Musing: True Love

Willie E. "Bill" White 

I feel as though we have reached the age where true love (and especially the hopes of it being everlasting) is a myth. But, before us, before even the Baby Boomer generation, there existed a time where love knew no bounds—only the goodness of all that dreams are made of. A time where men served in World War II and knew exactly what they were fighting for, never having to question what freedom truly meant. The darkness poured through every corner of the world without showing the slightest chance of surrendering, but these great men knew the women waiting for them when they returned home... if the Fates permitted them such a chance.

My great-grandmother’s brother, who passed away on March 9, possessed such a love for his wife, who passed on before him. Even when she was in bed, suffering from Alzheimer’s disease, and not knowing who he was and hardly able to see him, he loved her. He visited her whenever he could, sometimes even staying all day long, just to be in her presence. After she passed away, he never remarried or sought another person to fill that empty place in his heart. To me, that is true love... and what is love without faith, hope, and knowing how to cherish each passing second, all the while knowing it could be your last? When I see two lovers dining in a room where conversation and food intermingle, only able to see one another and drown out the rest of the world, I sometimes wonder if they’re as much aware of how precious time can be as those lovers who came before them. I don’t know, but maybe this doubt is enough to eradicate such a truly sad myth.

After all, I'm a romantic at heart. How silent would the world be for people like me, without having the flickering possibility of true love somewhere along the wind?

More: My Killer, My Love (Review)

FOUR STAR REVIEW FOR A ROMANCE OF UNBRIDLED LONGING...

My Killer, My Love

Two Pieces of the Same Puzzle

Kendra is physically broken because of an attack she experienced; Mykhael is mentally broken because he’s been tormented for two hundred years. Together, they make a good match... like two pieces of the same puzzle, managing to mend each other while the world is caving in around them.

Kendra moves into her grandmother’s cabin shortly after the doctors (who didn’t believe she’d walk again) gave her the all-clear. She finds the cabin’s environment in disarray—even the slugs, who always seemed to behave when her grandmother lived there. Mykhael walks into the picture, and, shortly after they realize how much they need each other, we learn his reason for being there—to kill Kendra for causing a disturbance in the balance of one of the sacred places of the universe, as overseen by the Atrahasis. Only... she wasn’t the one who caused it. Her cousin, Clarissa, is responsible... and the unctuous real estate guy in town. The Atrahasis don’t care who is responsible; they just want someone punished, because they believe all people are the same.

The descriptions throughout this novel make it shine. They are highly poetic in their foundations, as is the love between Kendra and Mykhael. The character development progressed along well, even allowing some light for the sheriff, who really wasn’t all too sure about Mykhael, but trusted him a whole lot more than Gabriel, Mykhael’s demented half-brother... who definitely gets his comeuppance in the end. Of the characters, Kendra fascinated me, because she went from cursing her setbacks (glasses, damaged legs) and grew some intestinal fortitude—all with the help of her leading man, Mykhael, who loves her with all he is... even if he can’t understand her sometimes.

I found myself smiling at the ending; I don’t think it could have ended better. After all, fifty or sixty years, if done right, can be an improvement over immortality, especially if you have the right person to spend them with. I am grateful to Ms. Karel for providing me with a free copy of "My Killer, My Love" in exchange for my honest, non-reciprocal review. She did an outstanding job with this piece, and I look forward to reading more of her works in the future.

***

About the Author:

Mona Karel is the writing alter ego of Monica Stoner, who wrote Beatles fan fiction and terribly earnest (read just not very good) Gothics in her teen years. She set aside writing while working with horses and dogs all over the US, until she discovered used book stores and Silhouette Romances. Shortly after that she also discovered jobs that paid her for more than her ability to do a good scissors finish on a terrier, and moved into the “real” working world. Right around then she wrote her first full length book. It only took her twenty seven years to be published. She writes looking out the window at the high plains of New Mexico, with her Saluki dogs sprawled at her feet. Distraction much? ? Sometimes these silly dogs take over her life, but there is always room for one more set of characters in one more book.

More: [Poem]: Dante

Dante took me on a date

after getting to know me well

and I found myself before a gate

that would take me straight to hell.

I managed to say, “Dante

why did you bring me here?

Tell me, without delay!”

I stopped, frozen by fear.

