Oranges and Sailboats by Shoestring Book Publishing

License Notes

Cover painting By Markey Robinson No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, electronic, mechanical; or by other means whatsoever, without written permission from the author. Except for the case of brief quotations within reviews and critical articles. Layout and design by Shoestring Book Publishing For information address; shoestringpublishing4u@gmail.com

For Joe, the King of my heart.

............................................................................................................... x .................................................................................................... 1 .................................................................................... 2 ........................................................................................... 3 ................................................................................... 4 .......................................................................... 5 ........................................................................................... 6 .............................................................................................. 6 ...................................................................................... 8 ........................................................................................................ 9 ...................................................................................... 10 ........................................................................................... 11 ................................................................................................. 12 ............................................................................... 13 ..................................................................................... 14 ................................................................................... 16 ..................................................................................... 17 ........................................................................... 18 ........................................................................................... 20 ..................................................................................... 21 ....................................................................................... 22 ..................................................................................... 23 .................................................................................................. 24 viii

........................................................................................................ 26 .................................................... 28 ................................................................................... 34

When I was a child, I had a dream which repeated for many nights. This dream was a collage of images of Oranges and Sailboats. I believe our dreams are a vital part of who we are. Years later, I met Joe on a poetry site. His profile picture was that of an orange and the first picture he sent me was of a sailboat. He is my best friend today and has been the most influential person in my writing as of the past year. These poems have all been written within the past six months. They represent my spiritual views on life and love and reflect much of what Joe has taught me. I hope you enjoy and walk away from this little chapbook with new insights and a simple smile!

As humans ... we see beauty and our minds want to contain it in a jar, or a bottle placed in a cage, tied with a rope, so that it may never escape our sight, our vision. This is not love. As spirits we see beauty and we want to set it free to the sky to the ocean to the roads as it may be ... be beauty, as beauty is only beautiful when it is loved and loves thee. As lovers â&#x20AC;Ś we are not controlled! Love is trust, the lover will love with the will invested in thee. 1

Something, a feeling, I've fallen in love, yes! I've fallen for his catch ... for catching me and boy, man oh man, he is quite a catch! The catcher also the catchee ... and catchee's not even a word in the dictionary. But there are no words in the dictionary to define how he's defined me. I think I'll write him a poem and brand this word in his name and call it the bible of feeling of which no definitions could touch nor breathe. My love for his love for me.

The sad folks entwine lies Scratching, upon bleak audio records and as they repeat, profusely, I spin God's beautiful verse laughing joyfully.

The rain feels cold and clammy in December’s throws, just before the snow begins falling, one knows chiller days are lingering. As I walk I dream of surreal Sudden Spring’s of Summer’s hot affairs, I do not forget, of warmer days to share. I spot a couple, holding hands tightly on a slippery park bench, drenched, in forever’s love and eternities carelessness for December’s frozen hugs. The couple does not dash nor complain of the near freezing rains, as I wantonly gaze, their affections. From the couple’s undying affections I understand, unlike December’s frost It is only love that is constant.

Our love's fresh as moon's debut, clear as crooning crickets revue. Our love's eternally true, as near night sky's azure blue. You are a star in my view, afar shines your loving hue. I feel you on me imbue, as you feel my soul renew. Post full days, nights will ensue, cool calm breezes of lovers cue. all of our days and nights due, I will rise to shine for you, do the things that lover's do.

The first time I wrote a poem I was melodically moved, as an artist's hands to raw emotions. It was a feeling like, Damn! 'I need a pen and piece of paper, right now! Like a joint to a hippieâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s existential experienceI needed my fix ... (Like all things Cathartic are addicting) The second time I wrote a poem I was overflowed with tears of torture The only way to stay afloat and hold the damn was to fill the pages with the madness, which I alone, could not contain! (Like all things adjunctively addictive)

The third time I wrote a poem I was hooked to poetry, like a breath to life's very essences, It was a feeling like Damn! My passion to write, Was as instinctive as my desire to breathe Somehow I knew that life and poetry were connected Like a dot to everything else ... I never wondered why, I accepted this self-extension as the best expression imbued, upon searching, finding, loving and letting go. I pray the last poem I write, is grandfathered with a smileso I smile now, because you never know ... what poem you write, will be your last one to show.

