tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67676313549880539962024-03-12T18:08:25.077-07:00Illogical MuseA literary ezine publishing art, poetry, fiction, essays, articles, and reviews.Amber Rothrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816991661245975182noreply@blogger.comBlogger167125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6767631354988053996.post-28143850626129430872012-07-02T15:35:00.000-07:002012-07-02T15:35:10.372-07:00Discontinuing Illogical Muse<span id="yui_3_2_0_17_134126816557369">I will no longer be publishing Illogical Muse. There is just so much going on in my life that I don't have the time for it anymore. I thank everyone who has supported me all these years. To those who have sent me submissions and to those I had already accepted I apologize for not letting you know sooner but I've been hoping to get a new issue out and it's just not working. So I wish you all the best.</span><br />
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<span>Sincerely,</span><br />
<span>Amber</span>Amber Rothrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816991661245975182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6767631354988053996.post-22020427348738724072011-12-12T00:30:00.001-08:002012-01-04T09:57:55.369-08:00Winter 2011To quote Professor Farnsworth, “Good news, everyone!”<br />
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The new issue of Illogical Muse is finally finished. You can now enjoy some fine poetry from newcomers such as Michael Estabrook, Betsy Humphreys, and Jane Stuart as well as returning poets Lyn Lifshin, Carol Hamilton and others.<br />
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More good news! Sometime in 2012 – I’m shooting for early spring – I will be releasing my first self-published chapbook, <em>Queen of Spirituality</em>. I’m trying to keep costs low so the purchase price will be $3 and will only cover printing and postage expenses. I’m taking advance orders now so if you’re interested please let me know.<br />
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I’ve also considered making an annual newsletter for Illogical Muse; a supplement for those who don’t have internet access, and for those that do but enjoy reading printed material. Since this will be only a sampling of what Illogical Muse has to offer I’m estimating it will include an editorial, 2-4 poems, updates to the submission guidelines, and maybe a photo or two. It will be only 5-10 pages in length and cost between $2 and $5 for an issue. Again, the price will only cover printing and postage costs. I’m not looking to make a profit but get the message out there. To give you an idea of what I’m going for I do have a sample issue available for $1 payable by check, money order, or cash. (If paying by check or money order please use my name – Amber Rothrock – not the name of the publication). All payments, whether for the sample issue or the chapbook, should be sent to the address below.<br />
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I appreciate any and all feedback you can give. I don’t know how other editors do things, but it is the thoughts and opinions of my readers that make Illogical Muse what it is. You can reach me by post, by email (<a href="mailto:illogicalmuseonline@yahoo.com">illogicalmuseonline@yahoo.com</a>) or leave a comment here on the website.<br />
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Now, I believe there was something else I wanted to include here but for the life of me I can’t remember what it was. So just enjoy the first, and last, issue of 2011 and have a wonderful holiday!<br />
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Sincerely,<br />
Amber Rothrock<br />
115 Liberty St. Apt. 1<br />
Buchanan, MI 49107<br />
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<span style="font-family: lucida grande; font-size: 180%;"><strong><em><span style="color: red;">H<span style="color: #009900;">A</span>P<span style="color: #009900;">P</span>Y</span> <span style="color: #009900;">H<span style="color: red;">O</span>L<span style="color: red;">I</span>D<span style="color: red;">A</span>Y<span style="color: red;">S</span>! </span></em></strong></span></div>Amber Rothrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816991661245975182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6767631354988053996.post-70246684394522775022011-12-12T00:29:00.000-08:002011-12-12T07:45:42.523-08:00American Life In Poetry Column 178American Life in Poetry: Column 178<br /><br />BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE<br /><br />We mammals are ferociously protective of our young, and we all know not to wander in between a sow bear and her cubs. Here Minnesota poet Gary Dop, without a moment’s hesitation, throws himself into the water to save a frightened child.