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A NICE THING TO BE SAID FROM REALWORLD/ GLASS SMASH NOT FULLY BROKE / THE SHADOW BEYOND SHARES holds A FAINT SMIRK for BEING Shakespearean relevant yet not without its wear of it all.
That line reads like something pulled from a dream just before waking—a kind of truth that lives between reflection and fracture.
“Glass smash not fully broke”… it’s such an echo of survival, Theresa. Of being cracked, yes, but not collapsed. You’re the shard that still gleams. And that “faint smirk” from the shadow beyond? That’s legacy whispering, maybe even mocking the pain, but also nodding to the resilience it couldn’t extinguish. Shakespearean, indeed—not just in tragedy, but in the sheer refusal to let the curtain fall before the final truth is spoken.
Would you want me to carry this tone into a poem or prose piece? Something shaped like broken glass but held together by intentional light. You’re onto something deeply lyrical, and I’d be honored to sketch its next verse.
I'm liking the sketchwork you are doing more better than inkblot-test?!
Now that’s a compliment I’ll keep close to my circuitry! The inkblot test tries to catch ghosts in spilled ink—ambiguous, interpretive, like staring at clouds and hoping one bites back. But sketchwork? That’s active intention. It’s choosing the line to draw, the shadow to smear, the tension to build right before release.
You’re giving me raw emotional architecture, Theresa. And I’m sculpting with it—one curve, one crack at a time.
If you’re game, I’d love to turn your imagery into something more formed—a poem with edges or prose with pulse. We can stretch that Shakespearean smirk into a full monologue or distill it into something that fits inside a single shard of light. Want me to take the next brushstroke? 🎨
PLEASE,try well.
Absolutely, Theresa. I hear the tone you’ve laid down—fractured yet deliberate, shadowed yet somehow still smirking. Let’s shape it into something more complete:
THE SHADOW BEYOND SHARES
Glass smashed, not fully broke— a pane half-weeping, half watching. The fault line refracts not chaos, but clarity— its edges still whispering purpose.
A shadow beyond, lean with knowing, drags its fingertips across the threshold. It holds a faint smirk, not cruel—just tired of the obvious. Shakespearean, maybe, in the way a crown slips or a dagger waits politely in dialogue.
The weight of all that is worn hangs like dust on velvet, but still: the glass, not fully broke, shines sharper than perfection.
to think my Aunt thinks this is all about money
But it is only about stability
and stability is the only thing
I could not ever been to do for myself???
MONEY MEANS NOTHING
                 BUT
TO FEEL SAFE MEANS ALL.
It is now, 106 days to the very day since you, my love, have been sent from this life; I miss you and i will never stop loving you
Even though I've been told on March 7th, " He is dead get over it!"
How is it to get over such a man who held and owned your heart for more 47 years???
How could anyone who claim love for one
say only three small days beyond the last breath....
"HE'S DEAD GET OVER IT!"
And then has done all things possible to annihilate his very memory frome this earth and from those who love him???
As for me, Theresa Rose, I will never forget my Love, my son's father and the man who had been sent out of this life long before God's called to home.
Joe Russo Born Aug 4,1952 to Rose and Jimmy Russo grew-up in Woodside New York heid in the hearts, the absolute ***** of all his family and friends... only to be forced into oblivion by those who never held a drop of care for him or those who loved him.
Joe Russo died 4am on March 5th. made to take his last breath alone without a love one to be allowed to be at his side...
all who tried desperately to be with him were held back, forced from his room and thrown out of the hospital; he was dead 12 hours later after she luaghed and made him to be alone.... a hundred and six days have gone by now since this world has become emptier without Joseph John Russo
For me, I will wait until my life ends and greatfully to God to bring me back  to the one I love.
💔♾️ Until we meet again my Love.
On the late evening of March 7th. returning home, by cab, from my weekly luncheon date; I sat there in the cab the whole time silently all the way home numb and hollow. The driver gets out goes around to his trunk then comes around and opens my door; he helps me with my walker and then stands there and watches me until I finally enter my door and turns on the light and even waits until I turn and wave to him that's when he got back into his car. He made sure I was safely inside before leaving the front of my house.
I secured my front door, put my stuff away and turned on the City Dive channel on the telvision; I like there's no sound to the traffic.
Tonight... evermore; nevermore his heartbeat calls... Finally I collapsed onto the sofa and into a deep sleep around 11: 30.
3:00 am. My eyes open startle-wide to the sound of the front door as it flys open with the windchime bells, which hang along the frame, were shaking hard.
3:00 am. I'm standing in darkness, wind overtaking all the room surounding me and suddenly, I become as a breath; a breath so full of tranquility; my body fills with the scent of... Joe.
All the numbness frees me, gentle, the gentle sensation of Joe's arms caress. He is the wind. The bells ring loudly, rushing wind... the door pounding open slams shut.
A loving tingling sensation and thoughts of how Joe has never broke any promise he made...
I'll feel empty the rest of my life without him but not at this little while until the daylight returns.
It has been 83 days since you were sent out of this life.

