Creative QUARTERLY MAGAZINE. August 2015
CQ
A note from the Editor.
To the August edition of CQ. CQ (Creative Quarterly) is the new name of the previously titled magazine ‘Rambling Away’ The reason for the name change is a simple one; originally ‘Rambling Away’ was founded to promote the written word of writers, story tellers, poets, essayists and bloggers. Over the ensuing editions it became clear there was a whole host of artists, artisans and creative folk who also wished to showcase their work to the world. With that in mind ‘Rambling Away’ started to enable all these creative talents to feature their works within the magazine. By virtue of encompassing such a wide range of talent the original title had become non-representative of the magazines content, even a little misleading to potential readers, therefore it became prudent to rename the publication.
Hence the change of name to CQ, short for Creative Quarterly, which I hope is not only representative but also illustrative and descriptive of the magazines content. Read, comment, follow and share as you will, but most of all please enjoy CQ
Thank you, Paul.
This is part guide part legal stuff, which it seems is necessary to include somewhere within CQ.
Firstly a note regarding copyright. The ownership of Intellectual, Creative Rights and Copyright of all of content & material submitted and published within CQ magazine remains that of the Individuals, Partnerships, Collectives, Corporates or Other Bodies who have submitted or contributed that content to CQ. By submitting or contributing works to CQ magazine the Rights Holders, by implication, agree to allow CQ magazine to reproduce those submitted and contributed works under serial licence, on behalf of/and for the Rights Holders benefit. The Disclaimer. 1, The contents of CQ magazine does not necessarily reflect the views, beliefs or opinions of the magazines Staff or it’s Editor. 2, CQ magazine cannot be held liable for omissions, typographic errors, or other inaccuracies of any description formed or made during the production and publication of the magazine. About Submissions and Contributions & Advertising. Standard submissions and contributions are published within CQ magazine free of charge. A fee may be payable for non-standard entries. Direct Advertising is classed as chargeable content. Please contact the editor directly to discuss your requirements. If you wish to discuss or clarify any of the above, or any other matter regarding CQ magazine, its publication, content, distribution, advertising, promotions, features or contributions please contact the editor, Paul White, via email at
paulznewpostbox@gmail.com
The Abduction of Rupert DeVille The Abduction of Rupert DeVille is a thrilling suspense story and a love story all in one. Written with a touch of wit and humour that will keep you turning page after page. Paul White has that rare ability of bringing characters to life, making them real people, with feelings, worries and inner doubts, just like you and I. Paul White has masterly crafted The Abduction of Rupert DeVille into a w ork that leads the reader astray, dow n the dark alleyways of the past, before bringing them back into the glaring light of the present. Paul manages to do all this while weaving a mixture of laugh-outloud humour and off beat wit into the story.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Abduction-Rupert-DeVille-Paul-White/ dp/1500374148
CONTENTS
The George Wilder Radio Show …………………………………………..Page No. 7 RC deWinter Poetry ……………………………………………………………..Page No. 8 Jane Brideson Artworks ……………………………………………………….Page No. 15 The Ron Shaw Radio Show ………………………………………………….Page No. 21 Sherrie De Valeria Article /Blog …………………………………………..Page No. 22 Francisco Rdz. Vernet Spanish Poetry ………………………………...Page No. 25 Angie Raab Photo Journalist , Article …………………………Page No. 34 Maria Wyrick Poetry ………………………………………………………..Page No. 41 Audrey Lisquit Blog Article ……………………………………………..Page No. 50 Joe Castro Artist ……………………………………………………….Page No. 55 Tracy M Bold Children's Story Teller …………………………….Page No. 64 Stephanie Slevin. Singer & Poet …………………………………………...Page No. 69
George Wilder Radio Show
George Wilder is a well-known Author and Writer and Internet Radio Talk Show Host. Each Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday evening the George Wilder Show is broadcast on www.blogtalkradio.com/georgewilderjr Encompassing a whole host of topics (and also a brainy and smart quiz question for his smart listeners)! The winner will have a chance to win an eBook from the Author and Host, downloadable directly from Amazon. ‘Things in the news’ and ‘anything goes’ have just been added to the programmes format; so now you can talk about anything you want. Although the show is always geared towards authors and writers, (because your host, George Wilder is also an Author), no topic is off limits. George is always open to News, Fun Talk, and Serious Discussion that can spark spirited debate and conversation. Join George Wilder Jr., every Friday, Saturday and Sunday at 6 pm on ‘Blogtalkradio’, www.blogtalkradio.com/georgewilderjr You can be par t of the show by calling the Guest number 347-857-1762 Let’s get started and have some fun! George Wilder shows are also podcast in iTunes. J ust go to the ‘Blog Talk Radio website’ and listen to past shows to catch up on all the action! Follow the show, listen every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday starting at 6pm to 7pm on into prime time. You can find George on Facebook, Twitter, and Google.
www.amazon.com/author/gwilder http://www.georgewilderjr.com/ http://www.amazon.com/George-Wilder-Jr./e/B007QOZ5BC
The following poems are
From the wonderful
RC deWinter **** RC deWinter is a photographer, digital artist, writer and singer-songwriter currently living and working in Connecticut.
