Memories: A Holiday Wish

Happy holidays to you all!

Memories Over The Years

About Laurie: The author of the recently released Finding Joy as well as The Pharaoh’s Cry,  Portal Shift, Kidnapped Smile, and Dragon Sky of the fantasy series The Artania Chronicles, and Forests Secrets.  Laurie Woodward  is also a screenwriter who co-authored Dean and JoJoThe Dolphin Legacy. Her poetry has been published in multiple journals and anthologies and she was a collaborator on the popular anti-bullying DVD Resolutions. Bullied as a child, Laurie is now an award-winning peace consultant, poet,  and blogger who helps teach children how to avoid arguments, stop bullying, and maintain healthy friendships. She writes on the Central Coast of California. More about her work can be found at Author Laurie Woodward — Next Chapteria.net

2019 Year in Review

New Year’s Blessings to all of you! May 2020 be all that you dream it will be!

The author of The Pharaoh’s Cry,  Portal Shift, Kidnapped Smile, and Dragon Sky from the fantasy series The Artania Chronicles,  as well as the middle-grade Forest Secrets. Laurie Woodward  co-wrote Dean and JoJoThe Dolphin Legacy. Her poetry has been published in multiple journals and anthologies and she was a collaborator on the popular anti-bullying DVD Resolutions. Bullied as a child, Laurie is now an award-winning peace consultant, poet,  and blogger who helps teach children how to avoid arguments, stop bullying, and maintain healthy friendships. She writes on the Central Coast of California. More about her work can be found at artania.net

Etched Seconds: A Poem

111 days

2,664 hours

159,840 minutes

9,590,400 seconds

Ticking a journey of love-lust.

Shy hello.

Turning quickly into comfort.

Drunk on animal magnetism.

Reveling in skin.

Sharing ideas

In a river of philosophy.

Explore sea

And sand

And sound.

Be at peace.

Backpedal, apologize, reach out.

Until comforting arms

Enclose and envelop.

Or release.

Tic tock lie

Pretend to be someone else.

Don her mask

To smooth the sheets

And keep them cool.

Knowing that each moment lacking truth

Wears at the turning gears.

Until they stop

Leaving only the memory

Of a beautiful face

And 9,590,400 seconds

Etched in the glass.

 

Laurie Woodward is the author of The Pharaoh’s Cry,  Kidnapped Smile, and Dragon Sky from the fantasy series The Artania Chronicles,  as well as the middle-grade Forest Secrets. She co-wrote Dean and JoJoThe Dolphin Legacy and was a collaborator on the popular anti-bullying DVD Resolutions. Bullied as a child, Laurie is now an award-winning peace consultant, poet,  and blogger who helps teach children how to avoid arguments, stop bullying, and maintain healthy friendships. She writes on the Central Coast of California. More about her work can be found at artania.net

 

Blazing Ice Poem

 

With Winter Solstice looming near

And summer a long gone mariner

He finds power in the darkening malcontent

That traps a gaze this autumn

 

Above an umbrage of blazing ice clouds

Lucifer burns in the frozen star

Grinning as he weaves the death shrouds

For men’s hibernal coffins

 

Oh for a voyage ever southward

To a kindred hemisphere

Where azurean waves

Reflect the waxing moon

And ice surrounds no heart.

 

But setting sail is no easy task

In hoary waters

And dimmer skies

Where even the breath

Of mermaids’song

Hangs suspended

Like frozen desires.

 

For smoldering long

In the soul of man

Lingers the cryogenic star

Waiting for a time

When glaciation reigns

And the Arctic Age returns.

 

These celestial collisions

Bear fireballs

To illuminate and warm

A mortal sea

Eroding ice floes

That bar the way

 

For the long journey

Homeward.

Peace Weaver Poem

 

We are the weavers of children

Whether they are wading, treading, or drowning

Each child is reaching out

For lifelines to pull them from their semi-fluid perceptions,

Yet many find flimsy ribbons braided with Achilles tendons

That split, then disconnect buoys

As they struggle in turbulent effluent.