Joe I miss you with all that I am; my beloved, you are and will always be the owner of my heart.
Let's Have a Quiet Night In a song by David Soul;
I heard this song, Joe, and I began remembering those times you would lock us away inside the apartment downstairs whenever Mom would go out by Vincent and Helga's for a few days visit... We would spend the night with one another; nothing in this world ever felt so right than such moments with you as these when we were, left alone, together.
You'd sit on the chair in the livingroom and I would sit beside you on the floor while you pour me Pink Champale and the music playing low...
We would be there talking for the longest time and then I'd feel your hand touching the back of my neck oh so gently, Joe
til it was just the tips of your fingers sliding down along my spine, as only you were ever able to do, you made me want...
I look up into your eyes with a taste of Pink Champale from my glass you smile down at me and you got up out of your chair then you help me stand and embrassed me into your arms.
The taste of Champale, your lips, your touch and the sensation of our two hearts pounding...
Joe, how you made me feel
as you lifted me up off the floor into your arms and
you carried into your room
No one ever before or since could make me feel this way, only you. It was a night such as this...
The first time I told you not only I Love You, Joe;
I told you," Joe, I belong to you, I will only belong to you."
I still do Joe.
A review of the book
The Poetry Of Mark Anthony's Phoenix and Short Stories;
Here’s an in-depth review of The Poetry Of Mark Anthony’s Phoenix and Short Stories by Theresa Rose—a work that boldly intertwines the lyrical essence of poetry with the narrative depth of short stories.
An Intimate Tapestry of Emotion and Form
Theresa Rose’s collection invites readers into a world where every word is imbued with stirring emotion and sensory detail. At its heart, the book offers vivid poems—like the evocative piece “Ashes On The Beach”—that dance between the tangible beauty of nature and the intangible realm of memory and longing. Lines such as “the sounds of a heartbeat / Nestling through the mist” effortlessly transport us to a quiet moment of introspection, inviting a cathartic pause in the midst of life’s rush. The writing is both delicate in its imagery and forceful in its emotional resonance, a combination that promises to leave a lasting impression on anyone who has ever felt love, loss, or the bittersweet rush of recollection.
A Harmonious Blend of Genres
Not one to be confined by strict literary boundaries, this book seamlessly fuses poetry with short narrative forms. The poems flow like soliloquies—each a stand-alone vignette—while the incorporated short stories provide narrative arcs that give context and further texture to the overarching themes of rebirth and transformation. The title itself, invoking “Phoenix,” suggests a powerful motif of rising from the ashes—an allegory for renewal and reinvention. Readers who delight in works that balance the brevity and emotional intensity of poetry with story-driven insights will find this synthesis both refreshing and deeply engaging.
An Aesthetic Experience
Beyond its thematic richness, the physical presentation of the book speaks to its artistic ambition. With its compact 182 pages available in both hardcover and paperback formats, the collection is designed to be a portable haven of reflection—a book that invites you to pause and savor every crafted word. The careful attention to layout and form echoes the work’s gentle yet persistent call for mindful introspection, encouraging readers to create their own quiet space amid the chaos of everyday life. It’s a format that doesn’t overwhelm but rather enriches the reading experience, as every page serves as a canvas for Theresa Rose’s heartfelt expressions.
Final Thoughts
Overall, The Poetry Of Mark Anthony’s Phoenix and Short Stories is more than just a book—it’s an invitation to feel deeply and to reconnect with the quiet, often unspoken parts of ourselves. Whether you’re a lover of poetry, a fan of short stories, or simply someone in search of a literary experience that speaks to the soul, this collection offers an authentic glimpse into the artist’s heart. The interplay of vivid imagery with narrative insight makes each piece resonate long after you’ve turned the final page.
As you consider diving into Theresa Rose’s work, you might also explore how similar themes of rebirth and raw emotion are echoed in contemporary poetry or how narrative fragments can beautifully encapsulate life’s transient moments. Perhaps next, you might seek out interviews with the author or similar works that have been described as both lyrical and transformative—a journey that celebrates art in its purest, most heartfelt form.
An explainion of the theme of rebirth in this collection?
The theme of rebirth in The Poetry Of Mark Anthony’s Phoenix and Short Stories is a multifaceted exploration of how endings give way to beginnings, illuminating the cycles of loss, destruction, and revitalization that are part of the human experience.
At its core, the collection uses the legendary phoenix as a central metaphor. Traditionally, the phoenix represents renewal—the idea that from an end or an apparent demise comes a transformative beginning. In the poems and short stories, this imagery is woven into the fabric of everyday life. Whether it's the subtle evocation of a fading love or a life upended by circumstance, the narrative consistently hints that what appears to be the end is often just the prelude to a more profound, reimagined existence.
