Autumn

In October We Do…

In October we honor traditions.

We do October movies, there are many… this is a good one…

we read this poem…

Theme in Yellow

I spot the hills
With yellow balls in autumn.
I light the prairie cornfields
Orange and tawny gold clusters
And I am called pumpkins.
On the last of October
When dusk is fallen
Children join hands
And circle round me
Singing ghost songs
And love to the harvest moon;
I am a jack-o’-lantern
With terrible teeth
And the children know
I am fooling.
( “Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.”  ~ Carl Sandburg)
…. we do the Vivaldi…
and the Kerouac…
We look for the Harvest Moon, and the harvest.
harvest-moon-over-michigan-cornfield
We dream, we dare to believe, we hope…
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Letting Go of the Tiger’s Tail

If you’ve got the tiger by the tail, then doesn’t the tiger have you as well?

I thought something was hanging onto me, that I couldn’t shake loose. That could be, but it could also be that I was holding onto whatever it was.  So, I’m going to let go of it, and see what happens. That sounds vague, though really the specifics of it only matter to me.  Suffice it to say that it seemed like the same thing kept happening over and over again and it finally occurred to me to ask myself what my part in that was. Authors, writers, can fall into repeating a plot, different story, same plot, which is why I ultimately gave myself permission not to write a sequel to the vampire novel, at least not anytime soon. Sometimes, too, it can be a case of there’s a story to tell there, but it just isn’t quite time to tell it. Whatever the metaphor, sometimes we think we’ve got the tiger by the tail and really, it’s taking us for a ride.

I finished the first draft of “All the Bright Young Things at the Last Picture Show.” I’m working on “Gold Mine.” I’ve started a couple of other projects. I wrote a post earlier and I wasn’t happy with it. It wasn’t what I wanted to say. What I wanted to say was that I’m tired. I’m feeling not a little world weary. I’m sure I’m not the only person feeling that way these days or lately. That got me to thinking, when was the last time that I was feeling really good? It was when we were on our way home from several days on the coast. I was tired when we got home and, I’m still tired. Some of my activities this Summer resulted in minor injuries. I’m taking my vitamins. I’ve published five books in the last year, that’s a lot. I’ve a tendency to push myself too hard because I don’t take for granted being able to do things. I have to remind myself to really rest, so I don’t burn out, and before I don’t have a choice about it. Balance. That being said, I decided to do something artsy with this picture of an old X-ray of my hand and the fused bones in my wrist, because I thought it would look cool.

I call it, “The Hand.”

This year has flown by, and this month seemed to evaporate in a blink. We had a big Summer, generally good, but I am looking forward to the Fall season. It was one hundred and six degrees here today. I will enjoy what is left of the Summer, but I am always looking forward to cooler weather, the crunch of leaves, cinnamon spiced cider, the rain, all those kinds of things. I’m looking forward to the Fall and Winter holidays. Something feels different, as in, changed, and I haven’t quite put my finger on what it is yet. I think the only thing I really miss at the end of each Summer, is those extra hours of daylight.

I’m hoping to get another book out the door and into your hands before this year is over, we’ll see how it goes.

TS

On my way somewhere, I imagine.

Available Now! Get The Slick Furies!

Available Now! In time for Halloween! 
Get The Slick Furies!

The vampire novel.

Talessia Sinclair works for The Aeternus Fidei Research and Development Center in the quiet City of New Faith, as a criminal profiler. Her last case left her sitting behind a desk, filing papers, for the mysterious Tom Lassiter. Now she must return to the hunt, with her new partner, the no-nonsense, Agent Finn Treadwell, to catch a vicious serial killer. However, this serial killer, is different. This serial killer, is a Vampire!

The Slick Furies is a pulp-horror roller coaster ride firmly anchored in the modern world with roots trailing back to Sixteenth Century France and beyond. Call it Vampire Noir, with a sense of humor, this book never pretends to be something it isn’t. With deeper themes of transformation and love, The Slick Furies will leave you hoping for another bite!


The Slick Furies is available now on Kindle Direct at Amazon.

Paperback coming soon!

Wolf Song.


The ragged edge of sleep,

Oh how it taunts,
And in the waking hours dares to haunt the soul
Of hunters graceless in their gait
Who in their hunger hardly care to wait
Unless then patience proves to be their need
They’d rather cut your throat and watch you bleed,
To eat then of the heart and soul of man
Or of the female breast however sweet.
To them you are yet but a piece of meat.
And love and lust are only means and ways
To separate you early from your days
The wolf devours and the raven scraps.
Their eyes follow after you.
Their breath sets traps.
Sickly sweet and seeping with the night.
You lie awake still staring at the light.
The bulb a buzz of human discontent
You toss and turn for where the hours went.
Then wander through your days as though a dream
Until you are become that which you feared
And the animal beneath your skin appears.
The flesh it rips first open is your own,
The lengthening of nails and teeth and bone,
Until from two legs you are down to four,
And all you ever think about is more.
I will find you there in the moon’s clear shine,
And show you all the ways that you are mine.
Teri Skultety
Happy Halloween!

