The Authors Bookshelf – Dr J Aislynn d’Merricksson @JAdMerricksson

BrizzleLass Books

Welcome back to The Bookshelf. Each week I feature an author or book blogger and talk about their bookshelf with them. It’s a light-hearted, book focused, Q&A.

This week on the bookshelf I have author Dr J Aislynn d’Merricksson. Aislynn writes sci-fi / fantasy and to top it all of is a metaphysicist, kind of mind blowing right?

Check out her her bookshelf below…

What was the first book you remember having on your bookshelf?
Ok, wow, that’s been a loooong time! I have fuzzy memories of Little Golden Books stacked by my bed. The first book I really recall is Leo the Lop by Stephen Cosgrove. My grandmother had gotten me most of the Serendipity books, and I’m now collecting the series for my nephew.

What was the most recent book you added to the bookshelf?
Umm, too many to process on the Kindle so I’ll go with hardcopy…

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The Weight of Night

Vita Brevis Press

Submitted by Ronald E. Shields

The chosen few can pass this night of gales
floating in the intimacy of friends and fine ideas.
While we who are confined to fixed positions
shake as if the wind
might impale us on the sharp spears of our lives,
whisper as though our voices
could bring the walls down on our naked heads.
We sit behind closed windows, bolted doors,
unaccounted for, unsure, ill at ease,
feeling unprotected as rain shatters against the roof.
The light of day has faded.
The weight of night, the weight of all nights,
pales in comparison to this leaden darkness
pressing against our eyes,
making the brilliant dawn unthinkable.

Are you a literary poet? Send us your best work!
Photo Credit: JMW Turner – Snow Storm Steam Boat off a Harbour’s Mouth

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On the Porch

Vita Brevis Press

Submitted by Willie Smith

Stand out front, staring across the valley,
thinking of myself over there a mile away
staring back. Smile at how small
I must look, looking back
at this my small self. In the mind
I wave. In the mind over there
the familiar stranger the wave returns.
Can’t see if the phantom smiles or
“really” waves, distance likewise too far
for the chummy spook to read my face
or discern a wave. Press together fingertips –
pinky-to- pinky, thumb-to- thumb,
other six tip-to- tip. Pump the hands
like a spider performing on a mirror
pushups. Feel myself over there,
closing eyes, feel myself here. The
quiet pulses in the warming dark.
Although self be something more
than mind and body sum, open eyes,
dropping hands, to fall, in a heartbeat, on
nobody on the far ridge
in the pink dawn.

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Vita Brevis Press

Submitted by Ben Fentiman Hall

On a street that brooks no water

Once the home of some old author

Who remembered the forgotten

So they said

I wonder what he’d make of it

This washed up tosh of worn and sick

Still gathering for crumbs

Instead of bread

Would he tell their luckless stories

About the food banks and the debt?

And the search for orange labels

To get fed

Or would he come the voyeur

And do a docusoap for Channel 4

About shirkers never getting

Out of bed?

I like to think he wouldn’t

But all we really know

Is his words and salty tastes

Cos Charlie’s dead

Are you a literary poet? Send us your best work!
Photo Credit: “Creekside at Night” – Jeremy Sams

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The Last Night Falls

Vita Brevis Press

Submitted by Jane Dougherty

The last night falls, sky thick with cloud,
No stars will light the cold damp earth,
No moon will silver river loud.
The last night falls, sky thick with cloud,
Rains frost on furrowed fields, new-ploughed.
On hedges, fruit-stripped, winter’s dearth,
The last night falls. Sky, thick with cloud,
No stars will light the cold, damp earth.

Are you a poet? Send us your best work!
Photo Credit: The Fog, Voisins – Alfred Sisley

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Night Ocean

Sooo beautiful!

Vita Brevis Press

A Haibun submitted by Jane Dougherty

Water glitters, silver as molten moonlight beneath the trees. I stand, carrying darkness on my shoulders and listen to the waves of wind in the poplars, hissing with the foam memory of the primal sea. Bird voices carry, bloodless and disembodied, on the billows, and all things connect in the rain of sound, pouring into the eternal racing of the river.
Night is an ocean,
crashing on reefs of treetops,
I am drenched in stars.

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Photo Credit: Starry Nigth over the Rhone by Vincent van Gogh

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Faerie Tale Friday: Puss In Boots by K.M. Shea (Timeless Fairy Tales #6)

The Mermaid Behind the Books

The Book:

side+crop+of+paperback+image+TSTME (1)Book Title: Puss In Boots

Book Author:K.M. Shea

Page Count: 240

Publishing Date: August 4th, 2015

Publisher: Self Published

Date Read: January 11th, 2018

Synopsis:Though she dreams of adventure, Gabrielle—a peasant girl—is given only a cat for her inheritance and is told she must marry, immediately. So when the cat, Puss, offers her a life of excitement in exchange for a pair of boots, Gabrielle jumps at the opportunity. Through Puss’s cunning and Gabrielle’s good deeds, they become celebrated heroes in small villages across the country.

Their adventurous life is complicated by Prince Steffen—a handsome prince who has a low opinion of love. He befriends Gabrielle and comes to grudgingly respect Puss as they work together to purge monsters and brigands from the countryside.

Disaster strikes when Steffen realizes his growing feelings for Gabrielle, and Puss and Gabrielle fight the evil ogre who rules the lands…

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Vita Brevis Press

Submitted by Sarah Connor

Passing through this doorway
is an act of remembering
and of forgetting. On this
threshold I stand poised
between the two.

 Back then, there were magic
doorways that led
to wonderlands. I dream
of passing through,
from this dull monochrome
to glorious technicolour.

Right now, time becomes space,
space becomes time:
the living room is full of my childhood;
somewhere in the kitchen
there’s a sleeping baby.

In an upstairs room,
my younger self is standing,
looking out across
another city. Waiting
for life to start.

My grandmother presses
a crumpled note
into my palm, and whispers
urgent wisdom.

Back then, there were dark
doorways that led
to underlands. I dream
of passing through,
from this mad technicolour
to the bleak purity
of black and white.

Are you a poet? Send us your best work!
Photo Credit: Edward Hopper – Rooms by the Sea

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