A Poet, A Writer: Help Him Get Back To The Words
I have this friend. Her name is Barbara Huffert. We've known each other for going on seven years or so now, I suppose. We've never met in person, but we're both writers, and thanks to the Internet, I suppose that's not surprising. People meet on blogs, websites and chats. We happened to meet because we'd both written for Ellora's Cave, and had the luck to having the same editor.Nearly seven years later, she's still my rock.Some days I'm up, some days I'm down, but no matter which it is, Barb's always there for me, and I aspire to do the same for her. She encourages me in both both regular life as well as being most supportive of my continuing effort to write and publish.She's an advocate of my work, and reminds me everyday that as a person, as a woman, as a writer, I have value, especially on the days when all of that is so easily forgotten.Barb is the best friend a person could have, because she provides not only friendship, but never wavers in her support.She's constant.She's sturdy.She strong.She's there on the good days and bad, without having to be asked.That's what the post is about today.Barb's dear friend, Lance Cheuvront is currently the benefactor of that assistance, and I for one am glad to pass the word along.Lance has had a rough year and is currently offline due to a fatal issue with his computer.Again, in today's world of publishing, epublishing, ebooks and Ezines, being without the Internet is a problem, but not having a computer, well that can be almost fatal to your career, especially if you're just trying to get one started.Let's be honest here, it makes the submissions process a nearly impossible one.These days, most if not all companies only accept email submissions, with exception to those dinosaurs out there. Yes, there still are a few of those, but finding them is becoming more and more of a task.So, I posted one of Lance's most recent poems. I just snagged it right off his FB wall.There's been so many amazing poems I could literally spend days searching for his best work, but if you ask me, all you have to do is read one, they all qualify! Take a minute, if you wish. Go to his FB page and read back.You'll see. Barb believes in his words and it only takes reading them to understand why. So donate to the cause if you can? If you do or can't do so at this time, please just pass the word along.Help this poet and writer of fabulous tales find his way back to the words. Like I said, we all have good days. We all have bad ones. Today it's just Lance's turn for a crap sandwich. Maybe tomorrow will be better. Maybe we'll all help him find his way back to the words.Thank you,Taylor
Before the WarAugust 15, 2013 at 6:32pm
Do not dismiss my restless tongue,the wings of it delicate, like moths,filled with poetry, lyric, sadness, joyand brutal honesty, hidden in image,secretive rhyme, gossamer metaphor,even blatant black and white, buthidden in the folds of a character’s cloak.~Here at sunset, I walk the battlefield,as if I were Satan, celebratory or Gabrielgrieving at the grotesquery of the slaughter,no bodies lie here, but joys, dreams, tinychildren in the form of hope, scorched gardens,empty of fruit, left behind by passing armies,named after Regrets, titled by What if’s,“what if I had only…”~Quick, instantly like lightning we forgive,our transgressors, unless they wear our skins,our pain perceived like cancer, tumors formedfrom these moments of time when we did nothing,or something that follows us like a stray,demanding a home to grow, devour, destroy,devastate our very fabric, nothing left to keep us warm.~We have forgotten that we are angels,ennobled by birth to carry nothing more than life,such a tiny thing, such a thing of enormity, how we see it, our perception is how we live,tiny, wounded, harried, fearful or gigantic,casting shadows of great words, stirring echoeswith our grace, our love, our mistakes giving character.~Bend to your belly, fall in supplication and drink,from the wild fountain of our bleeding world,taste the lips of those who pass you, feed on sunlightas it warms your skin, reclaim the night from sadnesswith the broad bright moon as your silver shield,take up weapons to reclaim or defend your joy,for make no mistake my child, it is endangered.~Pick flowers from among the corpses of your regret,let it rot, let it fade, let it scar, until it sinks belowinto the ever dark loam of yesterday, then last year,let it go, as it never meant to hurt you, and wewho love you beyond the words of our poemssuffer too to see you in chains, remember your wings,let’s chase our shadows across the green hillsides,like we did before the war.Lance Cheuvront Give To The Cause
Before the WarAugust 15, 2013 at 6:32pm
Do not dismiss my restless tongue,the wings of it delicate, like moths,filled with poetry, lyric, sadness, joyand brutal honesty, hidden in image,secretive rhyme, gossamer metaphor,even blatant black and white, buthidden in the folds of a character’s cloak.~Here at sunset, I walk the battlefield,as if I were Satan, celebratory or Gabrielgrieving at the grotesquery of the slaughter,no bodies lie here, but joys, dreams, tinychildren in the form of hope, scorched gardens,empty of fruit, left behind by passing armies,named after Regrets, titled by What if’s,“what if I had only…”~Quick, instantly like lightning we forgive,our transgressors, unless they wear our skins,our pain perceived like cancer, tumors formedfrom these moments of time when we did nothing,or something that follows us like a stray,demanding a home to grow, devour, destroy,devastate our very fabric, nothing left to keep us warm.~We have forgotten that we are angels,ennobled by birth to carry nothing more than life,such a tiny thing, such a thing of enormity, how we see it, our perception is how we live,tiny, wounded, harried, fearful or gigantic,casting shadows of great words, stirring echoeswith our grace, our love, our mistakes giving character.~Bend to your belly, fall in supplication and drink,from the wild fountain of our bleeding world,taste the lips of those who pass you, feed on sunlightas it warms your skin, reclaim the night from sadnesswith the broad bright moon as your silver shield,take up weapons to reclaim or defend your joy,for make no mistake my child, it is endangered.~Pick flowers from among the corpses of your regret,let it rot, let it fade, let it scar, until it sinks belowinto the ever dark loam of yesterday, then last year,let it go, as it never meant to hurt you, and wewho love you beyond the words of our poemssuffer too to see you in chains, remember your wings,let’s chase our shadows across the green hillsides,like we did before the war.Lance Cheuvront Give To The Cause
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