The Harvest.

The Harvest

The sparkle on the river,

The lights from distant shore,

The cold and bitter glitter,

The beckoning of more,

Is beautiful to look at,

‘tis a pleasing sight to see,

Like a woman dressed for dinner,

In all her finery,

But all that shines is not silver,

All that glitters isn’t gold,

And if you want the treasure,

And if the truth be told,

The view that one must ponder,

Contemplate and get to know,

From the outside looking in,

The soul’s own steady glow,

A light that’s undiminished,

A fire that does not wane,

The treasure of the spirit,

A harvest of the plain,

The common and the simple,

The joy of days born new,

The treasure is the wonder

Of the beauty within you.

I was planning to write a blog post, review a book or two, or say something about some movies but I’ve been quite busy and expect that to continue, happily, for a while. As we venture into August, the Summer drawing to a close, my favorite season of Autumn approaching, I’m feeling somewhat contemplative and this poem, that I wrote sometime in 2009 at what was the beginning of a great transition in my life. Seems to me a fitting placeholder for the time being while I take care of some things, and catch my breath. Soon the trees will be shedding their leaves and the air will begin to stay cooler farther into the day…the watermelons will give way to the pumpkins… Pleasant dreams until.

Teri

Longing For Autumn.

Longing for Autumn

Summer has arrived and I am longing for the Autumn season. Each day grows longer in its’ strange, lazy heat, making me wistful. Thinking of cooler evenings, of colors faded from the over exposure of prolonged direct light. I miss the cool shadows, the early drawing of night.

I realize now it has been the Summer Season that has watched me grow older each year. The Summers that rushed to peak each Fourth of July then swooned, only for a moment, before they began their wane. Summers that were, in the days of my youth, too short. How I dreaded the coming of Autumn then and itchy, constricting school clothes, homework. Seemingly endless cold weather and rain that kept me confined inside, bored to distraction. I longed for Summer, for games of hide n’ seek until ten o’clock at night, water fights and running to catch the ice cream truck. Barefoot, sunburned, swimming anywhere we could all day long, no worries. Suspended in the air the smell of warm, bleached plastic wading pools, lawn chairs, and squirt guns. Summer, once synonymous with freedom, has come to drag on to remind me that I am not in my own Summer anymore. Summer now only serves to make me nostalgic for the Summer days of years past. Nostalgic for the Summers of six packs, dirt roads, fast cars and first loves, when I was still immortal.

The arrival of these long days, sometimes I think I wish I could run away down a time tunnel, fly out the end on the rope of a tire swing over a swimming hole. Let go with a Tarzan yell. Summer now is tending the tomato plants, trying to reclaim the yard from the torrent of Spring after the grip of Winter. Summer now…still goes by too fast. Summer, is marking time. Summer now is more powerful than it ever was in my youth, leaving me yearning for life. Summer now means, is it June already? The start of Summer and I, am longing for Autumn, the Season that is mine.

Autumn yellow turning, burning gold, then crimson. Not fresh and green but glorious in her fire, fantastic in her fade. Autumn, the season of a woman full-grown, matured, experienced, bringing to bear her bounty to share from her full gardens and fields, from the seeds of all her Summers, setting a table for the Feast of All Saints. Arms open wide, her sky illuminated with her glowing eye Moon. Now, I think I sometimes wish my Autumn’s would last forever, still able to manage a graceful waltz at a Harvest Dance, gently smiling. Her light not as flashy as Summer but the smolder of steady warmth, retaining all the memories, of a life well lived.

 

from, Gold Mine

Autumnal Equinox.

The City, the weather turning now. The Harvest Moons rising high against the edge of the water. Boats rocking against the piers. Tankers and cargo ships anchored in the bay, the waves pushing against the locks. Giant glowing balloons beckoning the bounty of Autumn shorn from the surface of the plentiful terrain, loaded into the wild tilt cart, transported into the colder slate. Ashen colored caverns of the street, the carved cement walls of mirrored glass reaching into the night sky, their windows twinkling in the darkness like the eyes of Jack O’ Lanterns. The sidewalks teeming with leaves from trees that reside in four by four squares separating the sidewalks, dividing the concrete landscape every fifteen feet. They crunch and slide under the feet of the traveling masses, crawling the evening. The clicking of heels, the verb and the hum, the vibration of subterranean worlds inches from their soles. Metal sheathed slithering ribbons launching through the tunnels of the underground, “the worms crawl in, the worms crawl out.” The holes bored through the earth in catacombs filled with the mysteries of a million stories of eyes that rarely look directly into those of any other soul. Passing strangers en route to destinations anonymous. Steam rising from the vents, giving a hint of something deeper, places unspoken. Creatures that walk among the living, haunting the dreams and memories of those who hunt them, knowing that the Eve of All Saints approaches and the City never sleeps.