled out to the max.
Resting on the water. Relaxing and reclining.
Life was good for the sword.
It had just passed a boy fishing,
poking his rod down a fish hole.
It had passed a young woman,
who looked confused and flustered.
It slid under a stone bridge.
A troll with a doll,
and a man with questionable odour.
And then he heard the roaring.
He sent out his senses,
no mean feat for a sword,
and 'felt' its surroundings.
Its image eye caught sight of the future.
It was an effing great waterfall.
And the future was the way he was heading.
For now.

Narrative Interlude

At this point in the story the author, Pagan Paul, is compelled
to inform the reader/listener of a complaint received
from Messrs Morfine and Choklut.
The substance of which amounts to the following:
That the said author is willfully under using their talent
as supporting cast and denying them access to many stanza's.
Furthermore they are threatening to expose the authors
'irregularities' in his relationship with Princess (name redacted).
The author, Pagan Paul, responds thus:
I should like to remind Messrs Morfine and Choklut
that, with astroke of my quill, I can eradicate them.
Drop them from the story all together.
And with reference to Princess (name redacted) -
'Its my Poem and I'll irregularit if I want to'.
Dear reader/listener prepare yourself for stanza 9.
It has a waterfall in it.
Maybe Morfine and Choklut will appear, maybe not.
They are the ones over a barrel.


Minutes after the sword floated by
something else caught her eye.
To boys on a barrel, in the water.
Boys barreling along or a barrel buoying along?
Choklut noticed her by the bank.
'funny place to have a cash machine' he thought.
Doing his best to impress and look brave.
Morfine waved and nearly fell off.
Suddenly the barrel lid opened
and Slim poked his head out like a tortoise.
“What the …?” said Choklut.
“Just repaying a debt boys” he said.
“But you owe us nothing” Morfine replied.
“Oh but I do” snarled Slim
“I owe you one times intrusion into your own stanza”.
He ducked back inside, and slammed the lid.
“Of all the fatherless ...”
“I blame the author” said Choklut.
“Yeah well, he is the one who's gonna be sorry,
we've just muscled in on stanza 8,
and relegated that waterfall to stanza 9” Morfine chimed.
“Morfine. Morfine! I hear the waterfall coming”.
“No! Not now. He has to leave it until 9 now,
we are about to cross the finish line on 8”.
The waterfall loomed.

Actually the waterfall knew nothing of weaving.
It just stayed where it was, pouring.
Spectacular, it was a very pretty waterfall.
It must be. It attracted tourists.
And it had fun!
It loved watching detritus tumble,
teeter on the brink. And fall.
Especially tourists.
It was over 300 paces high,
less than 40 paces wide,
its descent magnificent liquid ballet,
sparkling droplets shining like jewels,
forever transcending light refraction,
and plunging, plunging, plunging,
into a gorgeous azure puddle.
About ankle deep.



© Pagan Paul (17/01/19)
.
3rd poem in my Strange World collection.

Part 3 out soon :)
.
is Corrie ten Boom´s Favorite Quote.


The Master Weaver’s Plan

My life is but a weaving
Between the Lord and me;
I may not choose the colors–
He knows what they should be.

For He can view the pattern
Upon the upper side
While I can see it only
On this, the underside.

Sometimes He weaves in sorrow,
Which seems so strange to me;
But I will trust His judgment
And work on faithfully.

‘Tis He who fills the shuttle,
And He knows what is best;
So I shall weave in earnest,
And leave to Him the rest.

Not ’til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.