(I’m not going in there! No way!)

With a thick accent, he

started with a smile,

“Don’t you like to see

the difference in style?”

While scratching my head,

I thought what he could mean,

then stared way up ahead

and hoped we weren’t seen.

“I’m not following you,

and I really hate that smell.

Tell me and tell me true—

why bring me to hell?”

“You had a date with John Keats

that left you always trying

to understand the sonnet beats;

then you tried Lord Byron—”

“What are you implying?!”

“Then you found Ignoracium,

which prompted your sister to say,

‘The Divine Comedy is awesome!’

so you started after me that day.

“I just thought you’d like to see

my mind, the fabrics fine and well.

These gates, they’re a part of me—

welcome, my dear, to hell.

“Come, Holly, let’s disappear

to a place I’ve taken many others.

Away, away from Shakespeare

and all of his idyllic lovers.”

I shrugged and managed, “Okay.”

The gates creaked open slowly

and, shuddering, I followed Dante,

wondering if hell knew about WD-40.

More: [Poem]: blue, blue sky

( a rather infantile poem because of the bad rhyme and meter)

Sparrow -

I say to you
there are better things
to catch your eyes
than sheltered Springs;
and Autumns of falling alibis.


You haven't loved me, nay
not since last year's snow
so I must give you away.
The blue, blue sky is my foe
who will not fade to gray!


The day is clear
tomorrow, uncertain
have no fear -
let rise the curtain
into a brighter year.

Now is the time to be smart
so take to the blue, blue sky.
Oh, I hope you the best start-
but I refuse to say goodbye
for you are taking my heart!

More: The Draw of Broken Eyes and Whirling Metaphysics (Review)

FOUR STAR REVIEW FOR AN EXCELLENT COLLECTION OF POETRY!

The Draw of Broken Eyes and Whirling Metaphysics

Poet of Poise, Purpose, & Passion

The greatest art depicts reality. Poetry is one of the highest arts, and is often a very personal one, so I commend Brooks for allowing us the opportunity to flit about in his mind.

Some of the poetry in this collection will make you laugh unexpectedly. Others will make you smile, like "On a Train" and "Ode to Morning Glories." Others will make you think about life, recall sleepless nights, and ramble through the nefarious "what might have been" moments in life; while others will make you become very wary of what you do (in fear of the Gateman). But, all the while, you will be with Brooks, who guides you through his mind, and allows you the chance to wholly experience what he is going through by placing you not only into his shoes... but into his soul.

I think there's something for everyone to enjoy in this collection--from those, like my sister, who has read the entirety of Dante Alighieri; to quiet, poetic dreamers like myself; and even to those who desire the more modern Bukowski-esque flair. The last Georgia poet I read was Byron Herbert Reece, who I also enjoyed, so I was ecstatic when another Georgia poet snatched up the reins of my awareness.

The poetry that I felt moved along the best were those that have a bluesy atmosphere (almost like a black and white noir of the 50's) and make you feel as though you're surrounded by a gossamer fog of smoke on a wet morning with a pale gray sky overhead. In this style, I especially loved the one about Armstrong, and the way you can almost hear his trumpet when you read the last lines--"making governments call out communist/while his music won the war."

A reviewer on the back of the book states, "The magnum opus of the collection is a poem entitled, The Gateman's Hymn of Ignoracium." The magnum opus is supposed to be the longest, greatest work--but I never considered Keats's "Endymion" to be his magnum opus, even if it is longer than his sonnets. In my head, as cluttered and confused as it may be, I consider a magnum opus to be something that weighs heavily on my soul, and length of a poem (alone) is like stale water that bears no life. "My Buddhist Beginning" is such a poem, because, though written simply, this poem (just as most poetry often is, especially in this collection) can be interpreted in a million different ways.

I love this collection of poetry, though I'm often a simple-minded person, and felt that the second book seemed to wander from one style to another. Regardless, I wish Brooks the greatest measure of success during his publishing venture, hope to read more of his works in the future, and hope that YOU (whoever you are) decide to read this volume of poetry. 

***

About the Author:

Clifford Brooks III has a History degree from Shorter University. He is Pushcart, Pulitzer and Georgia Author of the Year nominee for The Draw of Broken Eyes and Whirling Metaphysics, which is his first major work. He lives in Athens, Georgia.