Something
That she bends time to her will is no disguise When she moves, time stops cold I have seen eyes as deep as hers only in dreams where lavender tucks the corners of a soft mattress back for movement She is the purity and beauty of a starry sky blessed with a wisdom that reaches further back than ever mankind could hope to witness She came to me once, drifting on a curtain of air To see her cheeks smile like that, her smooth dark skin— Something stirred in the air Not her breath on my neck nor her kisses on my cheek The delicate way her fingers held me— her substance moved as her soul burdened the weight of all she cried for Something stirred— some delicate substance burdened she and she moved, breathed her fire on my neck And I can’t remember what it is
Jack Beltane writes about memories and music the way Jack White plays guitar.
—Eric Anderson, author of “The Parable of the Room Spinning”
Poetry
Echoes of the Unspoken by Wayne Dodd
The magic of everyday life revealed through emotion and memory. Last lines highlighted (from “The Work”):
everything that is
curves into color
Not Poetry
Jack Beltane and the Seven of Pentacles by Jack Beltane
My next novel, now in the drafting process. We’ve got a long way to go… First lines (currently):
These are two stories about the end. Or of endings, anyway. Those tiny moments when you are dangling over the precipice, out-stretched arms pinwheeling for balance, the toes of your sneakers losing grip on treads worn thin by years of use. These are those old-shoe moments, when you know that something is over, that the souls have worn out, that the things which have carried you for so long can no longer go on and have to be thrown away.
