Books for kids, teens, & those who are young at heart

Category: Poetry (Page 3 of 4)

“The Rewrite Before Christmas” by Beth Overmyer Author of In a Pickle

Today (ahem, on my birthday…and, yes, I’ve stopped counting how many I’ve celebrated) I have a unique poem from Beth Overmyer, author of the middle grade novella In a Pickle. Be prepared to laugh as Beth takes over the blog!

Just in time for Christmas in July…I present:

The Rewrite Before Christmas

(Parody of Clement C. Moore’s The Night Before Christmas)

‘Twas the first draft of my novel and all through the book

There were typos and blunders, not even a hook;

The scenes were all tied together by a hair,

All hoping the editors soon would repair;

The characters were voiceless, all bland and cardboard,

They talked and they rambled, no sense in their words;

And my alphas and my betas put on thinking caps,

“How do I keep reading? I want a long nap!”

And out of my prose there arose such a clutter

Of dialogue tags such as “murmured” and “muttered;”

“Away,” “through” and “of” all ended each sentence;

I misspelled all words without a hint of repentance;

All adverbs were abused shamelessly;

The luster and shine was very much lacking.

When pressing my brain on to make this thing better,

There appeared on my desk an over-sized shredder.

With a clunky old hard drive, so ancient and sick,

I rigged up old Bob with the help of a fork lift.

More vapid than prairies my stories I shredded,

Lit them with a match, doused with unleaded,

“Now burn, you! Now, die, you!

Now shred, burn and fry, you!

No ands ifs or buts:

I’ll burn short stories too!

To the top of the shredder, to the top of the wall!

No dashes, m-dashes, n-dashes; away, all!”

As dry as leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

I watched the smoke drifting up, up to the sky;

So shiny and lovely, the ashes, they flew,

With smell of burnt plastic and toxic waste too.

And then I’d an inkling, a nudge in my head,

The itching and clawing, as that of the undead.

And I drew in my head an outline so sound

For a shiny new novel, and then went to town!

So, hear me exclaim as I drop out of sight:

“A novel isn’t written; thou must rewrite!”

inapickle 333x500In a Pickle blurb:

Charlie Pickle can’t stay put in the year 1920, due to an annoying habit of time-traveling. On a trip back to 1910, he meets a man with a secret. Murder makes the headlines that day, and Charlie’s new friend knows who the guilty party is. Now, not only does Charlie have bullies and murderers to contend with, he’s got some history to fix.

Find In a Pickle at the MuseItUp bookstore, Amazon, and other ebook retailers.

About the Author:CC Pic Beth Overmyer: writer of kidlit, penner of prose, petter of cats.

Author links:

Blog: http://bethovermyer.blogspot.com

Website: http://bethovermyer.com

Meet Jeff Chapman Author of Highway 24

While I’m off doing my first ever school visit, Jeff Chapman is holding down the fort (ummm, blog) with an interview about his ghost story Highway 24 (see my Goodreads review here). Welcome, Jeff!

Highway 24 333x500What made you want to become a writer?

I don’t know. I loved reading from a young age and it seemed like a natural progression to writing your own stories. I have a compulsion to write but I haven’t always been so serious about it. A few years ago I was diagnosed with cancer. Fortunately it was caught very early. Nothing wakes you up to your mortality like a brush with a potentially fatal disease. At that point I decided if I wanted to be a writer I should become serious about it because the clock is ticking.

What books have had the most influence on you as a writer?

John Gardner’s The Art of Fiction: Notes on Craft for Young Writers. The first time I read that book, I gave up writing for awhile. I was making many of the mistakes he talks about. I came back to it later and found I wasn’t making those mistakes any more. I guess the lessons from the first reading had taken root.

If you were stranded on a desert island and could only bring two books and one movie, what would you bring?

I think everyone gets to bring the Bible to these islands or maybe it’s already there. My two books would beThe Lord of the Rings (I could read that over and over again and never get bored) and Crime and Punishment (another long book that you can chew on for a long time. It also reminds me of winter. I don’t like to be hot). For a movie, that would be a tossup between Das Boot (I like submarines) and The French Lieutenant’s Woman (I’m a sucker for costume dramas).

What was the hardest part of writing this book for you? And on the flip side what was the easiest?

I don’t know how many times I revised/rewrote the first section (Paul’s initial encounter with the ghost). The first part of story sets the tone for the rest of it so it’s important to get it right and sometimes very hard. The easiest parts were the secondary characters: the preacher and the caretaker at the cemetery. Those two came to me fully formed. All I had to do was transcribe what they were saying.

Have you ever had a paranormal experience yourself?

No, I haven’t. Not sure if I want to. But I have driven on some lonely highways and they are definitely creepy at night.

What is something funny/weird/exceptional about yourself that you don’t normally share with others in an interview?

I love cats. I had three when I was growing up and I have two now. Cats and I connect. We seem to understand each other.

