Monty Wheeler's Blog: One Boring Blog
July 8, 2014
numbers
if numbers mean even the tiniest thing it's encouraging to find "to walk beyond" with a #36 ranking in the narrow focused sub genre of Christian poetry on amazon and may God continue to bless if I'm to touch lives with His praise
http://www.amazon.com/Walk-Beyond-Dar...
http://www.amazon.com/Walk-Beyond-Dar...
numbers
if numbers mean even the tiniest thing it's encouraging to find "to walk beyond" with a #36 ranking in the narrow focused sub genre of Christian poetry on amazon and may God continue to bless if I'm to touch lives with His praise
http://www.amazon.com/Walk-Beyond-Dar...
http://www.amazon.com/Walk-Beyond-Dar...
June 25, 2014
2nd collection
well? my second collection made it's debut today, released on amazon in both paperback and e-book. and how do I feel? anti-climatic. everything going on in real life puts a damper on what should have been a thrilling and moving experience. but I believe God has it, and in this collection I've used His gift to me to glorify and praise Him whose grace has let me see this day.
Monty Wheeler
Monty Wheeler
February 26, 2014
new works
and tomorrow comes the day of the second collection's official announcement on my publisher's site. and I am both excited and proud, but how much does one tout and "share?" how much is too much before folk get tired of hearing about it? I fall short the other direction I think, but where's that damn'd line to cross?
tomorrow's post will say the most
tomorrow's post should say it all
and point thee in the right direction;
I'd ask ye go and see that section
tomorrow's post will say the most
tomorrow's post should say it all
and point thee in the right direction;
I'd ask ye go and see that section
December 23, 2013
New Sun's Horizon
with the new MS waiting on it's cover choioes at the publisher's, and my self-imposed exile all but my FaceBook author's page, I will catch up on my reading / reviewing commitments and expand / hone my promo skills. more time on Goodreads is major portion of my time management plan and exploring more of Linkedin. those along with a return to twitter for chat and promo.
August 19, 2013
Flight of Fancy
this work of prose poem, I decided to enter into the poetry contest as it's so different than others. . .mayhap too much so :)
The Gift-Horse (a work in prose poetry)
By Monty Wheeler
Melinda stood outside the barn, just where her daddy said, and waited with just one part hope and three parts of pure dread.
She hated surprises for too many times her hopes were shattered and scattered like broken roles of shiny, thin dimes. The worst was when Daddy took Mama to that germ free place; she didn’t come back to dry the tears from one scared little face; they said she was dead and gone to God’s grace. But Melinda knew better, and so many nights Mama held her with care.
The big barn door opened, and Daddy walked out. She peeked through the fingers of hand-covered eyes; she couldn’t imagine what was her surprise. Daddy led out a huge dappled gray, and oh, how she loved that horse right away. Even his gait had some special sway. The gleam in his eye gave Melinda to cry; but happy tears she spilled. Her uncle asked her, “How many hands?” All she could muster was clapping with joy; her hands were for petting, not measuring that boy.
She’d never been of lace or yarn, no pearl one, knit two, she’d urge to learn. She loved the farm and barnyard scents at dawn. But how they laughed at her in school; they always said, “Your daddy dresses you funny!” when she wore her little girl Roper boots and Wrangler jeans and snaps on shirts. And those snaps shined so nice like litty bitty bits of ice in daytime's bright sunlight. Some days she cried and others denied her wounded, hurting heart.
Out came the tack; Melinda stepped back and screamed, “No! Don’t want that stuff, Daddy; it hurts my new horse!”
“Without the saddle, I can’t let you ride,” her daddy said in voice just as soft as goose down bed. “And without the bridle, there’s no way you can guide.”
“I don’t care, Daddy,” Melinda pouted. “Don’t want that shiny thing hitting his teeth, and don’t want those straps to go tight underneath!”
“But, Melinda, you can’t ride—“
“Just watch me, Daddy,” Melinda cried. She led the large steed to the old well house, climbed the rock wall, and with handful of mane, she went for it all.
The big, gentle breed of remarkable steed—as if he knew the little girl’s need—walked to the fence but stopped to return to the bucket, as Daddy rattled the corn. But Melinda had none of that corn-spoiled fun. A cowgirl’s instinct tugged at his mane; he turned down the fencerow as if it were plain the big, ol’ horse the little girl wanted much the same thing.
“Melinda!” her daddy called and started their way. She set him to trot; it bounced her a lot, but with both hands deep in his natural mane, she stayed on his back, ne’er noticed the pain of bouncing on his hard knobbed spine. At canter he smoothed the rough-on-her ride, and more she urged by rubbing his side. His gallop was smooth as riding on air; Melinda clung tight to his neck and cackled, for freedom was hers, a cowgirl unshackled.