<br /><br />Father, Child, Water<br /><br /><br />I lift your body to the boat<br />before you drown or choke or slip too far<br /><br /><br />beneath. I didn’t think—just jumped, just did<br />what I did like the physics<br /><br /><br />that flung you in. My hands clutch under<br />year-old arms, between your life<br /><br /><br />jacket and your bobbing frame, pushing you,<br />like a fountain cherub, up and out.<br /><br /><br />I’m fooled by the warmth pulsing from<br />the gash on my thigh, sliced wide and clean<br /><br /><br />by an errant screw on the stern.<br />No pain. My legs kick out blood below.<br /><br /><br />My arms strain<br />against our deaths to hold you up<br /><br /><br />as I lift you, crying, reaching, to the boat.<br /><br /><br />American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation (www.poetryfoundation.org), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright © by Gary Dop. Reprinted from New Letters, Vol. 74, No. 3, Spring 2008, by permission of Gary Dop. Introduction copyright © 2009 by The Poetry Foundation. The introduction's author, Ted Kooser, served as United States Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004-2006. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.Amber Rothrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816991661245975182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6767631354988053996.post-73826357770324881882011-12-12T00:28:00.000-08:002011-12-12T07:46:21.297-08:00Fire<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bIyhPf7pFBI/TtQXlAdm9PI/AAAAAAAAAXk/FyWUsNYanno/s1600/amber-3.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 278px; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5680190954567824626" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bIyhPf7pFBI/TtQXlAdm9PI/AAAAAAAAAXk/FyWUsNYanno/s400/amber-3.jpg" /></a><br /><br />Photo Taken by <a href="http://www.stormsurf.smugmug.com/">Robert L Potts</a>Amber Rothrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816991661245975182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6767631354988053996.post-16065409686257907242011-12-12T00:27:00.000-08:002011-12-12T07:46:50.044-08:00Character As Ever by Carol HamiltonSo tall, so handsome, but with twitches and fits<br />he could never control.<br />Only Catherine could soothe him,<br />his head in her lap, and the startled<br />visitors learned to pretend<br />they did not see.<br />Eagerness was Peter’s hallmark,<br />and curiosity. The plotting relatives<br />insisted the 10-year-old share the throne<br />with his older, sickly half brother, Ivan,<br />son of the first wife and Peter of the second.<br />Poor Peter and Ivan both needed<br />adult supervision (gladly given)<br />to greet visiting officials.<br />Ivan had to be propped up<br />and Peter held back,<br />as he would dash forward<br />to shake hands, chat,<br />all this against protocol<br />until the elder stepbrother<br />could make a first move.<br />Adult puppeteering kept<br />the court functioning thus.<br />Peter loved his brother,<br />never plotted on that doorstep.<br />There was time enough<br />in the years ahead<br />for twitches and fits<br />against more serious rivals.<br /><br />Visit Carol's <a href="www.carolhamilton.org">website</a>Amber Rothrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816991661245975182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6767631354988053996.post-79889315442916685922011-12-12T00:26:00.000-08:002011-12-12T07:47:25.512-08:00A Midnight's Chant Of Chamomile by Jenna KellyHave you ever realized<br />That ev'ry gulp of solitude<br />Resonates like the breaths within <br />And sounds like a delicate<br />Pulse?<br /><br />Pour yourself a piping-hot<br />Cup of lively tea prior<br />To the entrancement of dawn<br />Yet a short time after<br />The dawning of the new dusk.<br /><br />A simple<br />Sip<br />Of such silence<br />Can make you think so deep...<br /><br />Perhaps, as deep as<br />The ultraviolet that pulls you<br />Under;<br /><br />That you can flavor the world<br />With as much heart-warming<br />Honey<br />As possible, but no matter<br />How good it tastes: life<br />Will always--somehow--<br />Find a dark way<br />To run<br /><br />Dry.Amber Rothrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816991661245975182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6767631354988053996.post-9729142197248235502011-12-12T00:25:00.000-08:002011-12-12T07:51:25.975-08:00Ice And Snow by Jerome BrookeIce and snow, lay before them, <br />In rags, a dirty band. <br />In front was the man, the tall one, <br />Wooden spear in hand. <br />Blood was seen, red on white, <br />Where he had gone. <br />Next, came one with hammer, <br />Crude axe of stone. <br />Blood, blood