Robert A Meacham- Poet and Novelist

Thinking of You

2010-08-01T19:00:00.001-07:00

No strangers are your eyes and mine
Intently , as we gaze into their streams
When the mind's wings o'erspread
our spirit world of dreams.

Moody Blues: I Know You're Out There Somewhere

2010-07-13T19:19:00.000-07:00

I know you are out there somewhere.
Are you a particle
from an exploding
sad star in
a far away galaxy.
Are you the mist
that rises above
the highest treetops,
or the gleam from
the cresent moon?
Perhaps it's you
riding atop a shooting star
or one tear falling
in a raging river.
My voice tells me
you are lost between worlds,
a soul bound
by waves rushing
to a desolate shore.
Are you hiding
in a city
under the sea?
Or hidden quietly
in the forest.
You will hear my voice.
And come to me
as an exploding star.
For love is eternal
and will not be denied.
You will hear my voice.
I will find you,
somehow.

The Calling

2010-07-07T18:51:00.000-07:00

I hear the calling, so softly, but with certainty. My soul will glide like a wind driven cloud and when I get to my destination, you will be standing there waiting for me.

The Veil

2010-06-23T18:30:00.001-07:00

Darkness and light
from their secret embrace
sends their smiles
with promises
of new life.
The earth trembles
hearing the verses of lies.
Not the cloak
nor sprinklers dry
imposing limp litanies
that drape impotent
as a lifeless thunderbolt
will make a difference.
As wild dances dance
and choruses swell
the veil lifts
to the gates of hell.

Like a whirlwind
he spews his breath
this unstoppable
chariot of fire

Writing Candida- The Making of A Princess

2010-06-14T17:23:00.000-07:00

The poems and short stories I have written, including a mystery novel, flowed with ease. This novel is bittersweet with every sentence because of the immeasurable amount of energy I put into writing it.Let me explain.

The conscious and unconscious are mindful energy planes that we all possess. The only difference being the level in which we use them. Candida had questions about her contribution to life. She knows there are more things to be discovered, more truth, and more power in a soul that needs to be set free.

The same energy Candida feels, I feel as I attempt to convey some reason-ability to her story. There are always unanswered questions in hope and faith but in silent steps, one can unveil a thriving will that comes to light. Candida does this in a most powerful sway of realizing the truth of her desires and demands.

What is difficult in writing the story is being able to vividly describe her projected thoughts and will. The passion is so strong that it makes the soul tremble or become totally exhausted in feeling her plight.

The novel is moving at a slow pace but a distinctive pace, one of endurance of the cries of the soul.

Free Photos Angels Fairies Mermaids Gothic Photos Glitter Graphics
http://www.free-foto-animation-digital-images.blogspot.com/

The Dancer

2010-06-05T18:58:00.001-07:00

The Dancer
The night I slept, I awoke in a dream
And there you stood, this lovely beam
Casting your poise, your beauty fair
As music dances in midnight’s air.
You are the song of the Troubadour,
The lute and gay tambour
loved of yore.
You dance the mazy dance of old
With your flowing robe laced with gold
And your gay attire and jeweled hair
Brush by me the odors sweet,
Where in a dream I came
To kneel and breathe love’s ardent flame
That lays burning beneath your feet.

Celine Dion - The Power Of Love

2010-05-04T15:07:00.000-07:00

A power that never vanishes or scatters in the never ending realm of eternity

Madden Joseph

2010-03-31T19:20:00.000-07:00

Madden Joseph

Could we new charms to age impart?
And fashion with a cunning art
the human face.
As you clothe the soul with light,
And make the glorious spirits bright,
with thy heavenly grace,
From mother’s womb
Lay curled in rest
you awaken in that hour
like the bloom on the flower,
exposing its luminous crest.

Dawn

2010-03-17T18:38:00.000-07:00

when to my darkened room the flushing East
comes with her comrade sharply-clawed, the Dream,
she wakens me by a bright avenging scheme,
an angel in plume, not the besotted beast.
deep vaults of inaccessible azure there,
before the dreamer sick with many a spasm,
open, abysmal as a beckoning chasm.
thus, deity, all pure clear light and air,
over the fog’s reeking track
— brighter and lovelier yet, thane image flies
in fluttering rays before my widening eyes.
the sun has turned the candles' flame to black;
even so, victorious always, thou art one
— resplendent spirit! — with the eternal sun!