And here’s the fun part…below are three list of words from the magnetic refrigerator poetry set…if you so choose, please write up a little piece of poetry or prose from these words.

There’s a ground squirrel in the attic, digging for the nut of our skeletons that we keep beneath the shadows of the steps. I step in a cold puddle of sour take out. I give up the climb. He will find not but the dark manuscript of my soul up there and the dead dancing in a breeze. Why investigate? A spider will manacle him.

Highway 24 blurb:

On a lonely country highway, a young travelling salesman runs down a teenage girl. It was an accident. Why she was wandering around on a highway in a pink, formal dress, he can’t imagine. There’s no doubt she’s dead. Fear takes over and he flees the scene, absently taking one of her shoes with him. An old memory, something familiar about that shoe, struggles to surface. As he speeds away from the accident, he thinks his nightmare can’t get any worse, until he sees a pair of green eyes in his rear-view mirror. The shoe and those eyes lead him to a small town where he meets an all too knowing preacher and a sheriff obsessed with the girl’s tragic demise. As Paul digs deeper into the mystery of the girl and her shoe, he comes face-to-face with a dark secret from his father’s past.

Highway 24 is available at the MuseItUp bookstore, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and other ebook retailers.

Jeff_chapman-headshot-small-80x109About the author:

Jeff Chapman writes software by day and speculative fiction when he should be sleeping. His tales range from fantasy to horror and they don’t all end badly. He lives with his wife, children, and cats in a house with more books than bookshelf space. You can find him musing about words and fiction at jeffchapmanwriter.blogspot.com.

Thinking of Kylene

That's me on the left, reading to my little sister, Kylene, on the right.

That’s me on the left, reading to my little sister, Kylene, on the right.

Most days I’m not sad about the death of my sister Kylene. It’s been 11 years after all. And the sharp pangs of loss tend to fade over time into a duller, more generalized ache of longing. But there are triggers that bring back the sting of losing her. Inevitably, major life milestones, her birthday every year, and today—the anniversary of her death—dredge up the deep well of feelings of losing your 16-year-old sister.

In the past, I’ve shared Kylene’s poems (here and here). Yesterday I was reading through one of her journals. Her words are pretty typical of girl her age (she was 13 when she wrote these particular entries and looking forward to a trip to Georgia with her Girl Scout troop), but there ones that break my heart because they’re so full of hopes and dreams, and I know she had so many of these that never came true.

“Every activity sounds incredibly exciting.” “There are so many things to look forward to.” “Seven days ’till I have one of the best five days in my entire life.” When I read these snippets I can’t help but think of all the activities she missed out on, all the things she looked forward to and never got to experience, how short her entire life ended up being.

So I let myself have this day to be sad for Kylene and for myself, and for all the people who knew her and lost her, and all the people who didn’t get to know her. The other days I remember her with a smile, and try to be more caring like she was, and try to live my life experiencing new and wonderful things because she didn’t get to. Even though sometimes it’s hard to remember, not because the memories are faded, but because the memories are bittersweet.

Group Poetry

My family likes to play games on holidays. At Thanksgiving this year, we decided to play a particular favorite poetry game.

The first person writes two lines of poetry at the top of the paper, folds down the first line, and passes it on. The second person adds one additional line and folds over the previous line, and so on until the page is full. So each writer sees just one line of poetry before having to add his/her own line. It can get pretty ridiculous!

Admittedly, they all end up somewhat offensive and slightly plagiarized, and none of them make much sense, so I just picked one that made me chuckle. Enjoy!

The lily wilted on the vine

Her veins they dripped with turpentine

It was an ugly Valentine

It had stripes in its center

They could buy, who not rent her

Spending money is the root of all evils

So hoard it all from the poor peoples

Raise a glass and salute them

Salute them for how they fought

The angry clowns who were addicted to meth

Made by the locals in the town of Bathe

He leaned back his head and drained the carafe

Down his scarf and into his banana hammock so as to set his sausage afloat

Well, I hope no one was seriously offended by that…it’s really mean to be all in good fun!

 

 

Happy Birthday to The Boy

Last I knew it was just a few months ago when I posted about the birth of The Boy during Hurricane Irene. Oh wait, it’s been a year! I don’t consider myself much of a poet, but let me have a little clichéd moment and share this poem I wrote for my son on his first birthday.

 

Battling bottle boycotts,

bumps, bruises, and booby bites

“Bah bah” brought a smile.

 

Drowning in dirty diapers,

deprived of sleep, and doubting

“Dada” drew endless laughs.

 

Missing pre-mommy me time,

my memory, and warm meals

“Mama” melted my heart.

 

Doggies say “eh eh,”

Ducks go “cack cack,”

Dragons breathe “haaaa.”

 

So much to learn

you from me and me from you.

 

A year gone by

all the ups worth any downs.

 

Watching you grow

finding new levels of love.

 

Baby says “gah gah,”

Daddy goes “boo,”

Mommy breathes “I love you.”

 

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