On Tour: Love Aflame by Pamela Beckford

MEET THE POET

Pamela Beckford Introduces Third Poetry Collection

LOVE AFLAME by Pamela BeckfordPamela Beckford publishes her 3rd solo poetry collection. Using various poetic forms she illustrates how love can set the heart on fire but also shows how that same love can turn to ashes. Poetry is an expression from deep within the soul. It can be therapeutic and healing. It can bring out all the best or the worst in life. Her poetry comes from the heart, not the head. It is an outpouring of emotion and she exposes it to the reader in the pages. She leaves a piece of her soul in every poem.

Love Aflame by Pamela Beckford at http://www.amazon.com/Love-Aflame-Pamela-Beckford-ebook/dp/B00SRRKADA/

Reviewers have said things like:

“Pamela’s poems are refreshing since they are truly written from the heart. She has a gift of writing a poem that speaks to each person’s heart and emotions.”

“Breathtaking. That singular word – breathtaking – is the best one-word description of ‘Dreams of Love’ by Pamela Beckford that kept coming to mind as I lingered within the pages.”

DREAMS OF LOVE by Pamela Beckford

Dreams of Love by Pamela Beckford at http://www.amazon.com/Dreams-Love-Pamela-Beckford-ebook/dp/B00NVDUYQS/
“These are not just words strung together in forms. Somehow she manages to share huge and deep emotions with two words – or one.”

“Pamela’s poetry is diverse and creative. Lyrical without self-conscious fluff. Quiet confidence in her abilities with the various forms.”

LOVE LOST and FOUND by Pamela BeckfordLove: Lost & Found by Pamela Beckford at http://www.amazon.com/Love-Lost-Found-Pamela-Beckford-ebook/dp/B00LEST9Z4/

Pamela Beckford has been writing poetry for about two years. She began writing with the encouragement of a couple of friends and has found that it has taken over her mind. She is a nonprofit CEO and enjoys reading with children on a regular basis, as well as her own reading. She lives in northern Indiana where she devotes her life to others through her job and her family.

Living Musically – Heart-Pounding Edition

simple-music-note-heart-276x259A: My beautiful romance with my iPod got off to a rocky start this week – or rather, an icy start. On Monday, it was literally too cold for it to work in the car. So instead, I listened to the blast of the heater as it brought the ambient temperature to a barely tolerable 30° F. Of course, on Tuesday, when it was actually colder (-10° F instead of -8° F), it worked just fine. And people wonder why I claim my electronic equipment develops minds of its own with the sole purpose of Gaslighting me.

D: Actually, I don’ t wonder.

A: If you were corporeal, I’d say you were the one doing it.

D: I would be, but alas . . .

A: And yet another argument for thought developing form. . . May I continue with Tuesday?

D: Be my guest.

A: Why thank you. With Tuesday came the whispering of sweet nothings via instrumental – a wooing tactic the iPod used to its advantage all week. It started with The Minstrel Boy, as done by The Corrs. It’s another song I didn’t recall owning, ever. Of course, it should not have surprised me: Irish national music and I have a love affair that goes back . . . well, sixteen years. Our passion (political) faded within the first five, but with distance and understanding, we’ve come to a good, occasionally heart-stirring, place.

Then, The Song of the Lonely Mountain came on.

D: Oh, by the gods – not this one, again.

A: Hush. You love it. I know you do. It wins by default, by the way—

D: Of course it does.

A: Oi! I’ll have you know I didn’t like this song when I first heard it, and I’m still not as fond of the movie version as I am of the one found on the Extended Edition soundtrack.

D: So you’re two-timing The Song of the Lonely Mountain? You hussy.

A: No – it’s more like if one were dating one in a pair of twins. They’re identical-ish, but you just like one over the other (and hopefully can tell them apart, because those hijinks and shenanigans could be dangerous. Fun, but dangerous).

D: You are hopeless.

A: I know. But I’m single, so I’m totally allowed.

D: I’m not sure your logic—

A: My blog, my logic – work with me here, Druid. Anyway, Lonely Mountain won me over, starting at 1:08 into the song.