Life

2010-02-12T20:03:00.000-08:00

Life

Born first and then thrust
into a world so short the years we live
and we ask; is life, which tho does give,
were life indeed?
With all our sorrows that fall so fast
our happiest hour is when at last
our souls are freed.

Through life and all its tears,
let it not end in bitter doubts and fears,
or dark despair.
Amongst life, so many toils appear,
and he who lingers longest here
knows most of care.

“My only wish is that the people I touch will still feel me when I’m gone.”

2010-01-22T16:36:00.000-08:00

A Summer Lost

I sat amongst the earth’s garniture
in a sober sadness.
Once green, laden across her breast;
now coated with ash-crimsoned vest,
summer has left her vale of tears.
I know her heart is without stain
and she reminds me of warmer days
when summer vine in her beauty clings
to the mellow blush of day.
Like passions springing from the dust,
they fade and die.
Under the swaying barren boughs
are tears and a broken heart,
when came the parting hour.
Summer is lost.

Coming Home

2010-01-18T19:03:00.000-08:00

The rhythmic swaying and the singing of iron on iron woke me. I rubbed my eyes as I leaned to look out the window. I wiped the fog from the window and sat so close that I felt the cold glass on my nose. Snow had fallen, covering all the land as far as I could see and the evening gave way to the gray silken veil that masked the trees as we sped by. The tracks seemed so lonely lying there as we passed, not seeing where we had been and barely able to see ahead. A dim yellow light on the nose of the train was the most we could hope for guidance. Like hope, a blush of crimson rushed through the folds of gray clouds and cast a rosy light that stained the snow ahead.
My heart warmed. I was heading home for the first time in three years.

2010-01-13T15:28:00.000-08:00

Pretending

I could pretend you’re still here,
me listening to the beat
of your heart while you sleep.
Inhale the scent of your body
As I lay next to you,
pretending.

I could pretend hearing your voice,
Telling me that you love me,
Catch your eyes in the mirror
Flirting with me while I watch
As you dress and I sit
pretending.

I could pretend holding you,
Embracing your hurt away,
Drying your tears with a kiss,
Sweep your hair from your face
As you look at me,
pretending.

I could pretend and not live the truth
The truth is you were temporary;
like signature in the sand
erased by ocean's tide,
or autumn wind that carried you away
like golden leaves in flight.

I could lend pretending for faith
on whose wings your soul
has risen beyond the sky
And waiting patiently
my selfish heart beats
pretending.

Death Stalks

2010-01-01T19:53:00.000-08:00

Death Stalks Me
By
Robert Austin Meacham

The old man sat motionless in his rocker. His gnarled fingers and stilted legs prevents the old man from moving, except for the slight motion of the rocker as his head drops toward his lap. Sitting wide on grimacing face, his pale blue eyes glared at the chamber floor with the perception of his haunting. With cunning speed, a thick darkness shrieked the echo that stalked him. Even in mortal terror, the old man could only groan. As the night waned, he summoned the acuteness of his senses he would need to confront death’s coming. Swiftly, his head snapped back and the cold wind of death rushed through his eyes, piercing them and shattering them into thousand pieces. He panicked at the end and his thoughts grayed before they extinguished all together.

Come Visit Me

Come visit me in the cold depths
Where darkness is my bed
Come visit me where sounds are still
And silence fills my head.

Come visit me where chained I'm slave
a prisoner forced to lie.
Come visit me in this lonely grave
resting here to die.

Time Passing

2009-11-21T20:52:00.000-08:00

The beginning has no time nor no end and in between there is life, oh so sparingly.

Time Passing
Given cradle, the starting place,
Where rushing life is the onward race,
Not knowing the ultimate goal;
When, in a castle of the blest
Time leaves to its eternal rest
The weary soul.
Time stealthily steals from life
And gives in silence to one and all
The swollen tears of fate
And ultimately, the strongest fall.
Time brings in heavy weight
Swinging wide its outward gate
To weary age.