RC deWinter’s art and poetry have appeared in print, notably in the New York Times, Uno: A Poetry Anthology, Pink Panther Magazine, Arts Creation Magazine, The Sun Magazine, The 2River View and The American Muse. Five artworks were licensed to ABC-TV for use as set decor for "Desperate Housewives". Ms. deWinter is honoured to be the first digital artist invited to exhibit her work at an October 2011 solo show the Arts of Tolland Gallery in Connecticut. Why not take a look at RC deWinter’s works at
http://rc-dewinter.artistwebsites.com
Avant la Révolution It had been a day of restlessness. Too much to do, too many plans; I had not been able to summon the will to accomplish much. Anger boiled in me, a storm born of injustice and deprivation. Come evening I set out to walk in the moonlight, hoping to clear my head, calm myself for the great and bloody work to come. When I came to the open field I was greeted by the sight of a motley band of peasants – men, women, children – some playing instruments, some brandishing large staffs – marching in the direction of the city to the beat of a drum pounded out by a large caped figure, whom I later discovered to be une vieille, albeit inordinately robust.
I approached the man leading this astounding parade and inquired of him their provenance and mission. Never stopping his determined stride, he replied, "From St. Cloud, home to much misery, we march to tell the king we are hungry. We march to tell the king we need bread." "Bonne chance," I grunted as they continued on, unable to tear my gaze away from this oddly-costumed assemblage. I watched until they passed over the hill, out of sight but not out of mind, then turned off to the path that takes me home, visions stained in scarlet and black forming in my imagination. I had wished them luck, and they'll need it. There will be no bread without first the slicer. I sit with renewed determination and polish my blade.
Awaiting the Tempest Having sent my minion off to magick briny mayhem, I stand silent in my watchtower, awaiting the consequences of my orchestration. It has been too long, this family rupture, and the time has come for healing. The world will not be right until the ragged wound, all infection cleansed, is drawn close, decently sewn so as to leave the least scar possible. Only then will I be free of the prickings of my conscience and my slaves, no longer a prisoner of the dark art that tombs me more securely than the walls I stand within. O wild waves, do your work; deliver whom I must confront, forgive and once again
acknowledge as mine own.
Down at the Late Night CafĂŠ I still go down to the late night cafĂŠ, the one that stays open all night. I'm the only one there, in my usual chair, drinking coffee 'til dawn's early light.
I remember when it was you and me; we'd bleed truth for hours on end. Love it wasn't, I know, all those nights long ago, but you always were more than a friend.
How I miss the secrets we used to share before feelings got in the way. But goodbye was goodbye, although sometimes I cry as I sit in the late night
Retrospective why did the universe
confession is good for the soul
send me the one
if not the heart
meant for me
even when the answer is no
only to lock
there are words that must be said
his heart in chains?
I have no regrets
it is your voice I miss beyond all others the world fell away when you entered the arena it's a hard habit to break just when it's been put to rest a stray thought ignites that old poisonous desire your voice plucks at my heart like marauding fingertips on harp strings a dimly-remembered echo of something wonderful that could have been
Hear me read this poem:
bit.ly/ZLjU3M
Sweet Mystery one glorious explosion a flash in the void of eternity and all that ever was and ever will be was begun a cosmological expansion racing to an endpoint (if an ending there will be) we cannot map we swim in a soup of stars having been gifted (and been cursed) with just enough intelligence to know we never will be certain of a meaning or a purpose is it not enough to simply know we are?
Jane Brideson The Ever-Living Ones My passion for painting and stories began in my childhood when I created images, wrote about magical worlds and read avidly.
Many years later, after working in London as a graphic designer, I finally moved to live in rural Ireland where I immersed myself in Irish mythology and folklore, listened to story-tellers and visited many of the ancient, sacred sites here. The Ever-Living Ones, my paintings of the ancient Irish goddesses and gods, their places within the landscape and the customs of the island, were inspired by these years' of research and discovery. Within each painting there are specific places associated with each character, such as the Bronze Age mound at Newgrange, as well as related mythology and archaeological artefacts found in The National Museum of Ireland. The focal point of my images are the deities themselves who emerge from land or water to offer the viewer a gift, a way of connecting to them and my hope is that The Ever-Living Ones themselves speak directly to the viewer. Galleries of The Ever-Living Ones can be viewed on my blog:
http://theeverlivingones.blogspot.ie My paintings are available to purchase as art cards a nd signed, limited edition prints. Details can be found here:
http://theeverlivingones.blogspot.ie/p/how-toorder.html To contact me please visit my page on Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Ever-LivingOnes-by-Jane-Brideson/299319623606501
or email morrigan@mac.com
MANANNÁN MAC LÍR -
Irish god associated with the sea, lakes and inlets.
Watercolour, gouache & pastel on watercolour paper 15" x 22" Model: Flor Burke Mannanán is cloaked in his magical mist offering a golden boat, one of the treasures from the Broighter Hoard, Co. Derry, which was discovered in a flooded area and is considered to be a votive libation to Mannanán. At the heart of the painting is the full moon shining on water and it is from this tranquility that we journey outwards in the golden boat to the Blessed Isles, to Tír Fo Thonn, the Land Beneath Wave and Tír Na Nog, the Land of Youth.
