A Writer’s Tools have changed
There has been so much gain
But a nagging hint of nostalgia remains
Cutting reeds and shaping quills
Pounded pigments, rainwater, ash-filled
Stretching animal hides
Leaving in the sun to dry
Crackling scratches on dried parchment
One slip, the writer’s lament
Start again, know not when
The price of dripping Indigo ink
Naught drying, naught sprinkling with sand
Naught scribing, brings one to the brink
… Of insanity
New files, pixels, point sizes, layout
A better system, no doubt
Save, Open, Save As, Download
Copy without a camera or a copier reload
Cut without a knife; paste with no glue
The decision to see it through
Or delete and try again
It doesn’t matter when
Save or not to save?
In a hurry, Save and and go away…try another day
Creativity has not changed
Only the functions of the brain
More freedom for the laymen
More chances to begin again
Then, finally, the perfect words you trust
All gobbled up by a cyber virus.
No heart to try again
Perhaps a quill, ink, or pen?
Comparisons of the old and the new, pros and cons…
As I contemplate History
I realize that “Time” is but a theory
To placate our minds
Based on planetary signs.
The sun rises in the morn,
Descends as night forms.
What becomes of our abstract theory
When we relocate ourselves in Space?
Day and night, Time’s conceptual base,
Would cease to be.
A new tracking system would needs be devised
To organize and plan our lives.
What happens to the earth’s History
When years, centuries, eons in theory
No longer fit the criteria we see.
What if there is no day and night?
What a disturbing, chaotic plight!
But we don’t have to venture to Outer Space
To disrupt synchronicity and face
The moment of Time in our minds.
Time has no end, nor did it begin.
It is infinite, cylindrical, always has been.
Measured to make sense for humankind
In increments that we do not find
Anywhere else in the Universe.
The earth is but a tiny dot
In a mass of infinitly ruled by thought.
No past, no future, no present, no Time,
Only what we create in our minds.
The threads of History start to unravel
As soon as we theorize the concept of Time Travel,
Which exists, has always existed.
Our sense of order has continually resisted
The reality of moving forward or backward in Time
To create alternate Histories in alternate realities.
When you create words in your mind
You never know what you will find
Masquerading as Time.
The Time continuum has no Time.
The Final Frontier is infinite in design.
Never ending, never begun.
Past, present, future–History–all one.
Create your words keeping in mind,
We all can travel through the theory of Time.
Deborah A. Bowman © 2015
(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?
This new series is a fun romp through different periods of time with a hint of philosophy and Quantum Physics to show the reality of time-travel and the existence of alternative realities. A modern teenager, a Colonial American from 1774, and an intuitive, rambunctious cat make up a team of astral investigators on a mission to save lost souls and, hopefully, the future of planet earth!
This novel is geared for “tweens”/teens/YA, but marketing results show adults are just as interested in these areas of exploration. The second episode is already in the planning stages.
I hope you will take the time to read and review THE SHOPKEEPER AND THE BOY, Episode One of Delilah, Astral Investigator, Infinity series at:
There must be a way to stop the predicted apocalypse. Delilah, Bartholomew, and Molly the cat may have the answer.
One review has already been featured on the site. My sincere thanks to Donna M. Zadunajsky, author of suspense novels: FAMILY SECRETS of the Second Chances Series; NOT FORGOTTEN, and BROKEN PROMISES.
The only other living, breathing being that could initially see me came into the good-mother’s modest abode some three days after Lady Delilah’s first glimpse of me. “She”—for it was definitely female—evidently had been rescued from the inadequate charge of Delilah’s school/hovel-mate (called a roomie?) named Judith or Judi, another absurd derivative of an honorable namesake. It seemed the care of a mere cat was too much trouble for Judi.
A cat? Just let it out? Are there no mice or rodents left in Boston in this day and age?
Regardless, t’is naught my duty to judge this black-and-white ball of fluff with long silky hair that most definitely can see, hear, and resent me!
Hissing, spitting, and thrashing her thick wooly tail—mayhaps, I had inadvertently stepped upon said dark bushy appendage when first she bounced out of a small crate of unusually lightweight skyblue-colored material—most assuredly something other than wood.
I thought she was a very small raccoon, but the colors were more reminiscent of a skunk, the pattern resembling a gentleman’s evening white tails.
She had a coal black mask around exotic emerald-gold eyes above a snow-white furry face with incredibly long white whiskers and elaborate eye lashes, a pink button nose, and high pointed ears, exactly half-black/half-white with the inner ear canals showing pale pink delicate skin amidst long fuzzy white hairs.
Her beauty, for a beauty she was despite her loathing of me, emanated in a full luxuriant royal-white ruff that nestled her tiny face and fell in long pristine waves down her entire breast. Her small body sat squarely atop short, fuzzy white legs, a splash of glossy black spilled across her back to the tip of that recalcitrant tail. Surprisingly, the massive silky hair that flowed from her underside to the floor was pure gleaming white.
She was a playful little mite, using her front paws with nary a single claw like tiny hands, throwing small items up in the air, catching them adroitly, and using her front feet to clean and arrange her long hair. It just seemed inaccurate to refer to her shining coat as the fur of other cats as it was more like spun silk threads or even human hair. The grooming process was lengthier than a regal lady adorning herself for a ball.
Her back feet, however, incongruously large and shaped like a rabbit’s had her flouncing and bouncing up and down Delilah’s sleeping area, on the floor, across the room…until she encountered me…than she would halt in startled animosity, drawing back and rearing up on those big clawed back feet like a grizzly bear. I expected her to roar! Sometimes she did growl low in her throat as she hissed and spat at me.
What in the world was this wee beastie!?
Besides the small meshed crate, which she never stayed in, she has her own kitty chamberpot, rectangular in shape, made from the same lightweight material as the crate, but in bright dazzling pink! Some bits of fine gravel fill this chamberpot…an odd system, to be sure, but the cat seems to enjoy scratching and digging through this substance. She seems terribly affronted if you watch her. A prissy little creature! I wondered why Lady Delilah didnae’ keep her in her cage?
Pardon me; I should dignify Delilah’s cat with her given name. She is called, Mollie. Delilah loves to talk to her by name in cooing tones, but when I dare to recite that nomenclature “Mollie” just stares at me with those huge almond-shaped eyes filled with hostility, looking away in disgust as if I was boring her.
Mollie sleeps pleasantly on the bed pallet with her mistress. Delilah’s greatest joy is watching this useless beast either stalk me or play with multi-colored hairbands—another new word for me—I would have referred to them as thongs that men in the colonies use, bits of rawhide to tie back our long tresses. This is so American, rather than the stodgy, smelly wigs of the British.
There’s also something called a rubber band that Mollie chases and flits from place to place, and finally, yes, there are mice. No, not a real mouse! These are made of cloth in vivid hues, some that rattle, some with bells, some with long tails and feathers to dangle in front of Queen Mollie. I can think of her in no other context rather than the highest of feminine royalty.
The name “Mollie” is known to me as an Irish wench. Delilah tells me, however, that this wee critter (less than one-half stone in weight; according to Delilah only six pounds? I think of pounds as currency) is Turkish in heritage and an Angora, but I cannae’ accept the lady’s jest for all know that the Angora is a goat!
Thus, a long, tedious tale of my new arch-enemy. This is how Queen Mollie became a member of our astral team.