Daimon's Disguise

2009-06-09T09:38:00.000-07:00

My Montage 4/6/09

Daimon's Disguise is a short story I wrote for The Amazon Shorts Program. The video was a fun project I thought I would try and it is a new way to market my short stories.

Captain Jack and Lillian

2009-05-07T18:29:00.001-07:00

It came to me in a dream so now it seems it lives on pages in my upcoming book. Here is a sample:

Captain Jack and Lillian

It was a mid-day in May
When red sunlight lazily lay
Peering through cloudless skies,
Casting down on ocean's brilliant dyes
That Captain Jack and his crew of three
sailed for the magic solitude
of the boundless sea.
Lillian stood on the surf-tormented shore,
Her eyes' scintillating soul the pain she bore.
Jack consumed her heart,
in all and in whole,
And with it he took his truant soul.

The day had grown to twilight dim
As Night birds sang a solemn hymn
That echoed across the night-tide's rush
riding waves' glow with reddish blush.
There appeared a bright cold moon
As if a talisman, not a warning too soon
For the once calm waters began to swell
from the chilling winds upon them fell.
The tossing tempests had grown and grown
as mountainous waves appeared as death's throne.
In solemn silence,
Captain Jack and the three
became slumbering souls
beneath the tumultuous sea.
The lurid sea, the lurid sea
in all the pageantry of her beauty.

Moon tints of purple and pearl
evolved into brilliant liquescence
when Lillian appeared as crystalline light,
the poetry of her presence.
Her face shone sorrow and her soul she borrowed
as she pleaded to the stars above,
wishing the return of Captain Jack,
her one and only love.

Out of the sea's immensity,
into a labyrinth of pearly light,
Captain Jack stood a proud tower
holding his stone flowers
toward Lillian , he held them out right.
Her heart palpitated at the welcome sight,
her eyes beamed with glee
One step then two then vanishing into
the cold embrace of the sea.

Published on Kindle

2009-03-20T18:38:00.001-07:00

E-publishing is certainly the way of the future for the industry. I finally broke down and published a book of poetry called " Expressions" I did a poor job on the book cover but oh well! I will get better at this as time goes on. I initially put a price of .99 cents on the 3800 word, 33 page poetry book on Amazon's Kindle. I will see how it goes. I think that any reader may find a couple of poems to their liking. I hope so.

Here is a link for more information.Expressions- Poetry by Robert A Meacham

New Release

2009-03-05T10:50:00.000-08:00

I am excited to present a new release, an anthology written by myself and eighteen other amazon short authors. This book is also available on the Kindle.

The World Outside the Window

by 19 authors in the Amazon Shorts Program

Imagine, if you will, a building of unknown origin. A building in which there are many rooms, each with a window that looks out upon a courtyard and a scene beyond. In each room a person sits, staring out the window at the same people and objects that everyone else sees from their windows.
Yet, as we tell our stories of what we see, we learn a basic truth of the universe. We learn that even though our eyes survey identical scenes, our minds take us to places that only we as individuals know and remind us of stories that only we can tell.

Outside the window we see a winding country lane leading into the distant countryside. We see two boys, perhaps 10 or 12 years old, tossing a baseball to each other. A girl of maybe 7 or 8 swings on a schoolyard swing set, while two lovers walk hand in hand along the side of the road. A ramshackle old mailbox sits on a slanted post, and nearby there is an old car, possibly from the ‘50s - appearing to be in good running condition. We see a church steeple and an older woman walking along the side of the road, seemingly headed for the church. A young soldier stands still, his face is pensive, and it is plain to see that he has much on his mind. Two men are in a heated discussion about something, but from inside our window we can only guess at what is causing their turmoil. Nearby a beautiful girl sits on a park bench, weeping. An old dog lies on the grass, peaceful and serene, watching a puppy frolicking through a flower bed. As day changes to evening and then to night, we see a twinkle in the sky. A falling star, perhaps a starship?

Yes, the characters are there for us, waiting, making no comments that will give us any clue as to who they are or what they may be doing. They are waiting for us to cast them in their roles, to give them direction. We can use one or all of them. We can make them walk down the country lane, drive the car, or follow along behind the woman as she heads for the church. It is our world to create, and we have total control of everything in it.