 

Sometimes suspension bridges splinter

And they hang mid-air over purgatorial precipices,

Bodies flailing and thrashing.

 

And so we come,

The weavers,

Bringing strong cordage and twine of seraphic gossamer

To silence their cries and give them hope.

And when we set to work,

The floundering souls reach out for lifelines.

 

For we know the secret.

We have only to pluck the hairs from atop our heads,

Begin intertwining them with gentle words of a peaceful future

And thus create:

Blankets to keep them cool on hot summer days

Or safety nets for acrophobic trapeze artists

 

With loving words we

Spin arks to race arid currents,

Or create buoyant suits that deflect each incoming wave,

But we must remember

To continue weaving at our numinous looms,

And make our fingers deft

To find places where weft meets warp

And make fibers of

Ethereal clouds to moisten parched radices.

 

When our eyes grow weary of patterns too subtle for children to see,

Or when aching backs and cramping forearms make for troublesome twining

Even when our hands become bloodied by sharp sutures from the unknowing

or the insane,

We must endure

We are the weavers,

Intertwining and intersecting,

Spinning fibrous cable that children cling to

That they will wrap round their waists

Before plunging into cavernous incarnations

To discover,

In the depths,

A reflection of the future

A reflection of themselves

A reflection

Of the peace weaver they can become.

Never Giving Up

I love writing. It takes me to places beyond. Centering and providing catharsis.

At the same time, I’m like anyone, and want recognition. Others to say, I see with your eyes and it’s beautiful. So for years I’ve sent out poems, stories, manuscripts, queries, synopsis hoping to land a book deal.

And got more rejections than I can count. Until I started to doubt whether anyone would like my work.

snoopy-writer-on-rejection-cartoon-peanuts1

What did I do? Stop writing? Hell no. Instead I submitted to anthologies and smaller presses. Got a few things published too. Waited. Queried some more. Then I went the indie route with Artania and Forest Secrets.  Even hit Amazon top twenty.

But I wanted more so I kept querying. Until today. It happened. A publisher offered me a contract. They said, “We’ve already reviewed your MS and would be happy to offer you a publishing contract with Creativia. There’s definite market potential with your writing, and the team believes your book has a bright future in the marketplace.”

I love writing!

Grandma’s Arms

 

As I look back

And view

The 1963-RCA-wide-screen-color-t.v.

It flickers on.

Before me lie

Cousins, brothers, sisters

Splayed on low ply carpet

Fidgety chins drilling holes into their fists,

Eyes wide

Elbow to elbow

“Hey! Scoot over! I can’t see! Grandma!?”

Her voice

A scratched phonograph record

I continue to dance to.

“Now, now you kids get along,”

She soothed,

And we did.

I change the channel

Grandma’s toast

Waiting in the warming oven

Golden edged butter rays

Radiating like mini-suns.

I watch them melt and disappear.

“It’s ready!”

I hear my child-voice cheer.

Commercial time

Cousin Davey giving a testimonial

“Round steak and Grandma-Gravy on top of white bread taste better than Sizzler’s any day.”

Back to our program

Bernice kneeling in a stunted strawberry patch

Sturdy hands grasping an unfortunate dandelion.

“This hard pan,” she mutters

As her harrow-hand cuts rows

Into the brick

That was her stretch of land.

I wonder what’s on Channel Three?

Children lie on either sofa

A-bed for the night,

Watching her,

Watching

That RCA-wide-screen-color-t.v.

Johnny Carson’s handsome face

Flirting through the glass,

Her head tossed back in laughter

Course-grey hair bouncing

And catching the dim light.

We interrupt this program to bring you a special news bulletin.

“Yahtzee!” thrice she shrieks.

Aunts, uncles, mothers and fathers chuckle

As  kids mumble, “I wanted to win.”

We now return you to your regularly scheduled program.

Grandma’s arms

Kneading pie dough or pulling fabric

As she bent over the antique Singer sewing machine

Making secret gifts we all knew about.

Were draped velvet

For small hands to brush.

Each one of us

Would pet

The softness of she

As tender whispers called in our minds,

“Those arms are just for me.”