The dark threads are as needed
In the Weaver’s skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern, He has planned.

by AUTHOR UNKNOWN

Based upon research, have discovered that more than one person has been credited with authorship of this poem. For now, have decided to list it as “author unknown” until there is further clarification. Corrie ten Boom.
These words said Corrie ten Boom, the author of many many books. I feel honored and humbled that I may show you this poem she constantly presented in her life as a token of love to God and let you know about her. As Corrie ten Boom said the true author of this poem is still unknown. I am only the one who gives through.

with love, Sylvia Frances Chan
Wednesday, 20 December 2017
CORRIE ten BOOM is a Dutch Evangelist who rescued many Jews from ******'s hands during WW II. She had traveled around the world to tell about the many Wonders she got from God during her life, especially during those war times.
Brigette Beck Mar 2016
I'd give anything to read how an author describes me.
An author writes his characters as a wonder, a shining beacon of light, almost inhuman.
Really these characters - brave, smart, kind - are just like us.
Just like me.
So I want to know:
Am I brave?
Am I kind?
Am I smart?
Am I passive or active?
Am I intriguing or impressive?
Inspiring or insightful?
Amazing or attractive?
Strong or beautiful?
You know all these words.
You read all these words.
How an author writes his characters
With adjectives that seem inhumanly possible to describe anyone on this earth
Especially yourself.
But they could be used to describe you
And you just don't know it
That's why I'd give anything to read an author's description of me.
I need to know.
What adjectives paint the picture of me?
I think about this way more than I should, but I need to know who I am. Some description like this would help immensely in figuring it out. I don't know if anyone else feels this way, but I do. All the time.
Jonathan Surname Aug 2018
I am only an author of a voice to silence your worry.
Listening is not my virtue, it's bloviating my lure-y.
An appeal to be appealing has left me reeling
For lucidity in a city that has forgotten who I am
Which is me.

I am only an author of a voice so silent, so worry.
I hate to live in my mind, yet it is the ***** I scurry.
From my mind's eye's **** I suckle with fury.
Silver-tongue, golden-throated, and nothing else
To be spoke of. With my chest swelling; pleurae
booming with the boon of pride to ensure he
is able to amount to another morning rise.
Which is me.

Since when have I become so masturbatory.
They say youth is self-absorbed and centered.
So full of themselves they think of fireworks and glory.
But what of youth misspent, snuffed whence
They were in the first chapters of their story.
The forgotten rue. The golden rule.
Somewhat few, follow that truth.
Which is me.

Which is me, the me I knew, or what others, to me, show.
If my personality is borderline, and that is disorderly.
How is my fin not to be written as a tragedy?
Will they paint my funeral with superfluous filigree.
Recite a remembered, and cold opened eulogy.
For a man they did not know.
For a me I did not know.
Which is me?
The me I knew?
Or what others, to me,
did hew?

"Debase me!" I say
Burn me alive, for I did not live.
I stole from you, my cherished youth.
I am only an author, let me rejoice in my depression.
My writings are not narcissistic, hardly a confession-
I am a writer that writes what he knows.
My Socratic allegiance agrees that God is wise
And men, surprise, know nothing.
And if men know nothing.
If men know nothing.
If Man knows nothing.
Why are we so full of discovery?

Man may not find themselves but in a quandary.
Mine is this, and it haunts me unjustly.
Which is me?
There's the positive, the plural.
The public, the private.
The reticent and internal,
Jonathan.
But I am awash in my self without knowing myself,
Engulfed in my blood, my bacteria,
lacking opsonin.
I strike at my heart, my mind, and my tendon.
Uncertain of where I end or where I begin.
I am the stalking horse and predator
An author with no editor
Which is why my poetry is so sloppy.
If writers write what they know,
and youth is all for show,
where do those like me stand?
Are we plagiarists that copy?
Chameleons sipping coffee
Bloviating about the bouquet,
Abusing sophistry?
Do I mean to deceive, is it impulse,
is it instinct.
I must ask,
Which is me?

