Moonbeams - Review

When I reviewed her first book, Jewels,  I said “I won’t tell you anything more because I don’t want to spoil the fun.  Just take my word for it and get yourself a copy of Jewels by local author Lakisha Spletzer.”

When I reviewed her second book, Werelove: Dusk Conspiracy, I wrote “…when Ms. Spletzer matures as a writer and finally finds her groove, hers is a voice that will be reckoned with.”

I have just finished Moonbeams, which the writer tells me is book one of a trilogy, and I’m here to tell you that with this offering, the Inverness, Florida writer and single mother of two can, in this reviewer’s opinion, be honestly and favorably compared to a young Ann McCaffrey!  If I need to be more specific than that for you, pay attention TOR, Penguin, Random House, Bantam, Earthlight, etc.  This is the coming out party,  and this is your chance to pick up a smoking hot new Sci-fi/Fantasy writer.

It is the end of a long, hot muggy summer in a small Virginia college town.  It’s Friday night, and friends Cory, Rob and Megan are tired of playing cards, and Cory and Megan are tired of losing to Rob.  Their decision to pack up the cards and drive to the next town over to do a little clubbing abruptly turns their world – and their lives upside down.  Cory sees a flash of light in a dark field, and convinces Rob to pull his car over and sets off to determine the source.  Rob follows Cory to assist his friend dragging a kicking, screaming, and whining  Megan, every step of the way.

They’re not quite certain of the source of the flash of light, but when they arrive at where Cory believes was its source, they are physically drawn into the Veil, a brilliantly crafted middle earth sort of place with elements similar to those worlds fashioned by the likes of Tolkein, Lewis, Goodekind, Anthony and McCaffrey, yet done so in a way that is fresh and new even to a reader intimately familiar with those names and places.

Moonbeams and all its descendant manifestations is uniquely the world of Lakisha Spletzler.  My only disappointment with Moonbeams will be remedied when part two of her trilogy is ready for prime time.  I grade on a half step five-star scale, so I give Moonbeams 4 ½ of five.  If I used an incremental 10–point scale, this would have been 9 out of 10.

Moonbeams, ISBN 1451559852, ©2011 Lakisha Spletzer, is available through the author’s website, CreateSpace.com and Amazon.com, including trade paperback and Kindle^® version.  Other e-pub versions are available at Smashwords.com.  Cover art for Moonbeams was created by J.D Holyfield.

Three O’Clock

A Poem for Good Friday

By David Roth

© 25^th March, 2005

Three o’clock, the bell did toll

Gathered crowd around, below

Hammer pounding, here it ring,

This day would salvation bring.

Crown of thorns upon his head,

Streams of life flow, crimson red,

Jeering crowd, some laugh, some cry,

As they raise Him to the sky,

Four o’clock; now cries the thief,

‘Save us, man, then I’ll believe,’

Prisoner on the other cross,

Declares Him Lord, accepts his loss.

Lifts his voice, speaks to the man,

Tells of Heaven’s glory plan,

Seeks the dying prisoner’s eyes,

‘Today, we’ll be in paradise’

Five o’clock, the guards cast lots,

Who will take the winner’s pot,

Dice are tossed, the runes unfold,

Winner takes the Savior’s robe.

Game is over, now they stand,

Darkness spreads across the land,

Three men writhe in searing pain,

Clouds roll, laden, dark with rain.

Six o’clock, a voice is heard,

Listen, tarry to His Word,

‘Forgive them’ is his dying cry,

Looking upward to the sky,

‘It is finished,’ He proclaims,

Man’s redemption He became,

Lightning strike and thunder roll,

Rain pours while sin takes its toll.

Three o’clock the end would start,

Life for Life and heart for heart,

Man of Sorrow, God’s own Son,

God Incarnate, Holy One,

Bringer of redemption’s plan,

Son of God, to sons of man.

Three days hence to greet the dawn,

Vanquished death!  New life begun!

Were You There

By David Roth

© 18 November, 2003

The lone singer took the stage

The orchestra stood mute

A tiny choir huddled near

Intent and resolute

The singer paused and took a breath

Determined to be heard

“Were you there” he asked the audience

“When they crucified my Lord?”

I’d heard the hymn oft times before

And softly sang along

Without the deep conviction

I felt now within this song

A shiver trembled down my spine

I drew a shallow breath

Tears coursed down in burning streams

Envisioning His death

The singer pondered, “Were you there?”