Wednesday was unremarkable. I think I had a Jamie Lidell and a Paolo Nutini to make me smile, but by Thursday, the iPod started to get a little fresh. It put on Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana

. . . and Take it Off, by the Genteels.

D: Oh boy.

A: I know, right? Frisky monks and just plain old friskiness. So, I had a lot of reasons to smile this week. And then Friday rolled around.

D: Let me guess: it was a disaster.

A: If by disaster you mean the most perfect Valentine’s playlist that an iPod randomizing 2k songs could produce, then yes, a fabulous, wonderful, I smiled the entire way into work and not just when I have the freeway to myself to go as fast as I please, disaster.

D: You could have just said ‘no, it wasn’t a disaster, D.’

A: Well, that’s no fun. So here it is, the winning day:

1. Crying, Bjork

2. Careless Love, Harry Connick, Jr. . . for which I couldn’t find a YouTube video – so here is Ray Charles singing it.

Note: It wasn’t until Harry came on that I started to grin – the first one could have been a one-off, right? But with Careless Love, I started thinking, well, this is a good Valentine’s mix – not romantic, but certainly fun for the staunchly single.

3. Not Too Late, Norah Jones

4. Moon River, Audry Hepburn

Beautiful and bittersweet – right up my alley. And then, Eddie Izzard came on, waxing lyrical about the word “Bastard.” Be still my heart.

5. Bastards and Makeup

6. Shoot the Moon, Norah Jones

7. I Think I Love You, Partridge Family

By this time, I’m nearly at work. A traffic light is out, cars are backed up but I’m grinning like a loon because a) I like this song and b) I’m seeing a trend, and I love it.

8. Sea of Time, Beatles

A: That one was for you, D

D: Yeah, sure it was. 

A: And finally. . . 

9. #1 Crush, Garbage

Yes, folks, the iPod really does love me. Of course, it died right after #1 Crush – is being restored as I type – but it was worth it. It died for love.

D: Song of the Lonely Mountain still wins though, right?

A: Oh yeah. By a mile.

D: (Eye roll) Hopeless.

A: Yup! Good night folks – may you find love where you least expect it, and in the smallest of things! Happy Valentine’s Day.

On Tour: Dreams of Love by Pamela Beckford

dreamsoflovecover

Description: Poetry is an expression from deep within the soul. It can be therapeutic and healing. It can bring out all the best or the worst in life. Her poetry comes from the heart, not the head. It is an outpouring of emotion and she exposes it to reader in the pages.

Various poetry forms are explored: free verse, tanka (5-7-5-7-7), doidotsu (7-7-7-5) and etheree (1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8-9-10).

Dreams of Love

Dreams of you and me

Together in ev’ry way

Your lips pressed to mine

Assuring me of your love

Dreams of love eternally

Purchase here!

pamelaPamela began writing poetry in just the last year. She is a nonprofit executive by day and spends her hours trying to be sure that everyone has a chance for a good life. Pamela is passionate about her job and it spills over into her writing. Dreams of Love is her debut poetry collection. Pamela feels that poetry can be very personal but invites you into her soul as you read her poems.

 

Visit the Author!

Poetry by Pamela

Year ‘Round Thanksgiving Project

The Sea

We live by the sea. It is just beyond us, really – a few kilometers away, over hill and heath – but it’s always there. Always breathing, always glaring or shimmering, depending on its mood.

That’s what she would say. That it had moods.

You can just see it from the kitchen window. It is a small thing, that window: square, flanked by bleached muslin and crowded with delicacies she would unearth from the water. Yet, often I would find her, standing there, elbow-deep in suds, just staring out at the sea.

And then one day, she wasn’t.

Madeline was like no other woman I had ever known. Eyes the color of sea glass and rich dark hair down to her waist, she was not so much exotic as simply the essence of everything beautiful in my heart. We courted and married in a scandalously short amount of time, but it didn’t matter. We were alone in the world, and had only ourselves to make happy. Yet, even then, I wondered.