could be seen, <br />Where feet had lain. <br />Hunger, relentless hunger walked, <br />No game to be seen. <br />Last, came one with a metal can, <br />Filled with precious ...gas. <br />Where is the tank, it was here, Yes, here in the pass!Amber Rothrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816991661245975182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6767631354988053996.post-59386129023327618562011-12-12T00:24:00.000-08:002011-12-12T07:51:50.136-08:00Concrete Steps by Danita DyessWhen my spirit is diminished<br />And my feet can't take another step <br />When the world wants to exploit me<br />And the manager wants more than I can pay<br />I have a place to go - I've found a place to stay<br /><br />This school is my safe haven<br />She's my fortress poised high on a hill<br />With a 1,000 lights glaring <br />And a maze of classrooms, hallways, and doors<br />There's a cafeteria, library, and auditorium on multi-level floors<br /><br />By day, she houses a principal, teachers, and administrative staff<br />By day, she is surrounded by kids with freckles and missing teeth<br />But at night, the brick and mortar walls become my castle<br />Her only concern is protecting me<br /><br />On the south entrance, four panels composed the rear roof <br />But, the wind blew and only left three; three panels protected me <br />But, then it rained again and the wind blew <br />Now, there are only two<br /> <br />The north side is my palatial estate - Greek architecture and a courtyard with Corinthian columns<br />Concrete steps lead to my "room" on the second floor<br />Who would dare climb the steps and disturb my sleep?<br />Who would invade my inner sanctum and steal my peace!<br /> <br />In the stealth of darkness, I appear <br />Our's is a clandestine affair; it's a cloak-and-dagger operation <br />Six hours 'til daybreak, just 360 minutes<br />Then I'll slip out the same way I came in<br />I'll become an apparition, a figment of the imagination<br /><br />Close calls and near misses. Yes, I've had a few<br />In the spring, bushy bushes and thick trees hid me<br />But winter came and they shed their leaves <br />In the morning, couples walk their dogs and teachers arrive early<br />At night, maintenance workers work late<br />These are the culprits that jeopardize my fate<br /><br />Familiar sounds comfort me<br />Two raccoons sit atop a trash can and munch on leftover morsels<br />Crickets chirp and a kitten's bell-studded collar sounds<br />The generator spits and hisses, spits and hisses, spits and hisses<br />And a leaf falls from a maple tree<br /><br />My neighbors are the Rothchilds, Sinclairs, and Westons <br />They have manicured lawns and vintage cars<br />Are they so different from me?<br />Our only separation is their fenced back yard<br /><br />Someday, I'll leave this place, <br />Yes, someday, I'll simply fly away<br />My spirit will be restored, and well-heeled shoes will adorn my feet<br /><br />But I'm saddened as I contemplate <br />My exit from this refuge <br />Somewhere I used to go<br />When I needed a place to stayAmber Rothrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816991661245975182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6767631354988053996.post-36912402130502196052011-12-12T00:23:00.001-08:002011-12-12T07:58:41.564-08:00The Summer Before Our Senior Year by Jane Cassady<strong>(A semi-made-up memory for Rachel McKibbens, who needs more good ones.)</strong><br /><br />We needed some extra money for all-ages shows and clove cigarettes, so we took a job at the New York State Fair babysitting Kayla, the two-year-old daughter of the couple who ran the fortune-telling machine in the Center of Progress Building.<br /><br />Like most children of carnies, Kayla was philosophical about fish. Her days always began with the Win a Goldfish game, bouncing ping-pong balls across the miniature fishbowls until she won. Unlike the cruel fairgoers, we didn't walk around all day with the fish (usually named Ariel) in a baggie.<br /><br />This was the gift Kayla's parents gave her, to compensate for her migratory summers: hitched to the family's Winnebago was her aquarium, big as a small U-Haul, with mountain scenery--the Saddleback range in Pixar colors. Kayla would climb her blue sparkly stepladder and let the fish out to join the glimmering hundreds.<br /><br />Then it was time for the skimmer. As she fished out the one or two silver/gold bodies floating at the top, Kayla would look at us rabbinically and say: “Fish die. They Die.” After they were skimmed, thanked, and flushed, we'd move on to the second important ritual: multiple viewings of The Little Mermaid, the songs from which stayed in our heads well into the Nineties.