THE FIDDLE PLAYER Watercolour, gouache & pastel on watercolour paper 11" x 16" Model: Colm Mac Con Iomaire. This portrait of the Irish musician and fiddle player Colm Mac Con Iomaire weaves together the images, stories and folklore which inspires his music. In the old tales the fiddle player is given his gift by the people of the Otherworld, the fairies, and occasionally the instrument itself is enchanted.
ÁIRMID
- Irish goddess of herbs & healing.
Watercolour and gouache on watercolour paper 15" x 22" Model: Áine-Máire Ní Mhurchú The goddess Áirmid is the daughter of Dían Cécht, the healer god of Irish mythology.With her father and brother, Miach, she healed those injured in the Second Battle of Magh Tuiredh and by singing incantations over the well of Sláine was able to resurrect dead warriors. When her brother was killed Áirmed wept over his grave and her tears watered the healing herbs of Ireland, some say that 365 herbs sprung from the earth over Miach's body. Áirmid gathered and organised them by spreading them on her cloak but the knowledge of many remedies has been lost over time and herbalists are still seeking them today.
THE LONE BUSH Watercolour, gouache & pastel on watercolour paper 11" x 16" The Lone Bush, a whitethorn, stands on the coast of Connemara and trees such as this one frequently feature in the Irish landscape and in folklore. It is believed that these special trees are connected to the people of the Otherworld, the fairies, and are thought to be meeting places where they gather to roam the countryside and for this reason to cut down or maim a fairy tree is to invite their displeasure with eventual misfortune falling upon those who do so.
The Ron Shaw Show
The Shaw Show Redemption Hour where fellow invisibles are provided a forum to be heard and seen. Write and tweet me live or afterwards when listening to the archived tape of the show here at The ArtistFirst Radio Network at www.ArtistFirst.com. You never know... when you might just be on my live show. I guarantee you one thing... expect the unexpected every Monday night from 8 p.m. to 9 p.m. (Eastern Time) on The Ron Shaw Show!
BEAUTY.IN.THE.EYES.OF.MY.FATHER. This wonderful, gentle, yet thought provoking post has been written by
Sherrie De Valeria I walk silently toward the windows, holding my dark green mug of coffee and sipping this slowly. The heat rises from it and the scent overpowering the room with its dark perfume – coffee is holy. I cannot imagine starting my day even without a small drop of caffeine in my vein, otherwise my whole system would dysfunction and break down. Funny me, but I am.
The darkness is lifting and I watch a thin shaft of scarlet orange and lavender has creased over the horizon, setting the fields of grasses on fire with it glorious morning light. I pause and bow my head, saying my thanks as that is my habit to praise and praying that my day will be filled with blessings and of good things.
As I was watching the sunlight came right touching the surface of my garden, flooding the space of my kitchen at the same time with its paler shade of white and pink, I saw how the dark shadows strecthing itself longer over the walls and the furniture. There were many mishapen shapes of shadows dancing everywhere and that reminds me on the last conversation I had with father once about the expectation of life and how he sees beauty in it. Like everyone else, my father also love flowers, but he was never keen to do gardening as my mother was. But when she died, something had changed his mind and he decided since then to take care of her garden and he adores the work of the garden very much. He can even turn an ugly green stone into an art if he wants too, and he can arrange the flowers and write poetry with it with his gentle touches on the sand of time.
One day I came to find him doing sketches of a waterfall with giant orchids on both sides of the canvas. It was a very beautiful art work and I sat next to him, watching him doing this silently. He lifted up his eyes often as he studying some of his flowers in the garden and from time to time stretching his pencil to the front as if he is measuring of what he wants to draw.
It was then he abruptly turn to me and smiled. He said, “I do not live to search for the greatest things in this life like I used too. I search for its ‘true moments’ – just like what I am doing now. Do you know why?” I shook my head. “Because the ‘true moments’ are now to spend and you may have lost that ‘greatest things’ at the second you cared too much to look at the direction on bigger things. It is in the small moments like this that you watch ‘true beauty’. When your mother died, it was then that I understood her philosophy on life – her garden is the Zen of her Soul. Here in this garden is the centre of her Soul. You see those lights?” My father pointed up to the kemboja tree where my mother’s green marble Buddha figure stood. “There when the wind blow, you can see how the tree sway and the flowers dance, you can see how the sunlight falls on those little schrubs on it,” He said, pointed out at it and walked to the tree. “I still ask the larger questions, but I do not do seek for the larger answers anymore. See at this shrubs – it is small, so ordinary and nothing more than an insignificant shrub. But you must really look at it to recognize its strong roots and full, with its own rich and private life that no one seeks to see even. Because we have never bother.”
