rumors of god

Rumors of God by Darren Whitehead was dramatically, drastically sabotogingly tramatiizing for the reader to read. I cannot even begin to explain the relived psychological traumas that I encountered while reading this book. Perhaps Mr. Whitehead could use some sensitivity training and perhaps a writing partner who is up for a rewrite. I would not give this book as a gift. Nor would I ever recommend it to a friend. A little less Jesus my friend, a little more compassion.

Three Karmic Short Stories

had taken his life in a nearby park. I remember being confused. I told them he was in his room. He’d be up in an hour or two, growling about the wrong type of cereal, then he’d disappear again until either a lecture or meeting friends dragged him from the house.

Scott Norton. Three Karmic Short Stories (Kindle Locations 25-28). Scott Norton.
Three Karmic Short Stories by Scott Norton remind me of my own battles with suicidal ideal and suicidal attempts. It is powerfully written, a book you will want to read more than once. My own struggle with suicide, a struggle that has lasted for 29 years, is not something I offer up lightly for my readers to read about. It’s one of those taboo things we, the survivors, are not supposed to talk about. Scott Norman talks about suicide. In plain language, in the language that suicide happens. Unfortunately my poets, we do not die poetic martyrs for whatever reason we’ve chosen to end our lives. We chose a very ordinary day, an ordinary day to others. Whether or not it seems a poetic day to us. The wind was just right; there was just enough alphaphets in our cereal that we could spell out our motive. Having survived numerous suicide attempts, I know there is nothing poetic about our choice of self martyrdom. So does Scott Norton. Read his book. It will change your life.

The Goddess Morganna's Request

The smoke lingered in the little cottage for a few minutes before it drifted out of his open windows leaving a lingering smell of the powerful potion he just made. After the sizzling stopped he placed the stone into the pot and left it in the pot over a blazing fire under it for the fortnight like the voice had told him. On the last night of the fortnight he looked into the pot and noticed that the stone was just barely covered by the potion he had made two weeks prior.

Angela Priest. The Goddess Morganna's Request - The Beginning Book 1 (Kindle Locations 478-495). Angela Priest.
Angela Priest presents thoughtful, provoking, magical imagery in her book The Goddess Morgannas Request-The Beginning Book !. I sampled a little of it and then I got the whole book because I wanted to read more. I find it extremely inventive that she implements pictures into her work- it worked for Charles dickes so why not Angela Priest. I have read The Goddess Morganna’s Request cover to cover, and I will most likely read it again and again. It’s that good. Prove me wrong.

every single woman

Every Single Woman’s Battle, by Shannon Ethridge is a poor excuse for Christian propaganda. It may be a poor excuse, but that’s exactly what it is. Propaganda. What Shannon Etheridge blasphemously proclaims to be sexual sin, is simply reworded bible thumping language for survival skills. I would never recommend this book to anyone. It would make me worry about whether or not they thought I was a bad person. It’s really that condemning and judgmental. Last I read “god is all things to all people.” Well guess what people, according to Shannon Etheridge, if you’re a single woman in a sexual relationship, God does not belong to you. And apparently the rules of English do not apply to her either. This book is a poor read with subpar syntax. I set out to read it objectively, but you can’t just make up your own rules of English.

I recieved this book for free from the publisher.
If you would like my copy, please leave a comment.

my dear father twilight

I remember once I asked
Why your hair was grey
You said it was silver
And that you were father time
Upon which you told me the story
Of father twilight and how he prepares
The earth for nighttime to be greated
In the morning by the sun child
I never once thought you were telling
Me the story of how you would die
And now my opah is dead
My dear father twilight
May the lord watch
Between me and thee
While we are absent
One from another.

Published Author

All of my books are ebooks, available through

1. Chronicles of Bursts of Light and Shadow: Poems of Bipolar Depression
2. In the Year of the Bog Witch
3. Victorian Poetry: A Collection of Papers
4. All of Her Dying Keeps Her Alive
5. Creatures of Sensation: a Teaser for the Novel

My page on smashwords is

trim the christmas tree

Trim the Christmas tree
With dying snowflakes
To honor the dead and their cold fish hands
No longer like dandelion with their brilliance
Hang the tree to one’s side
Like a hangman’s noose
Apocalyptic death shower
Of ornaments on a sparklike afternoon

every single woman

Every Single Woman’s Battle, by Shannon Ethridge is a poor excuse for Christian propaganda. It may be a poor excuse, but that’s exactly what it is. Propoganda. What Shannon Etheridge blasphemously proclaims to be sexual sin, is simply reworded biblethumping language for survival skills. I would never recommend this book to anyone. It would make me worry about whether or not they thought I was a bad person. It’s really that condemning and judgemental. Last I read “god is all things to all people.” Well guess what people, according to Shannon Etheridge, if you’re a single woman in a sexual relationship, God does not belong to you. And apparently the rules of English do not apply to her either. This book is a poor read with subpar syntax. I set out to read it objectively, but you can’t just make up your own rules of English.