Your Heart's Poetry courses through my veins. Like a creative brush your wanting words paint, fresh flowing vibrant colors of love unto my brain. Your Heart's Poetry flourishes bountiful days and like the richness of a diamond's sparkle, my hopeful heart shines because of your ways. Your Heart's Poetry seeps through my lips. each one of our marvelously magic moments, body and mind conceives, I long for your kiss. Your Hearts Poetry, an artistic richness of red, life force to my existence you'll eternally glow, there's no looking back now baby, only ahead.

White wayward woolpack whittles wry within winter's wearily woes, whistle when wafting winds wonder -while walking we warriors wonder wishfully waking windward.

Beauty O' beauty Tabebula tree, canvas playing in oil-soaked memory, heart of an artist is capturing thee. Your lovely picture bathed in heart's light, gleaming and joyful vivacious delight, artist has rendered the summer's sweet sight. Beauty O' beauty o'er grasses of green, sunlit bright songbirds will ruffle and preen, plants loved and tended by pixies unseen.

From my heart I hand to you my treasures and you will see yourself in the reflection of my most precious belongings. I share them with you all of them, you'll see, yourself in me. I gave you my pride and you mutilated it in the sound of my voice unintentionally drowning out our souls. I made room, for the treasures of my heart are ever changing around your permanent residency, they revolve. From my heart, I love you and you are more important than anything too big to make room for your love. So my ego shrank so we could grow. 11

In the still of light nights in the fondness of the fondest sprites invites a joy, most uninvited by the thoughts of the seriously slighted. She never walked through the door where their thoughts were uninviting to the sprites allure. Instead she waited outside the threshold silent yet bold, watery eyes to her heart no surprise only she could see the light, In the presence of the dim.

In the sweetest saucy silence of seductive sultry sighs, delicious dear dreams dangle into dawn's decadent dance. Upon our deep desires linger needful naughty nights, and each melodic song of love's a new erotic stance. Throughout the history of sacred sensuous 'sexy time', no other lover's fondled my intensely feverous mind. I love the smokin' way you woo me, naked, lookin' fine. When I'm awake or when I sleep, when in the shower, when I eat you are my inspiration I'm so happy you are mine! I once did things begrudgingly and always felt defeat. But everything I do, I do with happiness and grace Especially when you call me "precious, princess pantyface." Just picturing the nakedness of your bodacious bod my mundane daily chores are filled with giddy giggling glee. Imagining us between the sheets my heart is shocked and awed, and has me doing things, my love, that only you should see. From when I open up my eyes I'm bushy tailed and bright, to when I close my silken lids expecting sweet delight. Now every minute every day we're naked in my mind, Walmart, or in the pews of Church; it's always 'sexy time'.

Wisdom, means nothing, without the wise wisdom's surmised! (The wise, the wise, the wise, echoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s of time.) So, what is wisdom? Is wisdom surmounted of a smile? is wisdom wiser than a furious fit? Does it make Me wise that I can rhyme? But if I rhymed with one syllable words, what if someone came along And rhymed two syllable rhymes? Does that make them more the wise? Poets are funny creatures! What if neither rhymers had used meter, So a third poet came along and used meter! Yet the third poet's meter had no form. So, a fourth poet came along and wrote about the day that form was born. 14

Then a fifth poet who was inexperienced, (for he really didn't know rhyme, meter or form) said to the educated and wiser poets than he, "Thank you, for showing me how to improve myself." And the educated poets were thankful for the spirit in the voice of the novice poet. All of the poets were grateful that there was always more to learn. None of the poets thought they were superior to the other, for they all had something to learn. There was a sixth man, who thought he knew everything, so, he was never a poet at all. For he wrote only one poem which he never let another living soul read. And since it was so wonderful, superior, perfect: he never wrote another for fear one would be better and ruin the other. The other poets wondered: "If poetry is relative to the reader, how can a poem be perfect unless the reader is perfect?" And wisdom laughed like a baby until ignorance, embarrassed, was long gone.

