TO THOSE OF US NEVER TO BE PUBLISHED_EMILY DICKINSON, GHOST

{"Publication - is the auction of the Mind of Man."
~Emily Dickinson.}

That fabulous scamp of a gentlemen, Samuel Clemens, asked me to write in this "computer newspaper," as he calls it.

The dear somehow knew this date was important to me.

“Success is counted sweetest” was published anonymously in an anthology titled A Masque of Poets on this day in 1878,

the last of the handful of my poems published in my lifetime.

Though I remained firm in my decision that “My Barefoot-Rank is better,” this poem does reflect my continued mixed feelings about publishing:

Success is counted sweetest By those who ne'er succeed. To comprehend a nectar Requires sorest need.

Not one of all the purple host Who took the flag to-day Can tell the definition, So clear, of victory!

As he, defeated, dying,On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumphBurst agonized and clear!
**
I wonder, struggling souls, what would it mean to you if you were never published?

To see the Summer Sky
Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie -
True Poems flee.
***
How long would you continue to write should publication elude you? Are the words burning within you to find life on the page?

For me, I never stopped writing:

HOPE is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Will you stop writing if the years pass, leaving you unpublished? 

Why? 

And if you would continue, why? This tender spirit would like to know.

Just walk out into the sable night, look up into the listening stars, and whisper your answer to the wayfaring winds. I am a ghost. I shall hear.
***

A KISS TO LIVE FOR_Hot Kiss blogfest!

Cassie Mae & Hope are doing the HOT KISS BLOGFEST :

http://readingwritingandlovinit.blogspot.com/2012/01/is-it-getting-hot-in-here-valentines.html

My entry, A KISS TO LIVE FOR, is from my THE PATH BACK TO DAWN :

{Blake Adamson had been left chained to a tree in the New Zealand wilderness by the last fae. He escapes death by being given an apple of immortality from Idun's Asgardian garden.

By whom? Odin's ravens, Huggin and Munnin (that's MIND and MEMORY for those of you not versed in Viking - and yes, there is a bit of an allegory going on there.)

He has been discovered by Hone Heke (an angel on a sort of community service punishment) and by Kirika Amaratsu. In happy relief at finding him alive, Kirika has bowled him over on his back with her atop him.

Blake has kept a slice of Idun's apple for her. She agrees to eat it ... on one condition.

“What kind of condition?,” I asked with a sinking heart.

An evil gleam started to grow in her deep, large brown eyes. “Oh, nothing obscene, nothing bizarre, nothing sexual.”

She winked. “I lied about the sexual.”

Hone groaned, “Uh, oh.”

Kirika smiled wicked. “I will eat your apple. But only if you share the last bite ... in a kiss with me.”

She wiggled, pressing her hips dangerously into mine as I managed to croak, “I - I can live with that.”

She laughed, “I thought you might.”

She brought the apple to her lips.

“Oh,” I started, but Kirika had already bitten into the slice.

Her eyes rolled up as she stiffened in spasms on top of me. With horror, I saw her begin to fade, becoming a ghost on top of me. I wrapped both arms around her tight.

“Stay with me, Kirika! Don’t fade on me. Stay with me, please. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”

The weight of her body pressed back down on top of me again. She was soft and firm in my arms once more. She squirmed her hips into me, her lips melting into mine.

She murmured, “Then, fade from you I never will. Never.”

I smiled, “I - I can live with that.”

She asked, “Are all the bites like that one?”

“Just the first.”

She raised an eyebrow, and I insisted, “Honest.”

“In that case ---”

She slowly took another bite. Her eyebrows shot up. She wiggled delightfully on my body. She actually seemed to glow. She let out a long, ragged breath.

“B-Blake, never have I tasted such a wonder. It fills me with such a power and joy. Starving, you denied yourself this for me?”

“Denied? Seeing you enjoy it this much is better than I have the words to describe.”

Her whole face glowed, her deep eyes seeming to swallow me. I went willingly. She bit slower and slower, savoring each bite, squirming more and more into me.

Hone coughed uneasy.

She seemed not to hear. Only the last bite was left. She took it and moistened her full lips with the piece. Then, she bent her face right to mine.

“When I place it in my lips, Blake, place yours around it, and we will kiss as I swallow. All right?”

