Tag: Reincarnation

The Past and How It Affects the Future

Gone are the days of history…

by Deborah A. Bowman

Gone are the days of yesteryear.
Gone are smiles, miles, tears and fears.
We of the present can learn from history.
Those of the future will fulfill our destiny.
The past comes alive as sins and wins are repeated.
Triumphs are heralded; Foes are defeated.
If only we could stop the challenges.
If only we could heighten the balances.
It makes me wonder as I ponder,
If all on earth have wandered
These paths before in yesteryear
And have returned with our hopes and fears.
History repeats itself,
But we remain ourselves
Through thick and thin, but in different skins.
Reacting the same way as we begin
Lifetimes in new bodies, when we are given
A chance to redeem our numerous sins
Or spread truth and love, strong and sage,
As we enter life in a future age.
Will I live again
Or is this the end?

Perhaps is this me in a previous life?

Need ideas on cover for “Annie’s Story: Blessed With A Gift”

A painting by my mother, an incredible artist (oil painting 18x24-inch on canvas). The forest is integral to Annie, who is based on a past-life regression. In essence, I am Annie!
A painting by my mother, an incredible artist (oil painting 18×24-inch on canvas). The forest is integral to Annie, who is based on a past-life regression. In essence, I am Annie!
I think I have eliminated this design, a photograph, because it may look like a children's book, which this historical novel definitely is not. Very spiritual and accurate to the timeframe. A very difficult time in Colonial America.
I think I have eliminated this design, a photograph, because it may look like a children’s book, which this historical novel definitely is not. Very spiritual and accurate to the timeframe. A very difficult time in Colonial America.

I hope to get some comments on both covers to help me decide which is the right look.

Feel free to contact me at livinginashadow@outlook.com with suggestions and if you want more information about the book, which should be available early in 2016, or add a comment to this posting.

I know I have wonderful friends and fellow bloggers who will give me creative feedback.

Thanks! Deborah A. Bowman

Writing the Melodramatic…Reincarnated from a Vampire? How is This Even Possible?

My writing with the quill from the inkwell fixates my consciousness on a time of which I cannot tell...who I am or when I dwelled...
My writing with the quill from the inkwell fixates my consciousness on a time of which I cannot tell…who I am or when I dwelled…

(A stand-alone verse…continuation of “Writing the Melodramatic”)

I am most definitely a male from a time long ago

My mind play tricks as the memories ebb and flow

One moment I am a contemporary woman in 2015

Then I sink into oblivion and grasp for esteem

As master of mine own home in the mid-1600s

I am well to do with servants at my beck and call

I am very cruel and evil to them all

The peasant woman who has joined me in my drafty, cold library

Is bleeding from two punctures in her neck so precarious

She cries out to me to stop draining her life’s blood

Her dress in torn and weathered, her boots caked with mud

She must suffer and die for attempting to flee my domain

We would have become such dear friends if only she had remained.

How can I be this creature who blossoms in the night

Turning his back on humanity and forsaking the light?

I Tend to Love the Melodramatic In My Writing and In My Creativity…I Think I Was Born in the Wrong Century!

Once upon a dark, dreary night, chaos reigned in the sky. I took up my quill as the thunder roared and the lightning blinded my eyes...
Once upon a dark, dreary night, chaos reigned in the sky. I took up my quill as the thunder roared and the lightning blinded my eyes…

I do not know exactly where I come from or why I am so sad and dramatic

There are times at night that I see a different world…by candlelight, draped in shadows

I lift the feather and dip it into the pitch black, thickened ink

I watch the fluid drip like blood from the glare in darkened windows

It is always storming, the candle flame flickering from cracks in the ancient mansion

The fire in the hearth has expired and the chill is almost unbearable

But I turn my thoughts inward in a closed fashion

To ponder on the melodramatic and scenes that are terrible

Murder whispers through the night and I continue to write

Each scratch upon the tanned skin of an animal

Reminding me of death, of ruin, of horrific sights

I think that I am safe within, yet I am so gullible

As I live my poem within my mind, my body racked with pain

I hear footsteps in the empty room and chuckle at my absurdity

It’s just the rain beating unmercifully against the leaden panes

I glance up, expecting nothing, but emptiness and levity

A figure looks down at me, standing tall and broad

How did “she” get in here, soaked with blood and shivering?

I did not hear the latch open the door; no one spoke aloud

The look on her face is horrific, and I begin quivering

I look down at myself. I’m totally reconstructed

From a modern woman of the 21st Century

To a man, dressed in finery, frightened–reluctantly

Wondering where I am and what kind of monster I must be!