In the darkest part of the night, I would feel her moving silently against her pillow, twisting the sheets. Tiny breaths would betray the angst that chased her through the night. Dreams haunted her, she said. Snatches of the day, of the life she’d led before followed her in sleep – sweet or painful, they were ghosts.

Now, I think I’m the ghost. I came home after a long two days in the city to find our little cottage empty. I called to her. Nothing. Something did not feel right – nothing was askew, and yet I knew: she’d gone.

I wandered down to the sea. I had help. Along the path she always took were trinkets I’d given her – nothing priceless, just things she kept stashed amid the beautiful flotsam she picked up along the beach. There was the string of beads made of driftwood from some distant shore. I found the silk scarf I gave her for Valentine’s next. Dyed in muted hues of blue, green and grey, she wept when she saw it – and never wore it. It reminded her too much of home, she said. It was draped over a bit of bramble marking the turn to the dunes.

I would dream of this. Of her gone. That she’d found it. Those were the dreams that haunted my sleep, that made me wake up in a sweat. That she found her skin and returned home.

And she had.

My Selkie. My sweet Madeline. Gone. Back to the sea, back to the life she had once traded for me. The sun dipped below the dunes and the sky was streaked in red when I saw it – saw her: a sleek head bobbing in the water. She stayed there, just out of reach, until the last of the light died. And as she dipped beneath the waves, I heard her voice, echoing within my heart, telling me one last time, goodbye.

For Papi Z’s Lucky 13 Prompt: “I found the silk scarf I gave her for Valentine’s next” 500 word flash fiction.

D: Well, aren’t you cheerful.

A: What? I thought you would appreciate a bit of the old tales.

D: Oh, I do – it’s just not something I would expect from you, that’s all.

A: Not everything is Mel Brooks send-ups or snark, D.

D: . . . It isn’t?

A: (Eye roll) In other Valentine’s News . . .

D: Oh, wait! I got this! Marie and John have put together a Top-Ten List for what not to do on Valentine’s Day.

A: You sound really excited about that, D.

D: Well, Mairead and I didn’t have to maneuver around this type of thing when we were courting. We were, you know, pagan. Saints of any name didn’t have much sway with us, unless they were gods before the church made them saints (Bridget, here’s lookin’ at you, kid).

A: Nice, D. And now?

D: Well, it’s a whole new world, and from what I understand from reading ahead in the story you’ve crafted about my future – totally from whole cloth too, might I add – Mairead is nearly ready to forgive me. I need all the help I can get.

A: Indeed, you do – if I recall correctly, Mairead was rather adept with a knife . . . and knows her way around a variety of herbal remedies.

D: Don’t be giving her ideas, woman!

A: Oh, no, of course not. For the non-Valentine’s among you, this post, 5 Horrible Valentine’s Day Cards, at The Queen Creative is perfect!

D: You loved those, didn’t you?

A: I did. I really really did. I actually want to send a few of those.

D: I fear for you.

A: Gee, thanks D. And that, my friends, is it. Have a great evening and thank you so much for reading!

Ode to Hot Chocolate

Hail to thee, molten joy!

Dark and seductive or milky sweet

You’re there in need, and never coy.

I breathe you in, your steam and heat,

I love you over any Christmas toy.

***

From: Google Images See what I mean, it's love in a cup!

From: Google Images
See what I mean, it’s love in a cup!

D: Seriously, A?

A: What? I love hot chocolate!

D: . . .

A: I love it so much, I’ve set a challenge for myself on Facebook.

D: Oh, pray tell what productivity this shall engender.

A: Reasons why I get to have hot cocoa for breakfast.

D: Because that is so healthy.

A: It is healthy – you know, because it’s a bean. Therefore . . .

D: Your depravity knows no bounds, does it?

A: Oh, like you didn’t indulge with the Aztecs.

D: I never crossed the sea, A – not until the 21st century and it is often that I second-guess that particular decision.

A: So, you weren’t there when the conquistadors brought it back from the New World?

D: Okay, well – maybe.

A: Right. And you didn’t sample it? Or drink down a whole jug of it and get chocolate all over your face?

D: Who have you been talking too?