Whatever happens, we make it happen. Loves, lies, war or peace, death or life, shackled to earth or bound for the stars, it is in our hands to decide their fate. We sit at the window, taking in the complexity of the scene before us and after a few hours of pondering, we sit back and relax as we use our mind’s eye to peer into a world that we will shape into anything we wish it to be.
Slowly, we begin. We pick up our pens and write our stories of the world outside the window.

TABLE OF CONTENTS FALLEN STAR, RISING STAR – Mark Terence ChapmanMISERY LOVES COMPANY – Pamela K. KinneyROSE’S QUESTION – D. K. ChristiSMILE – Anthony WaughTHE SILVER LINING – Rebecca BuckleyTHE BLACK ROSE – Woodrow WalkerSAYING GOODBYE TO MISS MOLLY – Morgan St. JamesTHE SPLIT MIND – Robert A. MeachamNEAL’S NOEL – Jay OsmanTHE MAILBOX – Larry L. EvansSTRANGE DREAMS – B.W. PhilpotONLY THERE WAS NO WIND – Jim WilskyAUSTIN, MY HERO – Tory LynnETUDE & SMOKE RINGS – Lana M. Ho-SheingTWILIGHT – Matthew Alan PierceTHIS TIME FOREVER – Erin GordonSUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY – Curtis M. HendelHOUSE ARREST – Richard LordKILLING FROST – E. Don Harpe

Book Signings

2009-03-05T09:30:00.000-08:00

Book signings are paramount in promoting your work. The following are a few tips I found that worked for me:

Most cities, towns, rural counties, or parishes like to promote local authors. And most of these venues do announcements for local authors via newspapers.

The contact person will likely be the life-style editor for the news paper and will be happy to do an interview with the author. Before an author approaches the news paper, contact your local bookstore, mine was hastings, and ask for a book signing date. More than likely , the store will have a section for local authors and will be happy to oblige a signing date. After the particulars are decided upon about the number of copies required and the date of signing, offer the manager that you will be plugging the sighning in the interview article.

The timelines will be cordinated with the signing date and the article and the rest is up to the author to do a few marketing techniques;

If the bookstore supplies a poster of your book as hastings did for me , great. If not, find a printshop that can accomodate.
Have bookmarks with the cover of the book and any website information on it.
Have your signing table decorated
By all means, give the store a signed copy of your book
Most importantly, engage customers with friendly conversation- have fun

The signings I have done resulted in at least 30 copies of my book sold, a happy book store manager, and an invitation to return.

Lastly, you will now have a pattern and resume of successful signings when you branch out of your local area to do signings.

Flash Fiction

2009-03-04T06:03:00.000-08:00

Flash fiction is a great way to sharpen your skills for tight writing. Usually a 500 max. content, flash fiction challenges the author to present a story quickly. Here is my example of flash fiction:

Ramón Delgado- The most feared name in all Mexico.

One summer’s night in 1866 while fleeing from the Mexican Army, Ramón Delgado, infamous hired gun, and murderer, clung to his black steed whose convulsing frame showed evidence of violent exertion. Ramón whipped and spurred his mount until white froth oozed from the animal’s mouth and nostrils. Appearing as shadow across the low ridge, Ramón and steed outran the echoes created by the beating hoofs upon the rocks.

There was a time, ten years earlier, when Ramón, a tall handsome dark brown eyed, square-jawed man with black raven hair, and full Manchu mustache, held the rank of captain in the Mexican army. One day, upon returning home, he found his wife and two sons murdered by the hands of well-known local bandits. Fredrico, neighbor and friend, witnessed the murders and informed the mournful Ramon. Ramón unleashed a ruthless revenge, sought out the bandits, killing them one by one. In doing so, Ramón became hunted by the very army he had served. Some would say he had right for revenge; others thought the killings made Ramón lose his mind.

In a short distance, below the ridge, a small town lay asleep, except for the cantina. The cantina lured Ramón to an abrupt stop. He dismounted, quickly scanned the area, and then went inside. Six caballeros sat playing poker as Juan Hernandez played flamenco while his beautiful wife Maria, clapping hands and stomping feet graced the small dance floor.