“See how the sunlight falls on everything here? Are any of us so different from all of these? We too, are strong, full of life and almost unnoticed? If I cannot see the miracle in these flowers or in those trees, why should I expect to see it in ideas and books?” He closed the conversation there and went back to sketch his drawing again – and in silence. Here I stood at my windows, I watch my garden and see the flowers moves as the wind comes and the trees swaying and the grasses dancing. Watching its movements as it plays around with the sunlight that falls on them, I see the Miracle of Beauty through that in the eyes of my father.
In my own garden, my flowers are the bearer of truth and it has its own wisdom to show and to tell in their on songs of nature. When the rain falls and the birds sings, that is when I see that we are all in this together – life to its fullest and beauty.
The way of the petals are written in philosophy That shows the astronomical wisdom of ancient Where the ways of old are wise Set the illustration of arts itself Where drawings are religion And songs are incantations of Soul Flowers are a whole universe of us That encapsulate breath of Life And tree is a divine symbol of Knowledge Hidden in roots and fruits Tasted sweet like golden Honey Where God engraved His name Holy. It is here
https:/sherriedevaleriahendrie.wordpress.com where Sherrie writes her personal blog, some small writings that come from the Heart, perhaps some poetry or just anything that inspires, is funful and of full of hopes or dreams.
Francisco Rdz. Vernet Was born in México City, in 1964. He graduated from the Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México as an Orthopaedic Surgeon. His passions are, Nadezda, Bruno and Ines take the most part of it. Francisco’s other affections are, anthropology, history, science fiction, a nice spicy meal with a fine cigar, music, gardening, long afternoon walks and sports. Francisco’s heroes are John Lennon, Vincent Van Gogh... And James Tiberius Kirk. Francisco has published two books to date. His first book was published with Palibrio, under the title: “Somewhere… within the inspirations of life”, in 2011 In 2015, “Still like yesterday”, his second book, was published in Spain, with Entre Renglones Editorial. Nowadays, the author’s work is being published in Umbral, which is an important Spanish magazine throughout Europe and in Trabalibros. Fancisco is currently working on his third and fourth books.
Hojarasca La broza en el comienzo, un susurro suave, que nombra y escoge, y que a cada hoja imputa un sello a manera de letra, que en la ventisca levanta nombres, y acomoda en patrones… incontables significados, a veces oscuros, a veces trinos, a veces truenos, que en mendigar de añoranzas, en imágenes intensas describes desde la taciturna muerte de la libélula,
hasta la deseosa entrega de la noche, en un sinfín de alegrías, y un sin tonar de pecados. Broza en prosa, Brozas en verso, Cantata de incontables matices,
Mal versos ritmos que acompañan la campiña, Que a bote de tambor batiente, Y a cañonazo limpio, empujan tu llegada, Imponiendo tu letrada fila de lugartenientes, Entre comas y puntos, A cuesta de pluma y tinta; de nombre cortés y de apellido inmaculado…
En tiempo de idilio, en tiempo de avance. Broza multicolor, A contraste de tiempos y en contraste de tonos, Insinuando proclamas, Invitando revoluciones, De entre giros y piruetas, A las letras mataste, Fusilando a palos, Dibujando cartoneros, Esbozando entre líneas, verdades eternas embriagadas de infortunios, Verdades embriagadas de amores escondidos, Embriagadas de amores a medias, entre medias y otras medidas mundanas, De escribanos mudos, De lectores ciegos, De juglares arrítmicos, De solitarios desgarrados en tirones de melancolía
Entre letras y esquemas, Te escribo, pausado de ideas, Adulando a tu mal pasada ortografía, Ondeando tu desquebrajada insignia, Oyendo el cantar entonado de tu prosa, En un día de otoño, En un día de pascua de inmensa monotonía.
Desambiguaciones sobre el amor, Primera parte. Todos hablamos del amor, Mencionamos "el amor" al menos una vez en un día, para bien o para mal, y aún así, todos fallamos cuando tratamos de expresar lo que significa... he aquí algunas consideraciones ... para debatir? ¿Qué significa el amor? De acuerdo a muchos diccionarios: La palabra “AMOR” es un sustantivo... que significa, 1. un afecto apasionado, profundamente sentido hacia otra persona. 2. un sentimiento de apego personal, cálido o de profundo afecto, como a un padre, hijo o amigo. 3. pasión o deseo sexual. 4. una persona hacia quien se siente amor; persona amada; cariño. 5. una historia de amor; un incidente intensamente amoroso; amour. 7. coito; cópula. Sea cual sea la extensión de esta palabra; un hecho que no se puede negar... es que implica afecto, con pasión... y apego personal. PERO, y subrayo la palabra, pero ... la pasión, el afecto y el apego implican, sin duda, la necesidad de establecer que estos son sentimientos y emociones, que se dan ... pero por desgracia, no se corresponden siempre… Entonces, la acción de dar amor, puede ser unilateral, y puede implicar un toque de soledad, incomprensión, Desamour, y en última instancia... una dosis de dolor.
Entonces, en cierta medida, el amor... puede igualar las virtudes y defectos. Las líneas escritas, no son ajenas a estas ambigüedades; de hecho, las líneas escritas ofrecen al escritor, el medio de expresar esas tribulaciones internas, el dolor medido en lágrimas y la desesperación medida en tristeza. El amor es igual a... afecto. El amor es igual a... necesidad. El amor es igual a... extrañar a alguien.