I nodded. She moistened my lips with it, then re-wet her lips again. She smiled, and promises dark and tempting filled my head. Hone coughed again, but I barely heard him.

In fact, the whole world grew dim around the edges. All that was clear were Kirika’s gleaming, deep, deep eyes. She slipped the bit of apple into her wet lips, leaning right into me. I shyly wrapped my lips around the apple.

Like I knew she would, she tried forcing it into my mouth with her tongue, I thrust it back. Then, she caught me by surprise and swallowed it, wrapping her tongue around mine, doing some thrusting and rubbing of her own. I could feel my eyes roll back into their sockets, and tingles dance all down my body.

From the magic of Idun’s apple or Kirika’s tongue I couldn’t say.

She arched in my arms, thrusting her hips into me again and again. I was about to lose it completely, when she went limp in my arms, slumping across my whole body.

This time it was me that let out a long, ragged breath. I shivered in spasms. That had been --- something. Kirika purred in my arms.

“Next time, get a hotel,” growled Hone.

“I didn’t do that,” I sputtered.

Kirika breathed, “Was it good for you, beloved?”

I couldn’t help myself and let out a sigh, “Oh, yeah.”

Hone grunted, “Tell me again what you didn’t do.”
***

TO DREAM CHRISTMAS ALIVE

And in despair I bowed my head:
"There is no peace on earth," I said,
"For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men."

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth he sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,
With peace on earth, good will to men."

Till, ringing singing, on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime,
Of peace on earth, good will to men."

(Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882), 1867)


Christmas--

that magic blanket that wraps itself around us,

that something so intangible that it is like a fragrance.

It may weave a spell of nostalgia.

Christmas may be a day of feasting, or of prayer,

but always it will be a day of remembrance--

a day in which we think of everything

and everyone

we have ever loved.


Yet, to perceive Christmas through its wrappings becomes more difficult with every passing year.

Its song of Peace and Good Will to Man becomes more off-key with every wintry passing. Still we need that song to hold to when the darkness seems so alive.


I hear that in many places something has happened to Christmas;

that it is changing from a time of merry hearts and carefree joy to a holiday which is filled with drudgery;

that many people dread the day,

and the obligation to give Christmas presents is a nightmare to weary souls;

that the children of enlightened parents no longer believe in Santa Claus;

that all in all, the effort to be happy and have pleasure makes many honest hearts grow dark with despair

instead of glowing with good will and cheer.

And the true tragedy to that is that it is a self-inflicted poison to the soul.


But I, myself, have always thought of Christmas time

as a good time; a kind, forgiving, loving time;

the only time I know of, in the year's long journey of months,

when men and women seem by silent agreement to open their shut-up hearts freely,

and to think of people around them as if they really were fellow passengers to the grave,

and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys.


I sometimes think we expect too much of Christmas Day.

We try to crowd into it the long debts of kindness and compassion of the whole year.


As for me, I like to take my Christmas a little at a time,

all through the year.

And thus I drift along into the holidays--let them overtake me unexpectedly--

waking up some fine morning and suddenly saying to myself:

'Why this is Christmas Day!' And feel re-born as a child again.

Because there's nothing sadder in this world than to awaken Christmas morning and not be a child.


But that's the magic of Christmas ...

for one short season, we can all become children again

in our hearts ... and in our dreams.

Each year, the world and our souls seem to grow older and darker,

but at Christmas time, our souls seem to see the world as cleaner

and we feel younger, closer to that magic which lived within us as children.


It is the magic that casts its wintry spell so that there are no strangers on Christmas Eve.


It is the magic that murmurs that if there is no Christmas in your heart,
there will be none under your tree.


And it is that magic which brings us the real truth of Christmas :

We are never alone.
***

TO THOSE OF US NEVER TO BE PUBLISHED____EMILY DICKINSON, GHOST, HERE_GHOST OF A CHANCE Interlude

{"Publication - is the auction of the Mind of Man."

~Emily Dickinson.}


That fabulous scamp of a gentlemen, Samuel Clemens,

asked me to write in this "computer newspaper," as he calls it.

The dear somehow knew this date was important to me.


