Sheldon Doyle

The poetry’s purpose, I think?

Sheldon Doyle — Fri, 20 Mar 2009 17:39:09 +0000

I now have an idea why I’ve been bombarded with the idea I could write poetry. It came to me on 3-19-2009, just before our Kenosha Writer’s Group monthly meeting. And of course, out of the blue again.

It’s another book, but instead of chapters and such, this will be a poetic account of the Crusades. Something on the order of The Canterbury Tales or Tales of Ulysses.

Some of the names and events will be aligned with history while others will be fictious, accounts I’ve oftened wondered about if such characters existed and were given a chance to voice their opinions on the way the history of the Crusades unfolded.

Let me say now, that I mean no disrespect to either religon and if some of the poems offend it is not intentional. I am neither Christian nor Muslim, though I used to be a Catholic and still believe in God. If I had to label myself now, I guess a gnostic would be about right. Not that anyone should be interested in my beliefs, I just wanted to say I repect their tenets, but favor neither.

So having said that, poem #3 has been posted. It’s titled Saladin.

Saladin

Sheldon Doyle — Fri, 20 Mar 2009 16:56:03 +0000

Most merciful Allah,

all praise belongs to thee,

thee alone do I worship,

and from thee alone do I seek help.

The Christians have returned

and with them war.

Thy great city is clouded with despair.

Thy people shudder,

fearful Jerusalem will be set upon

by the drum of marching men desperate

to despoil thy name.

I fear their purpose.

They come not as friends or followers,

but as usurpers,

pagans seeking to conquer land fertile and rich,

a people old with traditions deeper

than those afar in Rome.

What right say I,

that they should force upon thy children,

upon me and mine,

a belief that is as foreign to us,

as ours is to them?

What right say I,

that they come in judgment,

to malign and disfigure

when they are but worldly children

in the fits of tantrums?

I beg thee great Allah,

make thee signs that I might

know thy wishes,

that I might follow in thy

footsteps and show the

Christians enlightenment.

The outrages of Godfrey lie

heavy upon my heart, upon the

holy lands his emperor claims his own.

Take my hand.

Lead me so I may lead

my brothers and strike them down

in one final battle.

Help me great Allah,

and I will give thee Jerusalem

before the mantle of dawn rises

above the dunes.

Saran’s Plea

Sheldon Doyle — Sun, 15 Mar 2009 00:58:33 +0000

Petulant King,

sword sheathed and silent,

time wearies thine restless mind,

turns thy good-nature distant to all

but lands ripe for harvest.

I know thine heart dear husband,

thy lust for Godfrey’s crusades.

Thy seek the booty of campaigns upon

battlefields rich with the blood of

thine enemy, Alexis.

Thou cannot hide it.

I have seen thy moods swing lately,

thy temper shorten,

thy enraged fits and boastful

threats heaped upon those nearest thee.

No treaty will stay thy hand,

no precious promises of peace,

whose boundaries of stone and earth

stand sentinel before thy lustful urges,

can stop thee.

Lo do I hold thee close to my bosom,

wishful that my love can sway thee

and stay thy savagery,

I know it not enough to win thy favor.

Thou will do what thy desire and

take sword in hand once more.

But I beg thee dear King,

think of our son,

thine heir.

Would thou place him perilous

before charging hooves and cursing men,

upon a wild steed wielding mace and blade

in thine honor?

What glory is buried within such folly?

What recompense?

He is but a tender child,

short of years and battle knowledge.

Would thou make me grievous,

despondent,

spiteful over his return

upon limping steed and ruined shield?

Raise thy banner if you must,

seek that which torments thee

and boils thy blood,

but I beg thee dear husband,

spare him,

leave me our son.

An urge I can’t satisfy

Sheldon Doyle — Wed, 11 Mar 2009 02:34:36 +0000

I have suddenly been moved to write poetry, or more correctly, prose. Why? I haven’t the foggiest idea. Lately, they’ve been popping out of the blue with regularity.