Carlos Alvarado, the short black bearded bar tender, gazed at Ramón in mortal terror. Carlos, as did everyone else in the cantina, knew right away, who entered.
Ramón stepped to the bar grinning wryly. “Whisky and leave the bottle,” he growled.

Carlos, shaking, reached for the whisky bottle behind him on the shelf, nearly dropping the shot glass as he turned and sat it on the bar. Slowly backing away from the bar, Carlos offered, his voice weak, “For you Senor Delgado. No charge.”

Ramon laughed, grabbed the bottle of whisky and shot glass, and then, approached the card game. When he got to the table, one of the caballeros stood and offered Ramón a chair.

“Take my chair Senor Delgado.” The man backed away, turned, and left the cantina hurriedly.
Ramon sat in the chair, took a shot of whisky each time he looked at each of the five remaining men, and then slammed his glass to the table. “Let’s play,” he yelled.

One hour later, an empty whisky bottle is all that remained on the table. The very lucky Ramón scooped all the winnings in his pockets and then waved his revolvers above his head. Laughing deliriously, he stumbled toward the table where the senorita still danced. He began shooting close to her feet until she stumbled and fell to the floor.

Ramon placed his revolvers in the holster, turned and walked back to the bar. “Another bottle for the road,” he demanded.

Carlos looked past Ramón and moved quickly to the end of the bar. The complete silence in the cantina compared to a tomb.

Ramón sensed piercing eyes fixed to the back of his neck.
“Who is this who wants death?” Ramón uttered as he turned to face Juan.

Ramón saw Juan staring at him with deep-set dark eyes, remaining steady and full of revenge. Ramón did not see the steady hands that drew the pistols and fired the bullets of death.

A life, short, poignant, and haunted, ended by a single bullet. Ramón’s life pulse lay mangled on the floor. His disorder of demons lay nameless in shrouded form. At least now, they could no longer haunt the shadows of his mind.
His soul lay helpless in obscurity without an escape route.
As Ramón’s lungs choked in silence, his new loneliness befriended darkness and his soul became devoured in the silence.

2009-03-01T18:34:00.000-08:00

The Northern Clime

2009-03-01T17:30:00.000-08:00

In the words of Henry W. Longfellow, one of my favorite poets:

There is no long and lingering spring,
unfolding leaf and blossom one by one;
no long and lingering autumn,
pompous with many-colored leaves
and the glow of Indian Summer.
But winter and summer are wonderful,
and pass into each other.

The quail has hardly ceased piping in the corn,
when winter from the folds of trailing clouds
sows broadcast over the land, snow,
icicles, and rattling hail.
The days wane apace.
The sun hardly rises above the horizon,
or does not rise at all.
The moon and the stars shine through the day;
only at noon, they are pale and wan,
and in the southern sky a red, fiery glow,
as of sunset, burns along the horizon,
and then goes out.

And now the Northern Lights begin to burn,
faintly at first, like sunbeams
playing in the waters of the blue sea.
Then a soft crimson glow tinges the heavens.
There is a blush on the cheek of night.
The colors come and go,
and change from crimson to gold,
from gold to crimson.
The snow is stained with rosy light.
Twofold from the zenith, east, and west,
Flames a fiery sword;
And a broad band passes athwart the heavens,
Like a summer sunset.
Soft purple clouds comes sailing over the sky,
And through their vapory folds,
The winking stars shine white as silver.

And now the glad, leafy mid-summer,
Full of blossom and the song of nightingales,
Is come!
O how beautiful is the summer night,
Which is not night, but a sunless
Yet unclouded day,
descending upon earth with dews,
and shadows, and refreshing coolness!
How beautiful the long, mild twilight,
Which like a silver clasp unites today with yesterday!
How beautiful the silent hour,
When morning and evening sit together,
hand in hand beneath the starless sky of midnight.

Publications

2009-02-18T17:22:00.000-08:00

The Release is a gripping story about a young man's struggle to survive the memories of a childhood horror. Unloved by a substance-addicted mother, and beaten daily by an alcoholic father, John Michaels finds himself reenacting the violence that demonized him as a child. His suppression of feelings cannot extinguish the nightmares that live on in his mind. The battle for normality is his story.

A complete bibliography can be viewed following the link below.

Books Are The Footprints of Life