A: I can’t tell you that. My informants rely on secrecy, D.

D: . . .

A: Here, D. Have some chocolate. It has tryptophan  in it – it’ll make you feel better.

D: (*grab* mumble grumble mutter slurp . . . sigh).

So, I’ve set myself a challenge: for the next five days, I will have a post on the glories of hot chocolate.

Yes, I do love it that much.

Stop by daily (or follow me on Facebook – yes me, not the D/A Dialogues because there’s nothing on that page that doesn’t end up on my own page. Plus, with Facebook’s new-to-me follow feature, you’re only subjected to that which I mark ‘public.’ Fancy.) to find out more about the season’s best drink, and the crazy reasons I’m more than willing to drink it for breakfast.

Reasons I’m drinking hot chocolate for breakfast:

Monday: It’s Monday. That’s totally allowed as a reason. Plus, I stabbed my hand yesterday while making guacamole. Yep, I’m a menace with sharp objects. (No worries, nothing vital hit. Plus, the boy gets to wash dishes all week!)

The marshmallow in your cup:

Hope

Photo courtesy Flickr Commons

Photo courtesy Flickr Commons

Other fiction I write has found a home on The Community Storyboard, and my trials and conquests with Paleo have found—wait, no that’s a spoiler – and D has his own outlet here when he takes the blog for a day to tell his tale. I decided that Sundays, instead of being a weekly update from me, are going to be a day for A – otherwise known as Katie. I may be a heathen, but it seems fitting.

I read a letter from my 13-year-old self today. I was supposed to read it 10 years ago, but misplaced it or, more likely, just avoided it. I was afraid it would be maudlin. Who isn’t maudlin at 13?

In it, I was concerned – and rightly so – with the status of my love life. I didn’t have the heart to tell 13 year-old me that we were 10-years divorced, and just settling into singledom after a lengthy relationship that had ceased to serve its purpose. Poor kid; she wanted more than that.

She asked after our daughters. It never occurred to us at that age that we would have a boy. Wow, and what a boy he is. Conan O’Brien and David Tennant met in a dark alley and TC burst into being.

Despite having written her first novel (that I also found… oh, dear!), 13-year-old me wanted to be an actress. She had no talent, so I’m really glad that wasn’t pursued, but I do see where TC gets some of his flair. Luckily, in TC, it has also found a more gifted outlet!

For all her questions and grand visions of the future, 13-year-old me demanded to know if I still believed in my dreams. What she wanted for us was hope. I wasn’t maudlin at 13. I was perhaps a little overly concerned with fame and power, but I wasn’t maudlin.

It’s no wonder D and I don’t have an easy working relationship. I have hopes and dreams, and they are, for the most part, lighthearted. D is not exactly maudlin, but he is a little like the ocean. He is deep, at times unfathomable and cold, furious in his passions and dangerous, too. I am the stone that skims the top of the waves, and he would like to swallow that stone and turn it into sand.

For all that I have been alone, these last two weeks have been the most emotionally intense that I have endured while writing. Part 3 was all about D and the world he’s trying to protect Sean and Maureen from – a world they belong to just as much as he does. In telling the much-abbreviated version of his story, D made me cry. I wept with sorrow for him and all that he’s lost. I raged at him for being so damned ornery. He also gave me shivers and a glimpse at a world I have yet to fully understand. And, at the end of it all, I had hope.

So 13-year old me, thank you. You did well and I’m going to make you proud.

Ever write a letter to yourself? Did you actually read it? 

My Dearest Love

D: A love story, how sweet.

A: It is sweet, D. And one day I may actually get to tell the whole thing.

D: This story has been rambling about up here for a while – Evie and I are good chums. The second story is loosely based on your grandparents, yes?

A: Where are you going with this?

D: I’m just wondering about the third story.

A: It hasn’t happened yet. I’m working on it.

D: Will it have ghosts?

A: No, I think Evelyn and Samuel do that just fine.

D: What about vampires?

A: Nope, you skulk around for that well enough.


D: Then what?!

A: I’m waiting for me, dummy. Now shush; let people read the story!