“Success is counted sweetest” was published anonymously in an anthology titled A Masque of Poets on this day in 1878,


the last of the handful of my poems published in my lifetime.


Though I remained firm in my decision that “My Barefoot-Rank is better,” this poem does reflect my continued mixed feelings about publishing:


Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne'er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.


Not one of all the purple host
Who took the flag to-day
Can tell the definition,
So clear, of victory!


As he, defeated, dying,
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Burst agonized and clear!

**

I wonder, struggling souls, what would it mean to you if you were never published?


To see the Summer Sky
Is Poetry, though never in a Book it lie -
True Poems flee.
***

How long would you continue to write should publication elude you? Are the words burning within you to find life on the page?


For me, I never stopped writing :


HOPE is the thing with feathers,
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all.

Will you stop writing if the years pass, leaving you unpublished? Why? And if you would continue, why? This tender spirit would like to know.
******

ANOTHER DREAM CAST ONTO THE SEA OF FATE

I've just sent out another query to a new agent. This time for my YA fantasy, THE MOON & SUN AS MY BRIDES. I thought it might prove helpful to those of you out there trying to write a query. Take what you find useful and leave the rest to the winds.

So here is another dream cast onto the mysterious sea of fate :

Dear Ms. ______ :

I know you must be weary of TWILIGHT knock-off's. Me, too. But for different reasons. Although I left my teen years some light years ago, I still enjoy the innocence and the angst of YA. I mean, TWILIGHT is a siren song of supernatural, forbidden love. CITY OF GLASS {Mortal Instruments} is a haunting tale of dove and serpent. But guys like to read, too.

Guys want a read that is a wild beast in the mind, surging along with fast-paced plotting and leaping-off-the-page characters. They want to be thrilled, to be made to laugh out loud, and, believe it or not, to be made to think -- usually outside the box -- but is that such a bad thing? So when they browse the teen section in the bookstore and read titles like WHY IS MY VAMPIRE BOYFRIEND PRETTIER THAN I AM?, they must mutter, "Help!"

Help! We've all cried that either mentally or just flat out loud. All of us have faced moments when we longed to be rescued. But mostly we must rescue ourselves. We must wear our own spandex, be our own hero.

Fifteen year old Blake Adamson has no spandex - only a world of nightmare. In the orphanage that is more prison than sanctuary, he retreats into books. But one night, a fire forces him to face reality.

Or does he face reality at all? Is he awake, or is he lost in the fever dreams of a burn-induced coma? Like Alice over a hundred years before him, Blake faces a world of wonder, insanity, and danger. He feels pain. But is that merely from the injuries of the fire as he lies in some hospital bed, or has the world always been larger, more mysterious than he ever imagined?

In the end, he decides reality is what you make it. It doesn't matter if what he sees are delusions within a coma or a wondrous journey through the worlds suggested by quantum mechanics. What matters are the choices he makes, the friends he holds dear, and the pain he can ease.

But then, he meets the enemy in this strange realm that threatens the two girls he has grown to love : himself. How do you battle yourself? And if saving the two girls you love means death for you, what do you do?

THE MOON & SUN AS MY BRIDES is a 90,000 word paranormal Young Adult adventure. I have just finished the rough draft of the sequel, LAST EXIT TO BABYLON. Thank you for the time you've spent reading my query. To get a better feel for my writing voice and my range, you might want to drop by my blog {Yes I have one of those, too.} www.rolandyeomans.blogspot.com

In compliance with your submission guidelines, here is a short sample of my writing. And since you love to take dance classes, here is an excerpt where my hero learns to dance aboard a haunted junk as he sails across the myterious Sea of Fate. He is accompanied by the raven Munnin, fleeing servitude to Odin, the legendary Maori warrior, Hone Heke, and the Sun goddess, Kirika Amaterasu :


What had Napoleon said? That if you pretended long enough, you became what you pretended. Well, then, I would pretend that we would make it out of this mess. All three of us, Kirika, Fallen, and me. I reluctantly pulled back from our kiss, both our mouths wet from it.

"You know what Napoleon told me?"

Kirika slowly stroked my cheek with soft fingers. "What, beloved?"

"That when you fought for love, you always won, even when you lost."

Muninn cawed sharp, "I seem to remember he said --"

Speaking as one, we turned to him and snapped, "Shut up!"