God's love letters to you

“You must live now in between anguish and hope.” This is how Dr. Larry Crabb opens his book, God’s Love Letters to You. It follows with a series of letters written by God with each day focusing on one book of the bible each day. The syntax is simple. It is made for easy reading. It was easy reading and contains 121 pages. Crabb opened the book with a hard one: “You must now live in between anguish and hope” just doesn’t seem like a loving all knowing God to me. I set out to read a book because it was supposed to be inspiratational. I do not feel inspirerd. I feel downtrodden, and I did not feel downtrodden before read the book. I give it three stars for effort and one star for content . Maybe someone else will like it better than me.

I recieved this book free from the publisher for the purpose of review.

johaan sebastian bach

Sebastian Bach was born into the Lutheran faith, died a committed Lutheran communicant, and, by all evidence, never experienced any spiritual doubts or crisis of faith. Christian Encounters: Johann Sebastian Bach, is obviously for a Christian audience because they make the man into a saint. I did not realize this book was intended for a Christian audience when I chose to review it. I misread the title and saw only Johan Sebastian Bach. I love Bach’s music, but in no way did I love this biography. I am wondering now if it is part of a sickly fabricated series that puts such a shamefully religious twist on narration and prose that makes people not want to read it. There was simply too much in your face Christianity. The way this book was written disgusted me. It is a pity too because I was looking forward to reading a biography on Bach. What I got was a biography on the Lutheran faith.

i recieved this book for free from the publisher. I am happy to give it away.
contact me at inkblotsbycordelia.com

Finally published my poetry

Chronicles of Bursts of Light and Shadow: Poems of Bipolar Depression is available on amazon as an ebook for 99cents. If you have trouble finding it, there are other copies available on Smashwords for free download. here is the isbn number for smashwords: 978-1-4580-3868-5
Happy reading!

a vision of lucy

“Stuck amidst a bewildering confusion of baggage, Lucy held on for dear life. A large canvas bag had cushioned her fall and probably saved her with a broken bone or two. The wine red stage bopped and rattled along the narrow dirt road the horses gaining speed with every stride. The coach swayed from side to side its leather thong springs tested to the limit.” Margaret Brownley’s A Vision of Lucy is full of wonderful, fluctuating imagery. A Vision of Lucy is Rocky Creek Romance book three. The romance takes place in 1878 and is an adorable period piece. I give this book three stars.
I also reviewed this book on Borders.com
I received this book for free from the publisher.
To get my copy for free, email inkblotsbycordelia@gmail.com

The Seraph Seal

The Seraph Seal by Leonard Sweet, Lori Wagoner
“For the Lord will come with fire and His chariots like the whirlwind to pay back his anger in fury, and rebuke in flames of fire.” The Seraph Seal is a novel about the signs of the times and the Apocalypse. I was immensely disappointed with its portrayal of the end of days. The writing held an overbearing “God is going to get you” tone that I personally find appalling. Neither do I believe that the piece was well written. It was full of choppy sentences and could use some variation. The prose lacked flow. On the upside, it was evident that a lot of research went into this work. Well done on the research. As far as the novel goes, it could use a rewrite.

I am happy to give away my copy of the Seraph Seal so you can judge for yourself.
If you would like a copy, please leave a comment.

jesus, my father, the CIA and Me by Ian Cron

Jesus, My Father, The CIA, and ME: a memoir of sorts by Ian Cron.
“Is that all you have to say? Couldn’t you admit you were a drunk who wrecked my childhood? Couldn’t you beg my forgiveness” Jesus, My Father, The CIA and ME by Ian Cron chronicles with lovely mysterious Catholic imagery the common wish of many children of alcoholics. It is the story of a path to find home, a path to find love, and a path to find the true nature of God. “Home is a place you grew up wanting to leave, and grow old wanting to go back to. That’s what John Edward Pierce said. But what if your childhood was a trainwreck? What if your memories are more akin to The Shining than The Waltons? It doesn’t matter. Home is not just a place. It is a knowing soul.” Ian Chron inspires faith in the Knowing Soul through his piercing , probing honesty. He causes you to re-examine your own convictions of what God is and how the grace of God fits into a trainwreck of a childhood.His humor is life affirming. Some memoirs entertain. Jesus, My Father, the CIA and Me answers the call of the soul and fills a void.

I also reviewed this book on borders.com

I am happy to give away my copy of this book. To request this book, please leave a comment.

book reviews

I do not write paid advertisements in this blog. All opintions belong to me and are my own original invention. I accept books for review.