El amor es igual a... la desesperación. El amor es igual a... un motivo. El amor es igual a... una rima. El amor es igual a... un verso. El amor es igual a... desamor. El amor es igual a... sensualidad. El amor es igual a... el sexo. El amor es igual a... flores. El amor es igual a... la codicia. El amor es igual a... el amor.
las desambiguaciones sobre el amor, son muy útiles, aun así, las líneas se mezclan en la mente y el corazón del escritor en muchos aspectos inquietantes, que dan a luz a sonetos, coplas, líneas, citas, e historias en las que nos encontramos expuestos desnudos, a nuestras propias calamidades, miedos, esperanzas, odios, necesidades...
an sólo Romeo pudiera leer mis líneas,
Si
Si Isolda pudiera leer esto, ¿Habrían de reír conmigo? Cayendo en el borde del absurdo, me atrevo a decir, que cada uno de nosotros, nos hemos encontrado a nosotros mismos en el abismo del dolor, donde una palabra puede cambiar el destino de nuestras líneas, dando o quitando vida, sirviendo el único propósito de establecer la necesidad de nuestra analogía, en la que vivimos, profundamente en el corazón de cada palabra, que expresa nuestro amor, nuestro dolor ... nuestros corazones, los cuales vertemos en cada línea, que damos al mundo, compartiendo nuestros demonios, y ángeles. Mis demonios y ángeles son tú, la ambigüedad que seca mis lágrimas, la ambigüedad que reclama mi tintero como su reino, la ambigüedad que empaña mi aflicción ... con felicidad, la ambigüedad que calma mis temores, la ambigüedad que calma mi tristeza, la ambigüedad ... que alivia mi dolor. la ambigüedad que dirige mi mano sobre el papel, moldeando mis líneas, templando el contenido, facilitando el flujo de tristeza en cada palabra, reconociendo la necesidad de gozo... de vez en cuando. Y a veces... La ambigüedad que me da esperanza. Es entonces cuando otro significado del "amor", para mí... eres TÚ.
Desambiguaciones sobre el "amor". Segunda parte,
Se hace más difícil, y más profundo... hablar o escribir sobre el amor, porque puedes ser fácilmente malinterpretado y criticado. Hablar de la acción de amar, es arriesgado... pues, implica necesariamente un poco, y una pizca de sensualidad. Esto merece ser tomado solamente... ¡con madurez! Pero... ¿Tendremos que definir "madurez"? Espero, NO tener que hacerlo. Repasemos... EL AMOR... es también un verbo que implica afecto, pasión... ¡Sí! Una gran cantidad de pasión... pero, y hago hincapié en la palabra, pero, esta vez... EL AMOR, ¡Implica la acción de amar a ese "alguien", quién es el sujeto de la acción del verbo! ¡ESTO está intenso! La acción es... AMAR, lo que implica, no sólo el lado apasionado del contacto humano, con sus espacios privados e íntimos, y la exploración y la explosión de las caricias necesarias... El acto de amar, implica una gran cantidad de... otros significados, y verbos. Repasemos algunas "declaraciones", o ambigüedades... que pueden ser muy útiles; el amor como un acto, requiere implícitamente el acto combinado de otros verbos, que en paralelo... realzan y refuerzan el significado del acto de amar. Estos verbos están presentes siempre, simplemente porque además de la acción carnal de amar, los sentimientos están involucrados.
El amor anhela acariciar a la amada, El amor anhela... sus imperfecciones, El amor anhela sentir su cálida respiración, mientras que la humedad está todavía fresca, empapando su intimidad, dando esperanza a las líneas que el tintero tiene que escribir, purgando el pecado que empapa el papel, donde las palabras cobran vida, gritando por más, despotricando para ser leídas, emergiendo en líneas, creando motivos, hablando de las capas internas del amor ... en el que cada verbo falla al empalar su significado. El amor puede hacerte débil,
el amor puede hacerte fuerte, el amor puede construir jaulas, el amor puede hacer que la gente tonta haga su peor momento, el amor puede hacerte sabio, y aún así ... no entenderás su caída. ¿Es prudente entonces preguntar...? ¿El amor implica... añoranza? ¿El amor implica... melancolía? ¿El amor implica... cuidar? ¿El amor implica... compartir. ¿El amor implica... alegría? ¿El amor implica... absurdo?
¿
El amor implica... lo siento?
¿El amor implica sacrificios...? ¿El amor implica... perdón? ¿El amor implica... la religión? ¿El amor te implica... A ti? Al hablar sobre el amor escrito.... se implica un juego perverso, en el que el escritor agota cada sentimiento, en un deseo desenfrenado de fundir los sentimientos con la tinta, palabras con el tiempo, tu forma con una rima, tus ojos con una línea, tu beso con la eternidad, tu corazón pintado de rojo, tu piel con la suavidad del papel, tu aliento con el aire,
tu contacto con la interminable perversión del tiempo... Escribir del verbo... AMAR, es inútil, si en su acción ... No estas, TÚ.