Case in point. This evening (3-10-09) I was working on my grand daughter’s novel when A lover’s Requiem suddenly popped into my head. It rumbled around inside my skull for about an hour until I finally had to quit the novel and write it.

It took all of twenty minutes from start to finish and I was amazed at the finished product. Weird huh? Wish the novels came that fast!!

After I posted it on the website I read it a few more times just to see if it was what I wanted. And surprisingly it was. It flowed exactly how I imaged it would.

What’s nice about writing prose is that it isn’t genre specific. Some are dark, while others are inspirational and gender specific. Not that that bothers me. I’m a writer and I’m suppose to be able to write whatever I feel, whatever happens to steamroll me while working on another project.

So if you start seeing more, don’t panic. Maybe I’m a medium and guys like Chaucer, or t.s. elliot or Shakespeare are reaching out from the other side.

A Lover’s Requiem

Sheldon Doyle — Wed, 11 Mar 2009 01:54:23 +0000

Oh noble prince,

if I could but drink once more

of the love

in the depths of thine fathomless eyes…

If I could but lose myself in the

rapture of thine arms

and the gentle whispers

you breathed against my neck…

I might find the strength

to carry on.

But I am weak and lost in the coldness

of loneliness,

wounded by your passing

and mired in the confusion of why

it has come…

Come back to me noble prince,

for cold is the night without you.

My dreams are empty and

I thrash the night

until our bed grows weary of me.

Come home my love,

death need not be a barrier,

it is but a shadow,

a contrivance set upon us.

Hope’s Sparkle

Sheldon Doyle — Wed, 04 Mar 2009 18:06:11 +0000

Swept away by the night breeze,

ragged breaths,

steeped in suffering,

are all that remain of

Hope’s thoughts of

life.

Her mind floats

amid essences of honeysuckles

above arms bent and tucked,

distant of Crazy Bill’s hurt

and pain

and abuse.

All around her

the night is warm

and alive

and full of sounds,

but she feels no caress when a coldness

slides beneath her length.

One good eye flutters

open and caked lashes part

onto a fretting woman

as destitute as she.

“Dear child,

who did this to you?”

The words are emotional,

loving,

words Hope has not heard since the day

Crazy Bill stole her away.

She coughs,

mumbles his name,

then is lost in the woman’s smile.

The kiss is quick.

Incisive.

Invasive.

The lips smooth,

the breath old and fetid.

It is not her mother’s kiss,

yet in the fleeting moment

between life and death,

when life flees and time stops,

Hope understands

and welcomes her birth.

* * * *

Haughty and arrogant,

with words sharper than her teeth,

The woman speaks silently

to Hope again,

“Show me this…

Crazy Bill, you speak of.”

Hand in hand upon the

warm night currents,

they rise

like ghostly

apparitions of doom.

Hope’s thoughts swirl.

She is moving,

soaring,

flying with the night birds

that flee before them.

They settle on the dark side of the road,

beneath a starry summer night,

near the park where Crazy Bill claimed her.

Hope’s eyes fix on Crazy Bill’s house.

“Is that him?”

The woman’s question is not a question,

but a confirmation

of not who,

but what he is.

Hope nods.

Inside the cloistered hell hole,

beyond the dull glow of lights

framing shadeless windows,

his shadow moves,

striding,

malignant.

Hope licks her lips.

and then spits,

expelling a sizzling plume of hatred

that evaporates before it hits ground.

Memories stir,

tortuous moments of when

Crazy Bill kept her hidden,

a thing he played with,

a toy he owned.

She bends to a scratchy noise

lost in the desiccated palms behind her.

A rat scurries into view.

Its nose twitches nervously.

Its ears perk,

but do not detect Hope

or the woman standing beside her.

Hope reaches for it,

but stops when Crazy Bill lurches

onto the porch,

his fat belly soured and stained.

She focuses.

Wicker creaks

and rockers moan.

Light flairs and a raspy sigh

dispels a streamer of blue

white smoke into the darkness,

soiling her night.

