Red Moon Rise

 

RED MOON RISE

 

The wind whispers,

tales of long ago,

of the falling leaves,

of crimson sunset glow.

All that is behind us,

is suddenly set free,

Autumn is the death of summer,

the wind its memory.

 

CHORUS

 

Red moon rise,

above the dying trees,

awaking our

memories.

All of life is captive,

as autumn reigns.

This the gentle murmur,

of the coming winter’s strain.

Every passing moment,

is imprisoned in the sound,

of the wailing wind,

and the leaves upon the ground.

 

CHORUS

 

Rest you weary soul,

beneath the autumn sky.

There’s magic to be found,

in the earth’s on lullaby.

While eyes are shut,

remembrance awakens.

In the dreams of fall,

return the memories, forsaken.

 

CHORUS

Advertisements

The Nightingale

The Nightingale was a song I wrote for a musical project I worked on with Sebastien Gabriel several years ago called Broken September.  Here you will find the song and the lyrics.

THE NIGHTINGALE

She was still a child,

he was barely a man.

She gave him her heart,

he gave her his hand.

In the field of white lilies,

they professed their love,

to everyone and no one,

and to the above.

Chorus:

And the nightingale sings,

whether stormy or fair,

to the pale maiden,

forever resting there.

(repeat)

They would meet,

beneath the willow tree,

to hold one another,

where no one would see.

The dusk was their blanket,

the moon was their light,

and they’d dream all day,

of the following night.

(Chorus)

One night in winter,

the maiden was there,

beneath the willow,

the snow in her hair,

but as hours passed,

her love never came,

all the while her blood,

freezing blue in her veins.

(Chorus)

As the color,

drained from her skin,

the blanket of white,

seemed to bury her, then.

There she remained,

for months she did wait,

until spring had come,

the snow melted away.

(Chorus)

Gunshot

Several years ago, a dear friend of mine decided that the only way out was to kill herself.  It took me a long time to get past it and I found an outlet for my anger in poetry.  This is an old piece and I’ll preface this by saying that I was very upset when I wrote it, but I think it gets the point across of what the people who are left behind think when someone takes this route.

 

Gunshot.

Body lying limp

like a broken doll

still and forgotten

in a puddle of glistening red

and silence.

That was your answer?

To destroy yourself

in an explosion

of anger

and pain

and regret.

And yet,

there you lie,

still and silent

with the wound of both

the gunshot

and your anguish

neither one healed.

Sacred Space

For the home we once shared,

the sacred space between the walls,

the floor which shared our feet,

Those windows will forever frame

the memories we shared beneath that roof.

 

For the green grass soft beneath our toes,

the tree that shielded the sun,

and sheltered from the rain,

Those branches will forever hold,

the love we exchanged beneath.

 

For the void that you left,

when you closed that door forever,

and locked it tight behind you,

The memories trapped within those walls,

are also trapped within me.

Red Wine Hangover

Sunlight trickles in, inducing familiar pain at the middle of my forehead,

the remnants of cheap red wine on my breath.  My fist finds the

alarm clock, halts the buzzing, stale and rhythmic. Red binary eyes

staring at me, startled at me, angry at me; it was only doing its job.

Roll from bed, trapped in sheets, dropping the glass that I brought

into the bed. Sea of red, dry and dark, stains the white. I’ll be

pissed when I’m awake enough to care.  Stumble through doors.

Not this one, or this one.  Where the hell is the bathroom?

Down the hall to the right.  Not the left! Now

I remember. Take a seat on the throne,

an ecstatic moment of pure relief.

Forget to flush.

Cool running water

splashing my eyes;

find the towel.

Where’s the towel?

The damn towel!

Screw the towel!

Find the kitchen,

and the Advil.

Douse with water,

lots of water.

One tall glass,

another half full

one half empty.

Green bottles everywhere.

Broken wine glass

with no stem,

almost discovered with

my bare feet.

Shrug my shoulders.  I’m still drunk.  Back to bed.

Walls of Ash Book Trailer

The magnificent Rhineholt house is the heart of all Tamsin’s memories. Her ancestral home is a dark and lonely place with shadowed corners and dark secrets.  She finds solace with her mother’s presence in her sleep, but when those sweet dreams become dark, terrifying nightmares, Tamsin realizes that she is being warned of a sinister force. A force wants her death…

In a time when young ladies were bred to wed and follow orders, Tamsin Rhineholt is an unconventional and stubborn daughter of the house, Rhineholt. With a mystery surrounding the loss of her parents, she still feels her mother’s presence in her life. When Tamsin is threatened if she refuses an offered hand in marriage, she realizes that her mother is trying to warn her of the terrible things to come through her dreams. Her dearest friends try to help her in the most trying of tragedies, but there is a fine line between faith and madness. Can great distance dissolve the fear that pursues her, or will that fear follow Tamsin to her end? Does love truly overcome all obstacles?

Walls of Ash is Amber Newberry’s first historical gothic novel and the beginning of a series that will follow the daughter of each book’s previous heroine.  Walls of Ash is in the final stages of preparation for publishing and is slated for the end of 2012, details coming soon.    The second of the series, The Masque and the Mausoleum is in the writing stage and will be released in 2013.

Snow

Blue light angled from the window
and first I see your shadow from the open doorway,
you whisper my name.

You sit on the bed, and touch my cheek.
I can still feel that touch,
as if it happened only a moment ago.

Wrap the blanket around my shoulders,
your hand takes mine,
and I’m lead down the hallway.

More blue light through the white, lace curtains.
you lead me to the window and move aside the lace.
Snow.

We both whisper it, together.
My 7-year-old voice, and your 70-year-old voice,
Snow.

It’s blue in the moonlight,
and drifting, dancing in the wind
as if that moment is for me and for you and only for us.