His eyes gazed into mine

And caused me to consider

My appointment with the Divine

The Psalmist wrote that long before

I voiced my newborn cries

He knew me in my mother’s womb,

He saw me through His eyes

And now the image of the song

That caught me unaware

Reminded me that in His eyes

Most surely, I was there

For as each nail was driven home

As each drop of blood was shed

As surely as three days later

He rose up from the dead

I stood there on the somber day

He hung upon the tree

Aware that in His grace and love

He did it all for me

It Was...Something

It was a warm and sunny day.  Suddenly a bell rang out.  A cruise ship appeared on the horizon, and a frog croaked somewhere in the distance.  I did what anyone would do.  Tossed the alarm clock through the window and went back to sleep.  In retrospect, it may have been better to have opened the window first, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.  A very good idea.  Aspirin may have been useful as well, but don’t they always say hindsight is always 20-20, and furthermore, does that proverbial old wives tale include the eyes in the back of your mother’s head? 

I ask only because this was the morning of my 18^th birthday, and much like the rest of the world, I’d stayed up far too late the night before, or more accurately, the morning following the night before, celebrating the rollover from 1970 to 1971.  I am certain that my impending birthday played no small part in the worldwide celebration.

I had two items on my to-to list for that Sunny first day of January, 1971.  Well, three if you include repairing the window.  Register for the Viet Nam draft, as required by law, and register to vote.  As it happened, both had to wait until the second day of January, 1971, because the world was taking the day off to celebrate my birthday with me, or without me, as it turned out.

As I said, I went back to bed.  You never can store up enough sleep.

I did accomplish the things on my task list with mixed repercussions.  When I went down to register, I was given a very high number in that year’s lottery, and Mr. Nixon, for whom I cast my first ever vote in a presidential election, returned the favor by ending the Viet Nam draft just days prior to my number coming up.

The other thing was registering to vote.  I cast my first vote, as I said, for the Nixon-Agnew ticket.  That didn’t work out so good.  Still, I did vote, as I have in every presidential election since, including the one when I was in Europe, and almost every local election.  Although I am a registered Republican, I have voted for Republicans, Democrats, Independents, Write-in Candidates, Libertarians, and on at least six occasions, the last presidential election included, for myself.  I have voted for men and women, White, Black, Hispanic, Irish, Italian, Polish, and undetermined.  I take this privilege as a responsibility.  I research the candidates and the issues and vote accordingly.  There are only two things I am fairly certain I have never done in any election.  I have never voted Tea Party, nor have I ever voted straight ticket.

If the truth bothers you, you might want to stop here.

If, in 2008, you voted for John McCain and the only reason you know is true in your heart of hearts, is that John McCain is white, you are a disgrace to our nation, and a racist bigot.  Having said that, if you voted for Barack Obama, and you know in your heart of hearts that the only reason you voted for him is because Barack Obama is black, you, too, are a disgrace to our nation and a racist Bigot.   And don’t give me any of that George W. Bush bull crap.  He wasn’t running.  If you’re voting color or gender, you are a bigot and that’s all there is to it.  Furthermore, you don’t have the brains to deserve the privilege of voting.  Hey – I warned you.

And, come to think of it, it may have been a dark and stormy night, that cruise ship may have well been the Black Pearl, and it could have been a fire cracker, or perhaps a shot that rang out, but I’m pretty sure about the bullfrog.

Overwhelmed

My wife says it’s because of the second stroke – the one that paralyzed my left side.  I don’t know if that’s the reason, but it seems that I’m more emotional since that auspicious event on 20^th April, 2008 – in other words, three years ago tomorrow.  I seem to be more sensitive to things, and I cry more often, and sometimes it seems that almost anything will set it off.

I spoke with a wife and mother of three today whose husband and father of those same three children went off to Afghanistan to do his duty to defend our nation.  I also spoke with his mother, and had an opportunity to spend a few moments in prayer with wife/ mother and the mother of the departing soldier.  I am overwhelmed with humility for the sacrifice of three children, a wife, and the mother and father left behind to worry and pray for their loved one.  It was a privilege to speak with them and pray with them.

I had a similar privilege with two others from back in Pittsburgh, and a friend from back in college who is a pastor now, and whose father is in his last days.

I find myself both humbled and overwhelmed by the strength of those I sought to comfort, instead finding strength and comfort myself in their collective strength and faith.

And as I think of them and how they blessed me when I was attempting to be of some comfort and blessing to them, I find myself humble and overwhelmed by the mercy and grace of my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, and this I am reminded how unworthy I am of his gift of salvation.

As you read this, it is my prayer that He who spoke he universe into being, will speak to your heart.

Swamp Sounds

Tree frogs sing on the night wind,

the same wind that plays

the long, thin fingers

of palm fronds

like a bow

massaging

the carefully tuned strings

of a cello in the hands

of a master,

and whispers words of love

in the nooks, bends, and whiskers

of creaking southern pine.

The staccato flap of hungry bats

answer repeated queries

from restless great horned owls,

nocturnal guardians of the forest,

dining themselves

on the less fleet of foot

until dawn interrupts

the quiet rhythm of the night

with the rumbling yawn

of a massive reptilian bull

who slips silently

into his tannin stained world.

By David Roth

© 13^th April, 2011