She failed to see with her wide-eyed stare the far north fence across the “out there.” But oh, how her horse could set a girl free; ne’er could she run as fast as he. And bigger he grew in her mind’s eye until he loomed large as big ol’ blue sky. And nearer the fence, but still they’d not slow, and nearer the fence at full gallop they’d go. “Now Dasher! Now Dancer! Now Prancer and Vixen!” She cried reindeers’ names, and none seemed to fit; her horse was a dasher, but that name was not it.
She felt her steed tense, and then came the sense of dangerous barbs in that five-stranded fence. He drew his legs under and gathered his force, t’was naught she could do but hold fast to her course. Behind Melinda, she heard Daddy scream, “Hold on to him, Baby!” His voice seemed extreme, for ne’er had she felt so lighter than air, as the horse cleared the fence with inches to spare.
As Pegasus rose, he caught an updraft, and far below, she saw Daddy’s arms waving so fast like he tried to fly. Melinda waved “bye” and called “I love you! I’m going to see Mama! I’ll kiss her for you and tell her you love her and miss her lots too!”
Pegasus flew into the bright morning sun. A horse and a cowgirl—two to share one dream of forever, and friendship begun.
The Gift-Horse (a work in prose poetry)
By Monty Wheeler
Melinda stood outside the barn, just where her daddy said, and waited with just one part hope and three parts of pure dread.
She hated surprises for too many times her hopes were shattered and scattered like broken roles of shiny, thin dimes. The worst was when Daddy took Mama to that germ free place; she didn’t come back to dry the tears from one scared little face; they said she was dead and gone to God’s grace. But Melinda knew better, and so many nights Mama held her with care.
The big barn door opened, and Daddy walked out. She peeked through the fingers of hand-covered eyes; she couldn’t imagine what was her surprise. Daddy led out a huge dappled gray, and oh, how she loved that horse right away. Even his gait had some special sway. The gleam in his eye gave Melinda to cry; but happy tears she spilled. Her uncle asked her, “How many hands?” All she could muster was clapping with joy; her hands were for petting, not measuring that boy.
She’d never been of lace or yarn, no pearl one, knit two, she’d urge to learn. She loved the farm and barnyard scents at dawn. But how they laughed at her in school; they always said, “Your daddy dresses you funny!” when she wore her little girl Roper boots and Wrangler jeans and snaps on shirts. And those snaps shined so nice like litty bitty bits of ice in daytime's bright sunlight. Some days she cried and others denied her wounded, hurting heart.
Out came the tack; Melinda stepped back and screamed, “No! Don’t want that stuff, Daddy; it hurts my new horse!”
“Without the saddle, I can’t let you ride,” her daddy said in voice just as soft as goose down bed. “And without the bridle, there’s no way you can guide.”
“I don’t care, Daddy,” Melinda pouted. “Don’t want that shiny thing hitting his teeth, and don’t want those straps to go tight underneath!”
“But, Melinda, you can’t ride—“
“Just watch me, Daddy,” Melinda cried. She led the large steed to the old well house, climbed the rock wall, and with handful of mane, she went for it all.
The big, gentle breed of remarkable steed—as if he knew the little girl’s need—walked to the fence but stopped to return to the bucket, as Daddy rattled the corn. But Melinda had none of that corn-spoiled fun. A cowgirl’s instinct tugged at his mane; he turned down the fencerow as if it were plain the big, ol’ horse the little girl wanted much the same thing.
“Melinda!” her daddy called and started their way. She set him to trot; it bounced her a lot, but with both hands deep in his natural mane, she stayed on his back, ne’er noticed the pain of bouncing on his hard knobbed spine. At canter he smoothed the rough-on-her ride, and more she urged by rubbing his side. His gallop was smooth as riding on air; Melinda clung tight to his neck and cackled, for freedom was hers, a cowgirl unshackled.
She failed to see with her wide-eyed stare the far north fence across the “out there.” But oh, how her horse could set a girl free; ne’er could she run as fast as he. And bigger he grew in her mind’s eye until he loomed large as big ol’ blue sky. And nearer the fence, but still they’d not slow, and nearer the fence at full gallop they’d go. “Now Dasher! Now Dancer! Now Prancer and Vixen!” She cried reindeers’ names, and none seemed to fit; her horse was a dasher, but that name was not it.
She felt her steed tense, and then came the sense of dangerous barbs in that five-stranded fence. He drew his legs under and gathered his force, t’was naught she could do but hold fast to her course. Behind Melinda, she heard Daddy scream, “Hold on to him, Baby!” His voice seemed extreme, for ne’er had she felt so lighter than air, as the horse cleared the fence with inches to spare.
As Pegasus rose, he caught an updraft, and far below, she saw Daddy’s arms waving so fast like he tried to fly. Melinda waved “bye” and called “I love you! I’m going to see Mama! I’ll kiss her for you and tell her you love her and miss her lots too!”