I desired to climb to sweet love's mountain top Convinced that this beauty could never quite stop. I stood at the small of the vast mountain's trail, With fear of the falls that the climb may entail. Despite my best efforts I begin to wail, Instinctively taking a stiffening stance, My muscles all hardened from fear and romance. You knew how to climb and you gave me a chance, You waited for me, I took hold of your pants. In searching for love I held fast, would not bail. As long as your pants held I thought, "I can't fail." With your loving guidance all mountains we'll scale. Both happy as shit when we make the hilltop, We just reach the peak and your pants finally drop.

there was a time this poem was alive it could breathe, it had hair there was a time this poem was something to me it was once viable it had gills in the sea of you there was a time when I wrote this poem it meant everything to me, now it makes me feel nothing but wonderment then again there was a time I thought all roses were red and love was giving the devil his fill for you

Take the time to dance find your toes, take off your socks dig deep into the earth write a rhythm so intense fire will ignite from the seams of your pants. I spun, with a smile my iPod the map to my hips sway I took control of the ugly headache overwhelming spitfire of my conscious overcame with a poem inside of a dance not of this earth my feet were yellow from the dust of ten thousand stars

and the nasty headache uninvited when I stopped the clock to twirl, So take the time to dance, take the time to heal there's nothing to do that means more than the meaning of what feels real. Dance through the fields of overwhelming stinkweeds to decadent chocolate flowers. eat your heart out..... with the scent of love.

I'll never be physically healthy and bodily dying like I was, before I had your love. As long as I have your love.

There’s something beautiful, In an egg’s raw yolk, bright and true When it’s not served up This way … that way … Unscrambled; holds true form. Sunny side up, cooked halfway to deformed. The cook’s perfect egg; hard thoughts boiled for ten, Fifteen minutes. A minute too long may be ruined. But there's something beautiful In a raw egg’s vibrant yellow yolk, a wet tear, a brave heart No chef … no perfectionist … can imitate or spoil.

We soar with nothing left to doubt, when eyes of dreaming see; that which our childhood instincts chirp lest taught, birth right's esprit. Like the songbirds quick dismissal of the worms well beaten course, when we know nothing learned as truth, our hearts can find the source.

I cherish, inhale, heart content, our meeting bore no accident, love gains as plastic memories drift and I accept God's greatest gift, when long ago and far away, our hearts met, speaking gracefully. Tomorrow's trust of blooms expands in random rain's sustaining hands. Before we, I exist unhappy, dried roses, daisies grieve slaphappy, when long ago and far away, our hearts met, speaking gracefully. Our passion's fire when first we met, tops 'Romeo and Juliet'. Our garden's sign says no trespass, despite rejections which amassed, when long ago and far away, our hearts met, speaking gracefully.

Like bones. No, like flowers. No, like smiles. Like coffee at 2:00 in the morning. Oh! I know, like tickles. Yes, like tickles, under my arms, laughter from the gut in the belly, love is strong, delicate and funny. But the fool said love was serious. Like business meetings. Like finals. No, like funerals. And he died in his vain attempt to love her ... So, the willing man said "Love is like chances and forgiveness, and really, REALLY, REALLY, bad days." His tears, 24

willing to accept this, apologies for imperfections. Then the lover said, "It is okay my love, for you are like a flower that grows in my heart, tickling my funny bone." So the lucky said, "I am lucky, and this thing in the English language called love, is a blessing." Like a seed that flourishes in the night, when no one sees till it rises in the morning sun.

All I ask is that you love me, as you always have. All I ask is that you keep me beautiful, as you always have. As you have saved me from death with your love; all I aspire for is your truth. There really is no way to speak of that which is unspeakable. There seriously is no language, for that which thrives on sighs alone. An infinite amount of attempts, as I have labored to label it ... But love is not a clothes tag. I rip those out anyhow, they irritate me. I feel much more comfortable, Knowing the instruction by heart. All I ask is that you let me wear your sweater as I love you, all I wish to know, 26

and feel. an infinite amount of tags, could not surmount to the feel of your cotton. The instructions are in your movements, through the imperfections of my soul. All I have become, is through your love. All I ask is that nothing else Means more through the hell you have endured, than to save my dying body. This is my infinite joy.