And how the snow

AND HOW THE SNOW


And how the snow did fall
As the ice upon her soul reverberated its never ending chime—
Heart so full of sorrow
May you find a graveyard for your demons
Mark each tombstone with the blood they have provoked
You, yourself, you have provoked the scarlet
And the sanguine in which you bathe will not wash away your sin;
I martyr my soul for my Sisters Misguided
By amber eyes, silk words, and searing touch
Church sanctioned suicide
Holy Queen of Heaven
The only thing you taught us to do was inwardly die
Your self denial becomes our own physical ruin
After the void cannot be filled with caresses.
You deny me the womyn I love
To give me the bastards who spread their seed like tumbleweed along the mountainside
I will name them in DARKNESS
For only two belong in moonlight
Shown in all my glory for what I would bestow.
Darkness owns the rest, as he often reminds me.
Darkness owns the rest of me
Womyn of the Night
I would rather be Womyn of the Moonlight
Where diamonds of desire adorn my existentiality
Here I am not tarnished
Here I am not taken
Here I am given for what I am
Goddess and Ruler of the Night
Ruler and Vanquisher rather than Victim
Enveloped in the moonlight in place of Their scent—
Different creatures, yet all one aroma.
One scent, one scream, one secret
If only trees could talk then so could walls
Talking walls for voiceless children
Talking trees to whisper, “do not go this way, I do not trust his eye.”
Hail Holy Queen, Eternal Virgin
What help is a virgin who cannot conceive our pain?
Perfect and blameless with masculinity close to your heart—
You say, “My burden was my Messiah; my burden was to watch Him die.”
Watch Him die with masculinity close to your heart.
My burden, my Messiah is a man
My burden, what the cover of darkness does not reveal
What science erodes in 24 hours
But decades will never erase
Heart so full of sorrow
May you find a graveyard for your demons
Mark each tombstone with the blood they have provoked
You
Yourself
You have provoked the scarlet
And the sanguine in which you bathe will not wash away your sin
My Misguided Sisters
I martyr my soul for amber eyes, silk words, and searing touch
Church sanctioned suicide.

across the darkness

Across the Darkness

Some people collect antique spoons they’ll never eat from or dolls too beautiful to play with. I collect moments that bleed into each other like a set of dollar store watercolor paints when a child adds too much water. I fell in love this way, you see—over a thousand intimacies strung as a set of pearls across eight Decembers. Intimacies are not always misplaced caresses or kisses in the rain. They can be the most detrimental of memories, and so was the time I tried to kill myself the spring that I was 22.
Across the darkness spun the scent of tar and oil as the woman standing at the gas station waiting on a drug deal began to scream because I was lying in the street waiting for a car to hit me. She was like background music set against dialogue. Only if I shut out everything else could I understand what she was saying; only if I shut out the hypersensitivity to the smell of the tar and the little pieces of glass that imbedded themselves into my wrists.
Like the series of moments in my consciousness, there is no clear cut transition between the moment I was pulled from the street and when I swallowed a bottle of 100 Excedrin Migraine tablets. I only smelled him as he fed me milk and I threw up all over his bedroom floor. The aroma of cinnamon and laundry detergent that wafted off his skin had always been my refuge. When I could no longer stand he lifted me as if I weighed nothing and carried me to the bathroom the way you carry a small child; like the color blue washing into red and becoming purple he washed the vomit from my hair. As orange was created I was soon wearing his exercise clothes because mine were soiled beyond wearing. With his body he held me down when the seizures began, frightened out of his wits and repeating something over and over about ambulances; but seizures and I are not strangers, and at some point I was able to tell him that ambulances weren’t necessary.Trim it down to size with a high priority device

Stronger than his arms, my soul drowned in the little specs of hazel spun like stars around his russet eyes. This is my soul’s collection: the curves of his face, eyes like constellations, the smell of his shampoo in my hair, the mahogany of his arms against mine of alabaster. I fell in love this way, you see. And the only color in which I can find myself, is hazel spun like stars around his russet eyes.

unthinking ritual

“I stared over the washbowl in unthinking ritual.” Sylvia Plath

Unthinking ritual

Unthinking ritual the razor blade
The muse of tangled verse along my arm
A tale of then and now and what if
What if I were a size 0
Would I be visible
Me with my invisible nature
A sestina to the death of my spirit when I was 12
Conjured memory so stale like cigarettes and tar
Haiku for every time I went walking
The abyss of downward spiral whispers
Watch the stairs love

mine the hour

“And now that the hour is mine and I’ve been writing the better part of the day, in a coma, not being able to breathe for crying.” Sylvia Plath

Mine the hour
A coma of tears
In which I have no memory
A black abyss of confusion
Of voices and faces and eyes aflame
To write the better part of a day
And yet have no writing to show for it
And I cannot breathe for crying