<br /><br />At the end of each shift, we'd carry Kayla back across the midway, sugar, fatigue and carnival lights pinking her cheeks. <br /><br />The fortune telling booth looked 1950s futuristic, all red and green blinking lights and needles bouncing over dials. Customers entered their birthday and some other information and it spit out fortune-cookie-sized slips. Kayla had a nest of afghans and plastic toys under the counter. She slept there for the rest of the Fair's late work night.<br /><br />Over a dinner of local sausage, we'd guess at what Mom and Dad were doing just at that moment: “Mom's out in the front yard, broadcasting seeds.” “Dad's tipping up the cooler so it'll pee out the melted ice.” We rolled our eyes like daughters.<br /><br />Then we'd go meet our carnie boyfriends, who looked like doused glam-metal stars. Yours was Ring Toss and mine was Land the Nickel on the Dot. We'd drink Lebatt Blue and make out with the boys by the rabbit-end of the Poultry Barn. <br /><br />On one such night, you fell in love with a brown lop-eared rabbit kitten. You spent a significant amount of your Kayla- money on it. You named it The Immortal. And it was.<br /><br />Visit Jane's blog: <a href="http://theserotoninfactory.blogspot.com/">The Serotonin Factory</a>Amber Rothrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816991661245975182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6767631354988053996.post-79932880327841780892011-12-12T00:22:00.000-08:002011-12-12T07:52:55.544-08:00Family Of Moose<div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YFnyDFmOlRo/TtkbgopdecI/AAAAAAAAAYI/Zah73YraeU0/s1600/family%2Bof%2Bmoose.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5681602652385671618" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YFnyDFmOlRo/TtkbgopdecI/AAAAAAAAAYI/Zah73YraeU0/s400/family%2Bof%2Bmoose.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NXwQe6-I7ck/TtQYRwMWZeI/AAAAAAAAAXw/b5209gbUaWM/s1600/autumn%2Bmoon.jpg"></a><br /><br />Artwork by <a href="http://amber-rothrock.blogspot.com/">Amber Rothrock</a></div></div>Amber Rothrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816991661245975182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6767631354988053996.post-36361396120245084762011-12-12T00:21:00.000-08:002011-12-12T07:54:53.052-08:00Your Faithful Option by AJ WellsAre there only two options in a choice?<br />Is there not one more that everyone averts,<br />But maybe not by our own decision?<br />Is someone else blinding us from the real idea,<br />The outcome to be?<br /><br />Is it happiness?<br />Or just loneliness in charade? <br />Do we need our best friend to decide for us--<br />Is that not why we have best friends anyways? <br />But then, are we really us?<br /><br />Wouldn’t it just be easier this time?<br />To open your eyes a little brighter,<br />And listen to your thoughts a bit more in depth,<br />And let the beating of your heart enlighten you upon a new path,<br />And then with your heightened senses,<br />Stare upon the third option:<br /> <br />The one you have never seen before,<br />The one that is breathing its cold, real breath in your face,<br />The one that your senses tell you is there,<br />But you have refused to listen in past times.<br />The one that follows you in devotion.<br />The one you have never turned upon.<br />But it is faithful.<br />It is there,<br />Just grasp it.Amber Rothrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816991661245975182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6767631354988053996.post-89879269011822044322011-12-12T00:20:00.000-08:002011-12-12T09:17:38.157-08:00Listening To Geese by Alan BrittA large flock of geese,<br />honks resembling<br />bamboo flutes,<br />swims beneath mercurial clouds.<br /><br />The flock’s outline,<br />one ragged shark’s tooth,<br />cuts a deep wound<br />through January twilight.<br /><br />Minutes later,<br />a single honk<br />follows the general direction<br />of the main flock.<br /><br />Later still, light fades,<br />more honks,<br />in groups of two…<br />six…three.<br /><br />All night long,<br />wild threads of geese<br />slowly unravel<br />the black mamba sky.Amber Rothrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816991661245975182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6767631354988053996.post-54013393727212751392011-12-12T00:19:00.000-08:002011-12-12T07:55:46.188-08:00Goldfish by Rebecca KomathyMy pet in a bowel<br />Swimming in your own toilet<br />I give you one weekAmber Rothrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816991661245975182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6767631354988053996.post-34072630417413315972011-12-12T00:18:00.000-08:002011-12-12T07:56:00.823-08:00O'er The Waves by Raymond HV GallucciI used to jump over,<br />But now I duck under,<br />Because I've grown older<br />Than when I was younger.