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Ian Ventham had bought two to look quirky in sales photos and it had got out of hand, as these things do.
“The whole world's writing novels, but nobody's reading them.”
― The Silkworm
― The Silkworm
“Go," She says. "He waits for you.”
― The Song of Achilles
― The Song of Achilles
“I miss the floral scent of her hair, the perfume that barely masked the underlying truth of what she was. She was lost time. She smelled of dusty libraries and unwound clocks, salted sand and rain riding on the first rays of dawn. And lilac. When she held me to her, lilac was what I smelled first.”
― Rain Falls on Malora
― Rain Falls on Malora
“The greater the monument, the greater the man. The stone the Greeks quarry for his grave is huge and white, stretching up to the sky. A C H I L L E S, it reads. It will stand for him, and speak to all who pass: he lived and died, and lives again in memory.”
― The Song of Achilles
― The Song of Achilles
“My mom’s smile is genuine,
A lilac beaming
In the presence of her Sun.
Indentions in the sand prove
Time’s linear progression,
Her hair yet unblighted,
Carrying midnight’s consistency.
Clear tracks fading as the
Movement slips further
In the past.
Cheekbones
High, soft,
In summer’s hue,
Hopeful.
Each step’s unknown impact,
A future looking back.
My father’s strength:
One whose
Life is in his arms.
Squinting past the camera,
He rests upon a rock
Like caramel corn half eaten,
Just to the left
Of man-made concrete convention
Daylight’s eraser
Removing color to his right.
Dustin sits
In my father’s lap,
Open mouth of a drooling
Big mouth bass;
Muscle tone
Of a well exercised
Jelly fish,
He looks at me
Half aware;
His wheelchair
Perched at the edge
Of parking lot gravel grafted
Like a scar on nature’s beach,
Opening to the ironic splendor
Of a bitter tasting lake.
I took the picture.
Age 11.
Capturing the pinnacle arc
Of a son
To my lilac
Who
Outlived him and weeps,
Still.
Their sky has staple holes –
Maybe that’s how the
Light
Leaked out.”
― From My Mother
A lilac beaming
In the presence of her Sun.
Indentions in the sand prove
Time’s linear progression,
Her hair yet unblighted,
Carrying midnight’s consistency.
Clear tracks fading as the
Movement slips further
In the past.
Cheekbones
High, soft,
In summer’s hue,
Hopeful.
Each step’s unknown impact,
A future looking back.
My father’s strength:
One whose
Life is in his arms.
Squinting past the camera,
He rests upon a rock
Like caramel corn half eaten,
Just to the left
Of man-made concrete convention
Daylight’s eraser
Removing color to his right.
Dustin sits
In my father’s lap,
Open mouth of a drooling
Big mouth bass;
Muscle tone
Of a well exercised
Jelly fish,
He looks at me
Half aware;
His wheelchair
Perched at the edge
Of parking lot gravel grafted
Like a scar on nature’s beach,
Opening to the ironic splendor
Of a bitter tasting lake.
I took the picture.
Age 11.
Capturing the pinnacle arc
Of a son
To my lilac
Who
Outlived him and weeps,
Still.
Their sky has staple holes –
Maybe that’s how the
Light
Leaked out.”
― From My Mother
Carole’s 2025 Year in Books
Take a look at Carole’s Year in Books, including some fun facts about their reading.
870 books
|
75 friends
844 books
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88 friends
540 books
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19 friends
1,110 books
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25 friends
1,294 books
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42 friends
74 books
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44 friends
287 books
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18 friends
580 books
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68 friends
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