I am only an author of a voice.
Perhaps I am a mute.
So cut my chords, snip them clean.
Let me live a life serene, as I work and doddle
away with my pen mightier than sword.
Which is me? Who am I?
No Greek poets or philosophers
can define.
The one question begged to be answered.
I am me, who I am. Son of God.
King Solomon.
My sin is idolatry. The commonality of my age,
stuck in neutral of self-display.
The world fell into dismay,
split in two,
The Judgment of Solomon.
Will show which is true.
But even in this *******
Of rhyming, scheme, and infatuation
I've still yet answered the question on my heart
Which lettered the head of my distracting start
Who am I?
Which is me?
Narcissus drowned staring at he.
And left the Nymph alone, all alone
Lest I be as pretty, as the rippled reflection
in the Spring dew.
Let me hem, let me haw
Let me hew,
say what I saw,
and I stared at my reflection
staring at you.
Which is me?
Which is us?
This poem has turned
into an omnibus
for a worried mind
to letter and scatter
everything the matter
from a mind stuck
or struck
with ardent aim.
Which is me?
I sound with glee, an answer unto thee
I am an author with a voice.
autobiographical
Dorothy A Dec 2012
When she was a little girl, she said she wanted to be an author. She didn't want to be a ballerina or cow girl. Maybe an actress would do, for she had quite a flair for the dramatic.

But to the world, she was so shy, cripplingly shy, and she had very low, self-esteem. She didn't dare to dream too much, for she couldn't imagine really doing anything that could draw attention to herself. She often just wanted to hide, and her imagination accompanied her in her world.

She remembered her grade school teacher reading to her class about Abraham Lincoln. She came home that day, and somehow she wrote it just as well as she could remembrer it, with her own pictures, too. Her mother was so impressed that she bragged to everyone that her daughter wrote it all on her own, out of her own head. It must have looked that convincing to her mother.

But as she grew older, the girl didn't ever give herself permission to write something, even when it was required in school to write a poem. It was daring. She could be made fun of.

How could someone like you do that?

She wasn't unintelligent. She had a good command of the English language. She even went to college and earned a degree, the only one out of three children. But she had her heart set on psychology.

When she moved away from home in her twenties, she suddenly flourished. She took community education classes in painting, and had no idea she really could pull of what she did. Painting felt so free, like such an accomplishment. It felt good to create, to work with her hands.

And then she was on a roll. She began to write, and you just couldn't stop her. Most of her writing was pretty good, and some of her work was not to her liking. Years later she would read them again, and she could see that some so-so ones could be salvaged, or the better ones could even be better yet by fixing some of them up. She once thought she had reached her peak, but when the roller coaster of life brought her new thoughts, she was on another roll.

She wanted to be a published author, but she learned that it really wasn't about being well-known. She tried to publish some poems, but she learned that no matter what she did, she was still an author. Whether she was doing it for living, or for the love of writing, she was still a writer. She was what that little girl wanted to be, but who was terrified it could happen more than she was terrified that it wouldn't come true.

Her ultimate dream was to write a novel. Her uncle, very close in age, was angry at her for writing what he thought was a fantastic draft of a novel. She tore it up, for it was way over her head. And did this all without the help of a computer, scribbling away in notebooks. and haphazard means, that she could even barely read. Her penmanship was never very good.

Imagination has always been a good guide, fueling her with scenerios in her head about people that she had invented, that she had created, with bits and peaces of real life experiences and observations. But translating her thoughts to paper were often a challenge, not always easy to portray as she had thought of them. She surely had a gift, and she didn't think she really deserved it. She took one writing class, and she seemed to do well. But she didn't pursue it much further than a single class, and a few poetry readings.

Someone she knew from her church had got on her case for not writing every day.

You have a gift, and you aren't using it. God gave you that gift".    

"Well, let Him take it away", she retorted to the accusation.

But it would not be taken away. Writing was a catharsis, when life got too heavy. It was an escape, a place she could design her own world--at least on paper.  It was a way to feel freedom and expression that did not come so easily in life. It brought her such satisfaction when done to her approval, when good feedback came.

No, she would not write everyday. She was not a machine, but she knew she would never want writing to be taken away or denied her. That, scared, little girl that once declared that she wanted to be an author never really went away, for her desires were not fickle, not a passing fancy.  

So even if she did not have anything published, sitting on a store bookshelf. thanks to the internet, she has been able to share her thoughts, her fears, her hopes, her dreams, her disappointments--her words on display.

She knows she is in good company.

— The End —