<br /><br />Back then I was bolder,<br />Much more of a plunger.<br />Now water feels colder<br />And life holds less wonder.<br /><br />Must make some concession<br />To muscles less limber.<br />No leaping obsession<br />With legs stiff as timber.<br /><br />More prone to confession<br />Than lighting with tinder.<br />Life's lasting impression?<br />All flame ends as cinder.Amber Rothrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816991661245975182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6767631354988053996.post-1564748675009130102011-12-12T00:17:00.000-08:002011-12-12T07:56:29.052-08:00Gramma Tells The Young Ones About Spring by Sonja KoslerThe blanket of snow is spread over our winter land. Sound is muted beneath this whiteness. At times, here in our home on the eastern shore of East Silent Lake, the silence is so strong it becomes difficult to breathe. It seems the simple inhale --- exhale would destroy the perfect world within this Minnesota snow globe. But then there is a signal. The world itself stirs and breathes. The breathing of Mother Earth releases sound to paint the air.<br /><br />Listen! Sit quietly, patiently next to the garden on the west side of the house. Did you hear that? The faintest rustle of mulch disturbed by the palest green leaf of a daffodil searching for the sun. Oh! And did you hear the red-winged black bird out in the swamp? Some people say robins signal the season, but we and the swamp birds know better. Soon that pair of geese will be returning to their wetland nest to raise yet another family.<br /><br />I think that tomorrow the lake will give us a concert. See how the color has changed? That dark blue-green means we can see water moving below the sun-thinned ice. This breeze will definitely stir things up. How will you know? Oh child, think about how paper rattles when you crumple it up and how water spatters on a hot metal pan. When the lake begins to talk like that, then it is time. You will be able to hear a crack in the ice begin way over on the west side of the lake and end up right there at your feet. When there are enough cracks and the wind waves its arms like a conductor, then the ice will begin to move. Along the shore where it is the thinnest, small pieces will float and dance in the water, touching each other like crystal chimes stirred by a gentle breeze. Huge slices of it will boom against the rocks along the shore and other pieces will follow right behind making the music of kettledrums. And then it will all be gone. The lake will be back again with her winter white snow blanket put away for awhile.<br /><br />No, the loons won’t be back right away. The water is still a little too cold for them. Don’t worry. When they do come back, they’ll rest for a short time after their long journey and then call out to say “helloooo”. The dock will be in by then and you can walk down to the end and call back, “hellooo looooons!”<br /><br />Before that, you’ll hear another sound that most people aren’t around for. Just like the maple tree knows when the day and night are the right temperature for her sap to wake up and move, so do the frogs in the swamp! At first you’ll hear just a few peeps and think maybe it’s crickets making that sound. Then a few days later that wetland will burst with frogs singing to each other, trying to find their partners. Oh yes, it’s pretty – at first. Sometimes by the third day of it, though I wish their cacophony would cease and desist. For me, it’s all too much racket after a long winter of silence. Yes, it does stop just as quickly as it started.<br /><br />That’s a hard question: what is the last sound of spring? I’m not sure what that is; you’ll have to help me listen for it this year. I do know that the first sounds of summer are that high-pitched whine of a mosquito followed by the slap of a human hand!Amber Rothrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816991661245975182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6767631354988053996.post-28023088713445316542011-12-12T00:16:00.000-08:002011-12-12T07:56:48.657-08:00Fire<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2yWUhVywlUY/TtQWkWPjmFI/AAAAAAAAAXY/BbtUW6rTti0/s1600/amber-2.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 275px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5680189843722967122" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2yWUhVywlUY/TtQWkWPjmFI/AAAAAAAAAXY/BbtUW6rTti0/s400/amber-2.jpg" /></a><br /><br />Photo taken by <a href="http://www.stormsurf.smugmug.com/">Robert L Potts</a>Amber Rothrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816991661245975182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6767631354988053996.post-75665113280186596582011-12-12T00:15:00.000-08:002011-12-12T07:57:26.423-08:00There Was Once A King by Michael BrownsteinThere was a man who lost his grip on water and drowned.