Then, realizing we had acted as one, we both sputtered in sad giggles. Muninn smiled. I nuzzled my head against his. The wise little guy had spoken up on purpose. It was good to finally have friends ... and love.

I wasn't alone anymore.

The next seven days were nothing like the week before it. They were magic, a time of happiness, healing, and laughter. Kirika seemed intent to focus only on the moment, never talking of the past or even acting like there would be a tomorrow. And I was more than happy to let her. But every now and then, I would catch a cloud of darkness flicker across her ivory face. Then, she would notice me looking at her, fling back her long hair, and wisk me away to some new wonder on board or upon the black Sea of Fate. Or more maddening, tease me with playful fingers or lips that would just skim across mine before leaping back in a throaty giggle.

I made a mistake that first day of telling her about my spooky dream. She laughed til tears came to her eyes as I spoke of Muninn dancing a waltz with a tiny Bast. But I left out what the cat goddess had said to him. Muninn glared at me as if willing the whole tale back into my mouth. And afterwards, I wished I could have oblidged.

She insisted on teaching me how to waltz. I was wooden-footed and awkward. Kirika was patient. Muninn was mocking. And Hone? He gleefully helped stoke the fires by playing waltz after waltz on a pipe he magically pulled out of his inside shirt pocket. Slowly, as hour followed hour, I got better until by the end of the first day, Kirika was satisfied enough with my progress to switch to something she called the Rumba.

I protested, trying to keep my voice from sounding like a little girl's, as she demonstrated the swaying hip movements. "I can't move like that!"

She giggled, swaying up to me, pressing her lower body against mine. "Of course, you can."

Hone started to pipe a wild gypsy tune as she smiled, "The Rumba is several dances melted into one. The guaracha --"

Her hips began to gyrate in a way that made me tingle all over. "The Cuban Bolero ---"

She swirled around me, rubbing her, ah, bottom against mine. "And the rural Rumba, which is really a dance of exhibition, not of participation."

Hone stopped playing, "I don't know, honey, your tush seems to be participating with his just fine. Too fine. You know, there're no cold showers on this tub."

She giggled and swirled in front of me. "The steps are quite simple, Blake. Here, see? The rhythm is set in counts of four of equal time. Look, the basic footwork is even more simple. Three steps taken on the first three beats of a measure, with a hold ---"

"A what?," I frowned.

She moved in, kissing me lightly, nipping me sharp on the upper lip as she pulled away. "A hold, silly rabbit. No step on the fourth beat."

"Oh, sure. I knew that."

She laughed throaty, moving her hips in a way that made me want Hone to turn away. "Of course, you did."

Her eyes grew heavy somehow, as her hips began to sway hypnotically. She moved closer and closer to me. She reached out to my hips, grabbed them, then, started moving them in time to her own.

"Let me help," she breathed. "That's right. Move, flow with the music."

"Wh-What music?"

"Can you not feel the pounding of the blood in your ears? Listen. Listen as I rub my hips against yours. Now? Can you hear it?"

I nodded slow, caught in the spell of her brown eyes. "I thought you could. Oh, now, you're doing even better."

She ran her hands up my sides, then back down to my hips, guiding them into hers. "The Rumba is an old, old dance. Long ago, we Ningyo's gave it to the Cubans as a way for the woman to attract and ultimately dominate her man with her ---"

She tickled my ear as she whispered into it, "--- her feminine charms."

Hone was suddenly right by us, pushing us apart. "Alright, that does it. No sex standing up. Not unless I can jump in."

"Hone!," I sputtered.

He winked. "Just kidding, kid."

He laughed deep. "Now, I'll teach you a Maori war dance."

Kirika scowled, "Fitting, old man. I am in the mood for war right now."

He laughed cruel. "Thought you might be. Here, watch how a warrior does it."

He bent in a fluid flourish and picked up his staff. "Can't do it right without the traditional Maori Killing Stick."

He grinned at me. "Last time, I remember doing this, poor Hina lost her hula skirt."

He rolled his eyes. "She almost killed me when she found out I had untied the knot when she wasn't looking."