Pegasus flew into the bright morning sun. A horse and a cowgirl—two to share one dream of forever, and friendship begun.
August 2, 2013
DARK ON SUNNY MORN
*dark allusions: something to first be known before to wit of some new thing. and not a one in this dark jingle*
and come to me; I'd walk with thee
and take thine hand in mine
and when ye'd try to run away,
your prison is mine hand on thine
and when ye'd bare thy soul to me
lay open heart to see
our hands entwined thus make thee mine
there's no esape from me.
and come, My Pretty, for night doth fall
and let me comfort thee
ah, but ne'er would I deceive;
the dark shall set thee free
and come to me; I'd walk with thee
and take thine hand in mine
and when ye'd try to run away,
your prison is mine hand on thine
and when ye'd bare thy soul to me
lay open heart to see
our hands entwined thus make thee mine
there's no esape from me.
and come, My Pretty, for night doth fall
and let me comfort thee
ah, but ne'er would I deceive;
the dark shall set thee free
July 2, 2013
contests
am I just a sour'd old man? or is my ego so bold I have to win? it's recognition not to win or lose. enter again or no's to choose. this contest thing may not be for poets who're wired like me, so perhaps I'll keep it to myself and Santa's wise old beared elf...and say goodbye to contest entries
June 15, 2013
completion of creation
day 6 of my goal to write one stanza a day and do my work in six days. something's driving me...I know not what.
SIX DAY CREATION
Monday (day 1)
Comes nigh the end of life, my friend,
and ere you've walked my path with me.
Now lay me to my final rest;
I crave the solace you will be.
Tuesday (day 2)
And when the stars should kiss my soul,
and Heaven's gate's one step away,
And if I've lived and died for God,
no tears are shed for me that day
Wednesday (day 3)
Give dead to rise, ye crying eyes,
and leave me knocking at God’s door,
and might I be of want to see
the angels numbered by the score?
Thursday (day 4)
And yet. . .The Demon still dwells
deep within; it’s mal intent
feeds well on rage, revenge, its drink;
a dark storm brews in man’s lament.
Friday (day 5)
See the spawn, how big it grows
when I let anger’s festering rot
o’er shadow my desires for God?
How cold blood spills in nightmare’s thought!
Saturday (day 6)
And to this day The Beast still walks
if I—through anger—set it free.
If during anger I should die,
will God’s salvation still keep me?
©2013 by Monty Wheeler
SIX DAY CREATION
Monday (day 1)
Comes nigh the end of life, my friend,
and ere you've walked my path with me.
Now lay me to my final rest;
I crave the solace you will be.
Tuesday (day 2)
And when the stars should kiss my soul,
and Heaven's gate's one step away,
And if I've lived and died for God,
no tears are shed for me that day
Wednesday (day 3)
Give dead to rise, ye crying eyes,
and leave me knocking at God’s door,
and might I be of want to see
the angels numbered by the score?
Thursday (day 4)
And yet. . .The Demon still dwells
deep within; it’s mal intent
feeds well on rage, revenge, its drink;
a dark storm brews in man’s lament.
Friday (day 5)
See the spawn, how big it grows
when I let anger’s festering rot
o’er shadow my desires for God?
How cold blood spills in nightmare’s thought!
Saturday (day 6)
And to this day The Beast still walks
if I—through anger—set it free.
If during anger I should die,
will God’s salvation still keep me?
©2013 by Monty Wheeler
June 12, 2013
six day creation
I'm going to try a new way to focus on both writing and related activities. this week, beginning with monday night's post that seemed well-received, I will write a stanza a day so block stays away and add it to the week's poem. at the end I shall have a seven stanza something.
Monday 6/10
Comes nigh the end of life, my friend,
and ere you've walked my path with me.
Now lay me to my final rest;
I crave the solace you will be.
Tuesday 6/11
And when the stars should kiss my soul,
and Heaven's gate's one step away,
And if I've lived and died for God,
no tears are shed for me that day
Wednesday (day 3)
Give dead to rise, ye crying eyes,
and leave me knocking at God’s door,
and might I be of want to see
the angels numbered by the score.
©2013 by Monty Wheeler
Monday 6/10
Comes nigh the end of life, my friend,
and ere you've walked my path with me.
Now lay me to my final rest;
I crave the solace you will be.
Tuesday 6/11
And when the stars should kiss my soul,
and Heaven's gate's one step away,
And if I've lived and died for God,
no tears are shed for me that day
Wednesday (day 3)
Give dead to rise, ye crying eyes,
and leave me knocking at God’s door,
and might I be of want to see
the angels numbered by the score.
©2013 by Monty Wheeler
One Boring Blog
Here's where I will track progress of WIP and / or any ideas that might spawn. May be verse, essay or fiction or any combo of those
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