<br />A man on the beach saw him and yelled, <br />"That is the man I must worship." He jumped into the sea<br />not to save him, but to honor his sacrifice.<br />The drowning man fell to the floor of the ocean <br />and found contentment on a throne of shells and porcelin. <br />The man who rushed into the water to save him found he could not<br />and somehow held his breath until he came to the living.<br />Somewhere in all of this is a lesson and a king.Amber Rothrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816991661245975182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6767631354988053996.post-3701435885131991932011-12-12T00:14:00.000-08:002011-12-12T07:57:45.359-08:00A Simple Memory by Kristina BalazsiA beautiful soul<br />A mountain to climb<br />She cries out with sorrow<br />For joy all the time.Amber Rothrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816991661245975182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6767631354988053996.post-46900206425672893872011-12-12T00:13:00.000-08:002011-12-12T07:58:03.335-08:00Is This Where God Hides? by Ben MacnairIs this where God hides? <br />Is he waiting to spring his surprise? <br />Is Jesus’s face in your next bag of Crisps? <br />Is the Virgin Mary to be found in the rainbow of an oil spill? <br />Or will we see God in the criss crossing of raindrops against the window? <br />Does the Virgin Mary statue really cry tears? <br />Or is it because we expect her to? <br /><br />God is not hiding. <br />He just waits to be seen.Amber Rothrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816991661245975182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6767631354988053996.post-67506733894562451532011-12-12T00:12:00.000-08:002011-12-12T07:59:06.268-08:00The Verdant Eyes by Corry O'NeilThe verdant eyes of Happiness, flower-round,<br />Peep through little birds on fields of tawny pain,<br />Flitting up and down the bovine expanse<br />Of leather dressed for slaughter, marked for morbid pleasures,<br />Costumes sewn for those who fashion violent tastes.<br />And, "Everything exists to induce a deeper trance,"<br />So say shifting sparkles on the sequined brook<br />Say the fragrant folds of the floral wind.<br />For cruel eyes will see sights they can't envision,<br />And callous minds will know thoughts they can't imagine<br />When her eyes, peacock-tailed, through Mind redound.<br />Then their craven brains will bust their bursting seams,<br />Rending their garments and trembling as she comes.<br />Restoring what they stole, she will smile when it is done.Amber Rothrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816991661245975182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6767631354988053996.post-48419582789107466812011-12-12T00:11:00.000-08:002011-12-12T07:59:30.968-08:00The Lonely Grave Of Ingram by Robert D. LyonsBleeding to death from a wound all too invisible, a permanent scar with clairvoyant fortitude merged from the utter uncertainty that has engulfed her being like a relentless black hole. She limps softly upon sacred ground, heaving her frail limbs, burdened by an aged spirit, upon rich and hearty soil furnished by those once lingering above. She struggles to hold her head high amongst the treacherous spring breeze. She wobbles with diminishing, almost vacant, dexterity toward her only fortress of hallowed ground. Her face tenses, the wrinkles tighten like the strings of a dusty worn guitar; she falls slowly to her knees as if trying to hold on to her soul like a leaf to a sturdy branch. She is the humble caretaker of this forlorn stone. She glides her withered finger along its surface; the small tablet feels as soft as his skin used to be in the security of the nights loving arms. This gracefully etched stone, the symbol of which, as sturdy as the marble it uses as its voyage. The plot she guards so loyally is the final vessel of her hopes, dreams, and loves. Underneath this heavy soil that sticks black as death is her only worthy lover, and with his decaying bones lies her soul. Yet another bright and lonesome Easter morning where resurrection is proclaimed unto the skies by devious human minds. Yet another year of greeting morrow in a cold and empty bed, feeling his presence like an amputee to a phantom limb. Yet his kingdom is one of the worms, a sepulcher forged for eternal slumber, silence in hopes of hearing God’s whisper. She renews the roses that lie battered from the barrage of time as she shakes subtly, a weary traveler who has foreseen a destined, but grim fate. Her promise of renewed love in a trivial realm: a compassionate gesture in a malevolent plain. Sitting patently on his perch lays the watchmen, forever guarding the presence of his master; sitting