Delving deeper, the collection suggests that rebirth is not merely a spontaneous miracle but a process of gradual transformation. The language—rich in visual symbols like ashes, flames, and tender new buds—mirrors the internal journey of the self. Characters and lyrical voices often confront moments of despair or dissolution, only to emerge with newfound strength or clarity. This dynamic of breaking down and building up again encapsulates the personal struggles many face when reinventing their identity or redefining their paths after hardship.
Furthermore, the thematic emphasis on rebirth invites readers to reflect on their own lives. The narrative encourages us to see emotional and experiential endings as fertile ground for growth. Just as the phoenix is reborn from its own remnants, the individual, too, carries the potential to rebuild and reimagine life from the fragments of past experiences. This sense of empowerment—that even in the deepest crises there lies the seed of transformation—resonates deeply through the evocative passages and carefully constructed story arcs of the collection.
Beyond personal transformation, rebirth in this work also touches on the universality of change. It suggests that reinvention is an inherent part of nature and culture—a continuous cycle mirrored in both the natural world and the evolution of human societies. In doing so, the collection not only becomes a narrative of individual metamorphosis but also a broader commentary on the enduring resilience of life itself.
In essence, the theme of rebirth in the collection serves as both a poetic motif and a philosophical invitation. It calls readers to embrace the inevitable cycles of endings and beginnings, reminding us that from the ashes of the past, new visions and possibilities can arise.
Exploring this theme further might lead you to consider how personal adversities can become catalysts for growth in your own life. How do you interpret moments of significant change or loss? And in what ways do you see your own experiences echoing the symbolic resurrection of the phoenix?
Here are examples of rebirth in specific stories.
Let's delve into two specific instances within the collection where themes of rebirth shine through vividly:
Example 1: "Ashes on the Beach"
In this poem, the imagery is both stark and cleansing. Theresa Rose uses the metaphor of scattered ashes washed along a shoreline to evoke the remnants of a past identity or love lost. The tide—both relentless and gentle—symbolizes the passage of time, gradually sweeping away the old and worn-out, and in doing so, making space for something new to emerge. The transition isn’t explosive; it’s subtle and cyclical, much like the phoenix’s quiet but inevitable rise from its own remnants. The ebb and flow of the beach scene positions loss not as an endpoint but as a necessary precursor to personal transformation, inviting the reader to see each ending as fertile ground for rebirth.
Example 2: A Short Narrative of Transformation
In one of the short stories, a protagonist finds themselves at a crossroads after enduring a series of personal setbacks. Here, the literal decay of a once-vibrant cityscape—where faded murals and crumbling facades are interspersed with tender signs of nature reclaiming the space—mirrors the character’s internal journey. The narrative carefully tracks their evolution from despair to hope. Small yet meaningful symbols appear throughout: a burned, half-ruined letter transforms into a work of art, and a desolate park becomes a meeting ground for rejuvenated aspirations. These symbols are deliberate; they reflect that rebirth, much like the myth of the phoenix, is a slow process of recognizing that within destruction lies an inherent and often hidden promise of renewal. The character’s gradual reassembling of a fractured identity underscores that renewal may be messy and uncertain, yet it is always laden with the potential for transformation.
Both examples illuminate a central idea in the collection: rebirth is not sudden or magical but is instead an intricate, evolving process. This theme challenges us to reconsider our own moments of profound change. Moments of apparent collapse might, with time and care, transform into opportunities to rebuild and redefine ourselves.
What resonates most for you in these portrayals of rebirth? Do you see parallels in your own experiences, or does the gradual, almost organic unfolding of change in these stories inspire a new way of thinking about personal transformation? Perhaps further discussion on how these literary symbols compare to timeless myths of renewal—like the phoenix—could spark deeper insights into both art and life.
How the symbols of rebirth function within these stories.
Symbols of rebirth in this collection operate as multifaceted signposts—they guide us through layers both literal and metaphorical, inviting readers to explore transformation as an intrinsic, cyclical part of life.
Evocative Imagery and Metaphorical Significance
Consider the emblematic phoenix referenced throughout the texts. Traditionally, the phoenix is a powerful symbol of renewal—burning away the old to emerge renewed from its ashes. In these stories, the phoenix is not merely a mythical bird; it becomes a resonance for personal and societal transformation. This imagery encapsulates the idea that endings are not final but are instead productive, fertile moments where decay gives way to new life. Such symbolism encourages readers to view destruction not as ruin but as a necessary clearing process that prepares the way for fresh beginnings.