He spun his staff in a blur. Twisting at the hips, he jumped and spun in the air like a jungle cat, landing like one on the balls of his feet. Jungle cat? My scalp began to prickle at a ridiculous idea. But he spun me around, up, and over his shoulder, then stomped happily with both feet. He broke out into a roaring chant.

"Kamate. Kamate.

Ka Ora. Ka Ora.

Tenei te tangata

puburuburu

nana nei i tiki mai

I whakawhiti te ra

Upane Upane

Whiti te ra!"

Thanks to Solomon's gift of Tongues, I knew what Hone was singing. And singing in not a bad voice either. Kirika wasn't so blessed. She pouted.

"It is impolite to sing so we cannot understand. For all we know, you could be shouting the recipe for penguin soup."

He laughed and twirled her in a square dance kind of circling loop. Despite herself, Kirika giggled, caught up in his genuine lust for life and the dance. He swung about and, dropping his staff, looped his right arm through mine. Then, we found ourselves skipping and dancing all about the deck as Hone bellowed in English this time.

"It is Death! It is Death!

It is Life! It is Life!

This is the hairy one, (he mussed my wild hair as he sang those words),

Who caused the sun to

shine.

Abreast. Keep abreast!

The rank. Hold fast!

Into the sun that shines."

Hone swung us all about, while impossibly stamping his feet merrily and shouting, "Kia korero te katoa o te tinana. (The whole body should speak.)"

"What you said," giggled Kirika.

Hone swept us around some more as he bellowed out again :

"Ringa pakia

Uma tiraha

Turi whatia

Hope whai ake

Waewae takahia kia kino."

Kirika punched him in the ribs, and he chuckled out :

"Slap the hands against the thighs. (Which he did gleefully.)

Puff out the chest. ( I thought Hone's shirt buttons would pop off.)

Bend the knees. ( I almost fell as he dragged us down with him.)

Let the hip follow. (He frowned as Kirika swayed much too sexy.)

Stamp the feet as hard as you can. (We all laughed as we did just that.)"

Hone yelled, "Now, the pukana." (And he dilated his eyes like a guy with a thyroid condition.)

As Kirika pulled away giggling, Hone laughed, "Next, the whetero!"

And he stuck out his tongue so far I thought he was a human lizard.

Kirika folded her arms. "By no means! I am quite careful where I stick my tongue." (And she gazed at me in such a way, I tingled in places I hoped Hone didn't notice.)

"That's alright, honey," smiled Hone, slapping, puffing, bending, and stamping away. "The whetero can be only done by men."

Her eyes narrowed. "Oh, really?"

She stuck out her tongue right at him, looking not a bit fearsome, but like a mad little girl.

He reached out and swung her in a happy circle. "Yeah, who cares about centuries of tradition when I can finally see that cute little tongue of yours. Ouch!"

She had kicked him in the shin. And Hone added a few new dance steps to the Peruperu, the war haka of the Maori. He glared at her.

"You know, princess, there's the potete that only women can do."

She looped her arm back with his and smiled like a happy cat with canary feathers in her mouth. "Oh, and what is that?"

"The closing of the eyes -- like you're gonna do now!"

And with that, he swung her over his shoulder and around his waist to set her right next to me with a thud.

She steadied herself against me with a shaky hand. "No, I think I'll just do the whetero again."

And she proceeded to stick out her tongue at him, lunging in a blur and slamming a foot right into his other shin. "Oh, look, Blake, some more new steps for us to learn."

And she spun me around, leaping up and down, rubbing her own shin bone. "I like this new step!"

"I hate it," Hone grumbled, then held his sides laughing.

He reached out and hugged the two of us. "Now, that's how the Maori dance!"

***

I am a former high school teacher, family counselor, and now a blood courier. The last a result of being evacuated from Lake Charles due to Hurricane Rita and having to support myself any way I could. I found I liked the job and the people with whom I worked. I stayed.


Thank you for taking the time to read my query. I would be happy to send you sample chapters or the full manuscript. I hope that you find some gem in the flood of submissions that pour your way. May your Spring hold only happy surprises with some relief for punished eyes and swamped workloads.

Roland D. Yeomans M.A.

And not to leave my favorite character, Sam McCord left out totally, here is his favorite scene from the ancient movie, THE ELECTRIC HORSEMAN :