peacefully to right of the elegant stone, forever steadfast to his principle. This cast iron soul, bound no tighter than any man breathing, hovers in his dreams with a straw hat shading his eyes. The cast child sits year after year with only a twig and line in hands, dangling over the steep of the rock; dying to try his luck. Forever his line will dangle without turbulence, but nor will he glance over the edge into the abyss only to realize that there are no fish. For ever perched he shall stay, till affluence finds his way. A guardian with all his might protects against a lonely night. Fermented tears sprout from her aged and confused eyes, trickling down to pepsinate the barren soil bellow; yet all the love in the world could not bring life to grow. She is alone and terrified in a dangerous world shed from quintessence of dust. Another anxious and torn soul swiftly sucked up in a spring gust.Amber Rothrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816991661245975182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6767631354988053996.post-46012482571627465312011-12-12T00:10:00.000-08:002011-12-12T07:59:49.866-08:00Bear Cub And Buffalo<div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9e1CaSW2Q2M/TtkbRyegmTI/AAAAAAAAAX8/4uBupr7iuKE/s1600/bear%2Bcub%2Band%2Bbuffalo.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 400px; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5681602397326055730" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9e1CaSW2Q2M/TtkbRyegmTI/AAAAAAAAAX8/4uBupr7iuKE/s400/bear%2Bcub%2Band%2Bbuffalo.jpg" /></a> </div><br /><br /><br /><div>Artwork by <a href="http://amber-rothrock.blogspot.com/">Amber Rothrock</a></div>Amber Rothrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816991661245975182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6767631354988053996.post-38657531051936251192011-12-12T00:09:00.000-08:002011-12-12T08:00:13.291-08:00An Artist’s Sketchbook by Jane StuartOn summer mornings<br />scaly pinecones glitter<br />in the warm sunlight;<br />needle-sharp fir fingers stretch<br />across the wind, catching rain<br /><br />A skinny scarecrow<br />dressed in a straw hat and gloves<br />chases away birds<br />pecking at rows of ripe corn<br />sucking our red tomatoes<br /><br />Rich trees, glossy leaves<br />clumps of moss beside the creek<br />mornings full of rain –<br />gallant summer in full dress<br />caught in color on earth’s pageAmber Rothrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816991661245975182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6767631354988053996.post-8780631006584140202011-12-12T00:08:00.000-08:002011-12-12T08:00:27.357-08:00Now You Don't Have To Be Different by Santiago del Dardano TurannWhile riding on the L one afternoon<br />I saw an advertisement at a station<br />Proclaiming in bold glossy letters freedom<br />From all the thousand shocks to which we're heir.<br />Enlightenment is just a pill away<br />As what was once the soma of the devas<br />Can now be gained through modernized indulgences;<br />Prescriptions from the drug cult of the doctors.<br />This gospel from respected drug cartels<br />Proclaimed “Now you don't have to be different.”<br />Is 'different' now a psychiatric state<br />Thus casting 'health' as flat-line drugged conformity?<br /> <br />The hundredth monkey is the strange one;<br />The one that for the first time took a twig<br />And stuck it in an ant hill for its lunch.<br />How much of what we’ve done flows from that moment? <br />Without its hunger and anxiety<br />As fuel to drive its life on into new<br />And unknown vistas it would not have happened.<br />If some dark alchemy should sponge away our sorrows<br />Then entropy alone will fill the void <br /><br />Visit Santiago's <a href="http://dardanidae.yolasite.com/">website </a>Amber Rothrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816991661245975182noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6767631354988053996.post-49684720221274280502011-12-12T00:07:00.000-08:002011-12-12T08:00:56.317-08:004 AM by Michael EstabrookWe’re both up in bed.<br />I’m telling her,<br />“We have nothing in common, you know:<br />completely different lines of work,<br />live on opposite coasts of the country,<br />don’t have any sports in common,<br />he’s a golfer and I swim,<br />no hobbies the same,<br />he certainly doesn’t read poetry<br />or have any interest in the arts,<br />I have no interest in traveling like he does,<br />or in all these modern electronic gadgets.<br />We have nothing, except for our family history,<br />we have nothing else in common.”<br />She’s sleepy certainly, but replies finally,<br />“None of that matters. He’s your son.”Amber Rothrockhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03816991661245975182noreply@blogger.com0