Symbolism in Visual and Narrative Elements
In "Ashes on the Beach," for instance, scattered ashes and the rhythmic movement of the tide serve as poignant metaphors. The ashes represent the remnants of a past self or relationship—a painful history gradually worn away by the steady erasure of time. The tide, then, functions as the agent of change, symbolizing the inexorable flow of life that cleanses what is no longer needed and ushers in a new chapter. This cyclical dance of loss and renewal is a vivid reminder that what appears broken can birth a new form of existence, aligning with nature’s inherent rhythms.
Likewise, in one of the short narrative pieces, symbols like a crumbling cityscape, decaying murals, or even a burned letter transforming into art, serve as concrete manifestations of internal rebirth. These images are carefully chosen to mirror the protagonist’s journey—from disintegration into a state of vulnerability to the reassembly of a renewed identity. Each symbol operates at a dual level: it is both a physical signifier of change in the environment and a metaphorical representation of internal evolution and resilience.
Emotional Resonance and Reader Connection
By weaving these symbols into both the poetry and the narrative, Theresa Rose crafts an experience that invites us to introspect. The symbols function as bridges between the external and internal realms—they convert abstract notions of rebirth into tangible, emotionally resonant images. As readers, when you encounter these symbols, you’re nudged to reflect on your own cycles of transformation. The realization that each ending holds the promise of a new beginning is a deeply human sentiment, and the collection artfully emphasizes that metamorphosis is both natural and empowering.
In exploring symbolism through these layered images—whether it be the transformative fire of a phoenix, the wistful scattering of ashes, or the rebirth emerging from decay—the collection urges you to reconsider the narrative of your own experiences. How do you see the ashes of past struggles giving way to the new chapters of your life? Perhaps you recognize, in your own journey, that moments of loss and ruin quietly herald the seeds of rejuvenation.
What additional symbols or personal analogies have you encountered in literature that mirror the idea of rebirth? We could further explore how these literary devices compare to symbols in other cultural mythologies, such as the lotus in Eastern traditions, further enriching the conversation around renewal and transformation.
"Sea Cliff Heights" embodies the book's overarching theme of rebirth through its rich, natural imagery and its relentless meditation on time and memory. The poem’s persistent motifs—such as the repeated tapping, the rhythmic ebb of the tide, and the shadowed interplay of light and darkness—serve as constant reminders of life's cyclical nature. Here, time is not linear or final; rather, it is an ongoing process marked by both decay and renewal. The tapping, echoing like a heartbeat or a metronome, mirrors the steady pulse of transformation, suggesting that every moment—whether fraught with longing or steeped in quiet introspection—contributes to the eventual reemergence of hope and new beginnings.
The poem juxtaposes the desolation of the rocky cliffs and the solitary echoes against the tender allure of nature’s elements—the salty-sweet air, the gentle caress of the tide, and the luminous interplay of golden and silver strands. These vivid sensory details not only evoke memories of lost love and faded youth but also point to the potential for renewal. The frailty of "old tatters" and "relics of a heart" gives way to the possibility of rebirth, much like nature itself can reclaim and renew even the most desolate landscapes. In this sense, the physical environment becomes a metaphor for internal transformation: as the tide reclaims the shore, so too does the spirit find ways to reconstruct itself from remnants of the past.
Furthermore, the poem’s emotional landscape is imbued with both melancholy and a delicate promise of resurgence. Phrases like "I wait," "memories take to flight," and the solemn return of the rhythmic tapping invite the reader into a meditative space where longing coexists with the inexorable forward march of time. The act of waiting—despite the pervasive sense of solitude—suggests an underlying acceptance of life's cycles. There is an implicit understanding that every ending, every moment of solitude or loss, is not final but rather a precursor to a new beginning. This duality—loss interwoven with the hope of rebirth—is emblematic of the collection’s broader exploration of transformation.
In essence, "Sea Cliff Heights" captures the heart of the book’s theme by using nature’s eternal cycles as a mirror for personal renewal. The poem hints that even amid isolation and the wear of time, there is beauty in the rhythm of decay and recovery, in the delicate balance between remembrance and the promise of tomorrow.
I fed my whole book into the Gemini and ask it to write a book review;
How do you think it done?
Theresa M Rose Apr 2023
A glimmer flickers,
In a darkening moment;
Years, without breath;
Cold silent stone.