You best have a thick skin If you want to be a writer. People will read your writes, Some will make comments. Some will praise your works With high compliments, Tell you how amazing you are And how your piece was a real Tear jerker. They love reading you And kiss the paper you write on. For those readers you need no thought. Some readers who read your works Let you know how you could Improve your work, With a period here and a comma there, Suggest you should use this word Instead of that word. But other than that it was fantastic. If this upsets you, find another vocation. If you can take constructive criticism And improve your writing skills, You have some skin. Other people will nicely tell you 28

Your write wasn't their cup of tea, However, they will praise you anyhow Just to even it out. Or perhaps they won't. If you get offended by every hack Who doesn't like your work Or even causes you doubt as a writer, You have a thin skin. But you need a thick skin If you want to be a writer. Some readers will completely Degrade your work And abuse you to their best, Usually because they generally feel An impotence within; "Poetry is dead." And no one can write like them, Or their favorite writer. They look down upon you. You need a thick skin to let these comments Roll off your shoulders Like ice water off a spring mountainside. If, however, this makes you cry or mad or upset Enough to throw a punch, And you dream of poetry police, 29

Or inexpensive assassins, You should not be a writer. Some readers are gonna troll the scene for fun And leave totally rude and offensive comments Telling you to give up writing As a whole, Because you're worthless And have no idea what you're writing about. If this makes you upset Then you should not be a writer, Cause your skin is too thin. And you need a thick skin to be a writer, Because like the hyenas in the Savannah they smell fear And follow you home And you gotta be thick-skinned enough That it wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t break metaphorical bones, Stab your poor Muse in the heart, Or chase your ego into the closet. These things take too long to heal And could ruin breakfast â&#x20AC;Ś

Alison Breskin's unique world view: one of peace, harmony, love, laughter and the occasional blond moments, read like a cup of cocoa on a cold winter's day. Her gentle words express the brilliant spirituality she believes exists within all of us. Check out her poetry such as haiku, senryu, sonnet, rhyme and nonrhyme, fiction stories, Children's stories and self-help books. If you're looking for hope, inspiration or just a break from the mundane world, Alison's lovely poetry and stories are effective and cheaper than medication, without all those scurvy side effects. Oh, did I mention she was really cute? Born in 1979 and raised in New Jersey, she is a nurse since 2008. She has been writing poetry since the age of twelve and has compiled ten books in the past two years. Two of her books, Birdsongs of Poetry and Birdsongs of Poetry 2 are mostly composed of her earlier works. They are a collection of poetry that entails personal reactions to her father's heroine drugaddiction and ultimate demise, teenage love and/or infatuation, confusion about life and misguided angst in general. Since she has had a dysfunctional childhood, she's used writing as a sort of inexpensive therapy, with pretty good results. Her next two books of poetry, Waking Spirit Dreams and Waking Spirit Dreams 2, are mostly composed from more recent works, many of which have been written over the past 3 years. It is 31

only since early 2012, she has truly come to realize who she is and why she was so hurt and angry most of her life. She held onto a lot of anger and misunderstanding from past abuse that needed to be let go of. Then she was miraculously healed by conversations with a friend. Now, she no longer carries issues from the past or worries about the future. She lives in the moment. Since she was 'saved' from a life of suffering and depression, She wanted to share her experiences in this regard with the world. She has written a self-help book about her healing experience called The Artistry of LIFE: Knocking on the WHITE DOOR. She is currently working on her next self-help book in the series and planning to write 4 self-help books altogether based on personal experiences. Her favorite form of poetry is the haiku. Out of these writings she has assembled a book of haiku called Heartwarming haiku. This book holds many haiku and senryu poems she has written along with an educational tutorial in writing haiku and senryu. This includes fun exercises on practicing the art of this little poem. She has published an inspirational journal for your own writings called â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Notes From Another Self'. It is a 6x9 sized writing journal with blank pages bordered with an elegant frame and short inspirational quotes from her poems and personal journals. She has written a chapbook of poems called Heart-pieces Songbook. These poems/songs were written during a time of heartbreak and misery and used as therapy. She has shared these lyrics of the heart hoping they will perform the same 32

function for others. Lastly she has written a children's book, called The Habits of Rabbits, with an inspirational message to children not to have fear and a Chapbook of spiritual and love poems titled, Oranges & Sailboats.

The Artistry of LIFE: Knocking on the WHIT DOOR The Habits of Rabbits Birdsongs of Poetry Birdsongs of Poetry 2 Waking Spirit Dreams Waking Spirit Dreams 2 Heartwarming Haiku Heart-Pieces Songbook Notes From Another Self