"Not all those who wander are lost‌" I have been following my chosen path for a while now and what an exciting journey this is. Seeing the world through my lense, capturing the moments and focusing on the important, is a big part of it. Putting it into words is my biggest challenge and I am loving it. At the moment I am working with my photographer friend, on a documentary about the plight of the rhino. We have been entering a world full of amazing people. People, who put their lives on the line every day, as the last barrier between the poacher and the animal they love and protect, people who have been healing hurt souls, people who will try anything to save a species. But there is also a very dark side. Greed. Power. Money. Please support Africa's Anti Poaching Units in their fight for African Wildlife!
There are the last barrier between the animals and the poacher!
Please watch this video and help us make a difference!
https://vimeo.com/130124699
Boots on the Ground Haunted eyes and fatigue etch their faces and exhaustion resounds in their voice. Why would someone risk their life everyday as the last barrier between the poachers ravaging Africa’s rhino population and the rhino itself? It’s the love for South Africa, a country with a uniqueness that spans from the Black Rhino in Kruger National Park to the breaching whales along their endless coastline. It’s the love for the gentle giants and the diverse wildlife roaming more types of terrain than your camera could handle.
The Anti-Poaching Units battle immense humidity and heat during the summer season and brave through storms, rain and the cold in the winter months. Long days and nights result in a lack of sleep, no private life and long, gruesome months away from loved ones. It’s relentless, and takes its toll on both relationships and the soul.
Going out on patrol and living in and out of the bush for days at time might sound exciting to us outsiders, but its mostly exhausting and monotonous. In fact, there is the danger of being attacked by the very wildlife you’re trying to protect. I spent a few days on a private Game Reserve, accompanying these brave men, experiencing the hardship they face, while out there. During the day, we would look for signs of the animals or spoor of poachers along the fence line and gravel roads, while staying undected and silent. This is far more difficult in a bush environment than most people realize. “We have to work as a team, being aware of each other at all times and knowing what to do in an instant when something happens.”
Sometimes being on patrol means staying in a static position with the rhino or on an observation platform, looking out for any movement below us, often for hours at the time. The worst thing for these men is the moment they stumble across an animal that has been poached. They have to deal with feelings of anger, sadness, complete let down, and the nagging wish that they could have been there to save it.
”You learn to cope with it. It is tough. You learn to be focused, it just motivates you to fight harder for your cause.“
“But then you’ll have days when you come across poacher spoor or even find a camp. Once you apprehend them, you have this feeling of accomplishment and you know you have done your job.“
Anti Poaching has come a long way in recent years. Units across Africa have done a tremendous job in saving animal lives, including rhinos. As an addition to patrolling reserves and parks, intelligence is gathered from various different sources and is a major factor in helping to combat poaching. But poaching syndicates have sophisticated weaponry and are often well equipped with drones and helicopters. They even have helpers in veterinary departments. It’s like David vs. Goliath. Its like fighting a war in the dark.
I found these men sliding through mud with battered trucks and smooth tires. I found them sitting next to the very animal they protect, sometimes alone, ready to fight if necessary. I saw them adapt to situations and events on a daily basis, without complaints, just marching on, relentlessly. Most smaller units, such as the unit I had spent time with, grapple with the lack of equipment (such as more night vision devices, better communication devices, surveillance techniques) and run on a shoe string budget. Yet they work tirelessly with what they have.
Its a lonely job, a stressful job, it can be a boring job sometimes. These men put their life on the line every single day, defending a wildlife heritage that belongs to all of us. One sentence stuck with me, in answering the question about why these men will march on. They never give up on the rhino throughout all the hardship they face. “You get to know the animals
you protect, you get to experience nature, the sunrises, the sunsets, you get to see the character of every single animal out there. They find this special place in your heart.“
http://www.sibuya.co.za/en/rhinofoundation-and-anti-poaching http://www.sibuya.co.za/en/rhinopoaching
Boots on the Ground written by Angie Rabb photo-journalist to help highlight the plight of the Rhinoceros in Africa. Photo credits; Angie Raab & Clare James
CQ Magazine is delighted to support Angie &
Sibuya Rhino Foundation. please watch this video
https://vimeo.com/130124699 http://www.sibuya.co.za/en/rhino-foundation-andanti-poaching http://www.sibuya.co.za/en/rhino-poaching
Maria Wyrick Maria was born and raised in Los Angeles California until she moved in 1992 to the Midwest. Maria began writing poetry her sophomore year of high school. For Maria poetry became her therapy. After almost two decades, she decided to begin writing poetry in 2014. Maria was invited online one day in 2015 by a talented poet to join his Poetry Community. She accepted and found out people from everywhere just loved her poems. Maria writes poems on many subjects, she will write some on domestic violence, she is an advocate against the mistreatment of women by men. She is a survivor of domestic violence and is glad she can reach out to women. Her message to women everywhere is "Love Is Not
Abuse". She thanks everyone and appreciates all the love she receives from her fans and supporters.