She breaths deep,

inhaling his pungent essence.

An unquenchable thirst fills her

when the woman takes her hand.

“Want to meet him again?”

Hope nods again,

and together,

they drift across the road

towards Crazy Bill.

Editing again

Sheldon Doyle — Thu, 26 Feb 2009 03:03:01 +0000

All of my books are now available through Lulu’s world wide distribution program. Unfortunately, that means the prices have gone up.

I apologize for the increase, but there was nothing I could do about it. Seems that’s the price I have to pay for such endeavors.

I’ve also changed the prologue and the first couple of chapters in Private Conversations. They languished and needed a facelift. I’ve posted the changes and hopefully you’ll find them better.

Two more books are scheduled for release this fall. One is suspense thriller (new character stream) and the other is children’s fantasy like Purple Mountain’s Majesty. This one is dedicated to my #2 grand daughter, Delaney. Number 3 grand daughter’s, Macy, is still in the works, but coming along.

After that I’ll have to write two more for my grand sons Callahan and Jacob. They’ll be adventurous fantasies, but I haven’t figured out the storylines. Maybe pirates, super heroes, or two little guys who manage to get themselves into trouble. We’ll see what happens when the time comes.

March 25th from 5-7pm I’ll be promoting my works at the Rhode Theatre in Kenosha. It’s a new project to enhance the visibility of various writers and artists in the Kenosha area. Stop by and chat. I would love to hear what you think of McMillan, Dell or the Fairy Princess.

Until next time, stay safe and enjoy life.

Love’s Lament

Sheldon Doyle — Tue, 20 Jan 2009 14:53:05 +0000

Love’s Lament

Sightless

Breathless

Cold hearts, jilted and soiled,

With souls frosted in shadows,

Awaken!

Rejoice!

And speak not of the chill that binds your spirit,

Or the coldness that has turned your heart,

A new day comes with sparkling new promises.

There is hope, there is joy,

There is love.

Breathe

See

Editing blues

Sheldon Doyle — Fri, 19 Dec 2008 14:33:05 +0000

For those who have been patiently waiting, the anticipation is almost over. By the end of January I should be done and all of the books will be available once more.

For those only curious, I ran into a printing snag. Not me per se, more like the international printers who couldn’t print the books in the current format found on Lulu. Something to do with run-off and gutters and other such things that I, as a writer, know little about.

Consequently, I received an e-mail from Lulu’s customer service in late November requesting I reformat the books and republish them. I didn’t mind doing what they asked and set about making the changes, thinking it would only take a day or two. Ha! Foolish me. Its a daunting task let me tell you!

But like I said in the beginning they’re almost done. Actually the only one that’s not is Private Conversations. It has about a week to go.

I appoligize for any inconvenience these adjustments may have caused. Coming at Christmas, they presented a problem for me as well as my readers wishing to purchase copies as gifts. If you happen to fall into the latter, drop me a line. We’ll work something out for your trouble.

Merry Christmas to everyone.

Sheldon

WithinAll books will once againI can actually see a light at the end of the tunnel.the

Purple Mountain’s Majesty . . .

admin — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 15:19:48 +0000

My name is Mishayla Paige and a year ago I was just a regular 11 year old girl living in St. Lucy’s Orphanage. My sister Milly lived there too. Even though she was older, we practically looked like twins: short brown hair, gray eyes, large round mouths, and the same splash of freckles beneath our eyes and to either side of our noses.
But that’s as far as the similarities go. Our personalities are much different. Milly is quite the tomboy and very outgoing, she is never afraid of anything. I’m not like that. I like to think about things.
Anyway, I was living at St. Lucy’s, enjoying a sort of boring but normal life, when the most extraordinary thing happened. It was an adventure I couldn’t have imagined, but it is because of that adventure that I learned who I am.

* * * * *

It started the day Mother called me observant and careful. While that is exactly how I perceive myself, you have to understand that Mother Superior was not doling out compliments, but encouraging me to trust myself more. (more…)