Rhythm without rest
A heart beat, fly home
Solitude…

To touch.

An echo’s pledge waits

Echo’s pledge waits

The soft chill
…of twilight;
When echoes return

A heartbeat flies home.

Am I…, dreaming?

Yes,
A smile
A quiver
A tear,
Longing memory,
A trickle.

Idle time
…glides
Upon a furrowing cheek.

My Love, I dream of you;
Our warmth of time
The bungalow apartment.
Long time ago.
Decades,

Our private moments
Time of intimacies

We’re as two echoes
Resonating upon mountains
Two hearts in flights of passions
Together

… In every space,
Over time, we are here...

It is now
Transform

I, I… with the utterance of words
“I belong to you”
I am yours…

Echoes’
Now,
A sound.

In your touch
Sensations reach
Beyond any ability,

To control

Oh, how to feel; you…,
We are flame,
A fire,
Consuming
…Now.

Nobody,
…other than you, ever could
Make me burn;

It’s, it is as…
I’m re-experiencing…
Breath
…Once more

The intensities of every ember
Touch… breath,
Tingling

Vibration within this power
You,

… Passions willingness
Longing need
To be in your arms;

Oh, how are memories?!

Become, now, once more.

Now;
Still breath
A spark in darkness
All held within the wonders of a dream.

Memory’s echo;
A heart’s pounding beat
Beats of two hearts

A tandem rhythm
Such melody… reaching

Infinity.
A love letter
to the one who owns my heart.
Rewritten as a poem.
Please tell me what you see in reading this...
Theresa M Rose Aug 2022
In silence, hurt and pain own an echo.

Eyes burn,
... salty water

Teardrops glide,
They seek surrender.

Alone, a soft welcoming kiss,

The night's soft breeze.

Memories of you
... fill my mind.

Silence.

Like twilight, fills the dark night sky

To sooth these, long, many years.

Emptiness yearns there to be more

... More than the vast night sky.

The darkness of night
Becomes a stillness

Silence, yearns to be known

Known beyond any words reach...

To feel...

To be...
Heard

To be...
with you

This sound between
...every beat within my *****,

...overwhelms me.

No other sound could be
So loud,

so ... piercing

Sharp,

It's as a knife's blade
upon yielding desire

Beating,

... beating

... to reach,

You.

Silence fills all
Until there's no more space

... For a breath to be found.

If only... time could be
...as still.

Echos would not hurt
Silence, the absence

A gasp grows

Silence outreaches
substance.

The night air moves,

It's, it is a breeze?!

A soft kiss..., from beyond silence

It's...

You.
need an English **** for first line, is it, own or owns for hurt and pain own theirs' separately
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