The following pages are just a small sample of Maria’s poems. Find out more about Maria by visiting her webpage www.poeticessenceofwords.blogspot.co
The definitive poetry collection from Paul White
http://www.amazon.co.uk/ Teardrops-White-Doves-Paul/
Audrey Lisquit French writer We have many lives in a life, I'm sure about that ! After 10 years working for TV shows, I decided to do what I really enjoy : Writing. Every single day, I write, I create links, I discover and you can't imagine how it makes me happy ! My feelings, my smile, and all these good vibes I have in my mind tell me that I have done the good choice. So I am a community manager, blogger and writer. If you are looking for a French content writer, hey ! Take a look on my new blog ! You will read chronicles in french...and in english (thankfully to my translator Kenneth).
http://audreylisquit.com
AL CAPONE ET LA PETITE FRANÇAISE
Adolescente, j’étais chef de bande au lycée. Aimée et crainte. Détestée et respectée. Mon idole, c’était Charlie Chaplin. Non, je rigole ! Celui qui était mon modèle, qui me faisait frémir, qui alimentait mes rêves, c’était Al Capone. Hors de question de me laisser attendrir par des comédies romantiques. J’épluchais films et livres sur le Monsieur et le mur de ma chambre était tapissé de ses plus belles photos : Al à la pêche, Al spectateur d’un match de base-ball, Al fumant un cigare, Al en maillot de bain, Al et sa bande. Au-dessus de mon lit, j’avais affiché ce que j’estimais être son plus beau portrait : Al coiffé de son panama blanc, habillé de son complet trois pièces et de sa cravate à rayures. Il me fixait de ses yeux clairs et ce qui me frappait c’était son regard pétillant qui semblait rire alors qu’il ne souriait pas. Oh cette bouille ! Alors, quand quelques années plus tard je me suis installée à Chicago, il était évident que je devais suivre les traces de mon mentor. Quelle ne fut pas ma déception quand j’appris que le Lexington Hôtel, où étaient installés ses bureaux, avait été détruit. Sacrilège. J’avais les larmes aux yeux, mais je restais digne, devant le parking de quelques places qui avait remplacé le garage où avait été perpétré le massacre de la Saint Valentin.
Et j’étais heureuse, au Green Mill situé sur North Broadway. Ce lieu mythique, mondialement connu par les passionnés de jazz, avait abrité les grandes heures de la bande d’Al Capone et surtout celles de Jack McGurn, dit Machine Gun, qui géra le lieu. Machine Gun était présumé responsable du massacre de la Saint Valentin. La boucle était bouclée. Dans le décor des années 30, assise à la table qu’avait auparavant occupée Al, entourée de photos de mon idole, j’écoutais la musique et laissait mes yeux imaginer ce que nous ne pouvons plus voir. A suivre …
Another cigarette, another sigh, All the while, time ticks by.
Š Paul White 1984
Joe Castro is an accomplished Philadelphia based collage His paintings and collages have been shown in galleries and art been described as “a
controlled explosion,
His work has appeared in the books The Age of Collage: Conte Collective Co,) Z2A: A Collage Alphabet Book (Benzene Edition Kolaj Magazine, FABA Collage Mag, Color Skateboard Magazine numerous a
Joe Castro is a signature member of the National Collage So
artist, musician (The Lift Up), oil painter and graphic designer. spaces across the United States, Canada, and Europe. They have
, aggressive and pensive (Kolaj Magazine)�.
emporary Collage in Modern Art (Gestalten), 50/50 (Collage ns), 60 Americans (ArtVoices) as well as in GQ Style (Germany), and on the cover of The Artist Catalogue (Fall 2013) along with art blogs.
ociety and a board member of the Wilmington Skate Project.
Tornado Alley Medium: cut paper collage on paper Size: 13� x 15� Date: July 2012
Bloodfire Medium: cut paper collage on paper Size: 16.5� x 15.75� Date: December 2014
Heat Lightning Medium: cut paper collage on paper Size: 13� x 19�
Date: July 2014
Kissing the Jaws of Life Medium: cut paper collage on paper Size: 15� x 19� Date: June 2015
Silent, In Silver Medium: cut paper collage on paper Size: 16� x 16� Date: June 2013
The Bones in the Cave Medium: cut paper collage on paper Size: 15� x 178� Date: January 2014
The Nerium Spring Medium: cut paper collage on paper Size: 30� x 22� Date: April 2013
To find out more about
Joe Castro and
see his works in other mediums visit Joe’s website at
http://mightyjoecastro.com/ Find and follow Joe on
twitter: https://twitter.com/ mightyjoecastro and
Facebook: https:// www.facebook.com/joecastroart Or visit
Society6: http://society6.com/ mightyjoecastro Saatchi: http:// www.saatchiart.com/joecastro
My name is
I write picture books and young adu
favorite to write and tell are ghost stories and animals stories. Bes based on the Word of the Day from www.dictionary.com on my w spooky. It just depen Besides writing, I enjoy outdoor activities, playing board games, rea crafty, and spending time with my family My favorite books to read are ghost stories or anything paranorm Sarah Kocek, K. A. Harrington, Madeleine roux, Stephen King, Dea many m I have a second home which is our public library. It is my favorite volunteer there. Last, I love animals and am th
You can find me on socia
Twitter - @1967BoldWriter LinkedIn - https: Goodreads - https://www.goodreads.com/user/show/336
s Traci M. Bold.
ult books which are in the process of finding their publisher. My
sides writing books, I write daily Word of the Day stories or quips webpage. Some stories are silly, some are dramatic and some are nds on the selection. ading whatever I can get my hands on, painting, anything artsy and and really old dog who also is my muse. mal, picture books, anything written by Judy Blume, J.K. Rowling, an Koontz, Jodi Piccoult, Jolene Perry, Diane Chamberlain and so more. place to regroup and think when I get writer’s block plus I like to herefore a huge advocate for their well-being.
al media outlets such as:
://www.linkedin.com/pub/traci-bold/b8/855/688 655813-traci-bold About.me - https://about.me/tbold
THE CASE OF THE MISSING GUINEA PIG By
Traci Bold
Dad
was mowing the lawn, Mom was busy planning dinner and Casey was
playing with her piebald guinea pig Bartie in the adjacent dining room. She had set up a maze made up of shoe boxes and recyclables for Bartie to run through. At the correct turns in the maze a small piece of red bell pepper was waiting for him. At the end of the maze two grapes waited for him as his prize. Reginald, the family cat, sat on top of the refrigerator watching Bartie, alert, his tail swishing.
Bartie scooted around in the maze. His whiskers twitched back and forth while his nose sniffed this way and that looking for the next pepper. He turned left instead of right.
Casey clamped her hand over her mouth. Bartie
righted himself. He scurried straight ahead, turned left and found a red pepper. Casey cheered. “You are so smart Bartie! Keep going!” Bartie was halfway through the maze when the doorbell rang. “Casey, could you please get that,” her mom asked. “I’ll be right back Bartie,” Casey called to him rushing to the door. Bartie continued to sniff and scamper his way through the maze. Casey looked through the door window. Excited she opened the door. The mailman had just delivered a package. She carried the package into the
kitchen.
“What’s wrong Casey?” she asked her brows furrowed. “Bartie is missing. He was in his maze when the mailman came and now he’s gone.” Casey whined. “He must have finished the maze, grabbed a grape and ran off to eat it in peace,” her mom reassured her. Casey shook her head. “He cannot run on two feet like us Mom to carry a grape. That is a contradistinction between guinea pigs and humans.” Her mom laughed. “I see you learned a new vocabulary word.” “Very funny Mom. I learned about it in science last week.” Casey said matter of fact. A horrible thought came to her, Reginald. Reginald was sitting by the back door licking his paws. Casey ran to him. “Did you eat Bartie?” she asked him. Reginald looked at Casey, swishing his tail. A grape rolled out from under it. Reginald licked his chops and continued to clean his paws.
“Mom!” Casey called out again. “I’m right here Casey,” her mother said right beside her. “Reginald ate Bartie. There’s the missing grape. Look at him. He’s licking his chops and cleaning his paws.” Casey said, her bottom lip quivering. “I just fed him his dinner Casey.” Mom explained. “I’m sure he did not eat Bartie for dessert.” Casey’s eyes grew wide. “I bet he did!” Together they searched the kitchen for Bartie, opening cupboards, checking behind the coat rack and in the pantry. No Bartie. Reginald watched. Then they searched the living room under the couch, the chairs and behind the television stand and bookcases. No Bartie. Mom walked into the kitchen, Casey following. “Bartie is just playing hide and seek with you Casey.” Reginald was crouched by the back door, ready to pounce. “What’s wrong?” Dad asked a moment later when he walked in. He accidentally kicked the box on the floor. Something tugged on his shoelace. Reginald ran behind him. “Reginald ate Bartie, he’s a murderer,” Casey told him, tears running down her cheeks, arms crossed in front of her. He looked down, puzzled. “That would be quite a trick.” He bent down, picked Bartie up and handed him to Casey. Casey blinked hard. Reginald was chasing something around the kitchen and dining room. It was a grape! “Reginald must have knocked the shoe box out while chasing the grape and Bartie got out.” Casey concluded. “I’m sorry I accused you Reginald.” “Bartie must have hid from Reginald while we were searching for him,” Mom said. “The whodunit is solved,” her father said. “Let’s order pizza!”
Hi, my name is
Stephanie Slevin. I am a Singer/ Songwriter. I write from my pain and the pain of others. (I also write upbeat tracks!) I am the author of ‘My Weakend Soul’ a autobiographical book of poetry. Most of my lyrics come from poetry, as we are all poets one way or another…Keeping it real through pain of feel. Thank you for this, enjoy my music .. Steph xx You can hear Steph’s songs on
ReverbNation http://rvrb.fm/1kbzbB1.. Take a listen to these tracks, The Cemetery Dublin City Americas unknown Angel Julie please don’t say you’re sorry She silently sleeps Had I laid you down
Goodbye
See you in November for the Christmas edition of CQ Magazine