The nearly three decades that lay between Bev and me made no difference in our friendship, they just didn’t exist except as a number some might look at from the outside. The difference in ages wasn’t there from the moment we met or the ensuing fourteen years. We were two women, and we were friends.


She accepted the quirky side of me, and I, the pragmatic side of her. We were friends and neighbors for most of those years but in the old sense of the word. An acceptance of each other and a finding of common ground. We talked, joked, joy and found comfort in each other. We helped each other where we could, sometimes it was only listening, and sometimes it was watching out for each other and caring.


There were no expectations between us, but there was an abundant joy in having that cup of tea, glass of wine, dinner together, and conversation. I have a love of history and knew a lot about the world that she was born into, it was a world that I found comfortable to listen to stories of, or to share my own that I had learned from my mother and reading. We shared as two women will stories of loss, adventure, love, and we talked about children. Though I didn’t have any, I enjoyed learning of hers and of her youth, her meeting her husband Red, their adventures in Africa and the mischief her children got into in their youth.


You see a woman has many roles, she is a daughter, a child, a young girl, a young woman, a wife, a mother, and as she ages and loses many of those she knew in her youth, few remember her as a woman and a person. Her husband sees her as his wife, her children as their mother, and many as an old woman, even before she has aged enough to be considered old.


Bev and I never expected anything from each other, we only enjoyed what was given freely. She had her passions, and they showed in her paintings, the thesis she wrote and shared with me, in her love of people, life, animals, and her children.


And she loved her children deeply, she was so very proud of each and every one of them and bragged about their accomplishments, and talked of them often. There was never anything hurtful or wrong in what she said. She accepted people for who they were and understood that they were people too.


She was my friend, and I was honored to know her. I was honored to be there for her when she needed me, and I was blessed to call her friend. As I grow older, I understand better how much she gave me of herself and how precious it was and always will be to me. And I know how difficult it can be to lose those that remember you as the young woman that you will forever remain, no matter how old or frail you get.
​
Her one wish was that her children would love each other and find acceptance of each other after she was gone. I am blessed to have met the Mentzer family, I am blessed she was my friend.


The night Bev passed she came to me in a dream, we were at a pier, her children were a ways off, with many people in between us, and she was wearing a faded floral dress that was too big. It kept falling off her shoulders, and she said to me “The dress doesn’t fit anymore.” And I said “It always happens as we grow doesn’t it?”


Bev said, “my boat is here, I don’t know my new address yet, but I will get it to you.” And I woke up. I knew she was gone, I knew she had given me a final blessing in coming to say goodbye, and I knew that Bev wanted me to tell her children how much she loved them and how proud she had always been of them.

The honeymoon of Laura and Gerry Fitz is off to a fast-paced yet deadly start when they arrive in Florida. There is a maniac behind the wheel who needs to win at all costs. When he wins, life is great but when he loses he is DRIVEN TO KILL!
The first victim off the starting line is Laura's ex-husband Lou, and she is taking it personally. Mix in a creepy cop and some unexpected surprises and you have a race for your life. Who will win and who will wipe out?...

Karen Vaughan spins this entertaining yarn about a honeymoon couple, a psychotic race car driver and crooked cops with wit and humor. The characters are likeable and her attention to the details of police protocol lend plausibility to the plot. There's never a dull moment in Daytona for Laura and Gerry, which is what makes this such a page-turner. Thoroughly enjoyed it.

By Joan P. Ashley

​Grandfather fought for his freedom, not unlike the slaves who fought for their in the south around the time of the civil war. Grandfather escaped from a communist regime in Russia and Poland to make a better life for himself and his family. The things this man had to endure during his escape from what sounds like a living hell makes me realize the pursuit of happiness of the human race. A place to live in peace, freedom, liberty, and justice. The author of this book is his granddaughter a lovely person who carries on her grandfather’s legacy in a beautiful and endearing way. Read this short excerpt of Grandfather's life. It is humbling, to say the least. A feel-good read.
 
In 1913, Lucjan Czepirski was a man trapped in Russian occupied Poland. This short story concentrates on his escape and is suspenseful until the very end. Viv Drewa paints a story about a desperate man determined to have a better life. Five Stars.

Natalie Fisher committed suicide after an author stole her work and published it as her own. 
Two years later, her best friend Terri is found dead in her hotel room. 
Are the two deaths connected? 
Laura Fitz and Detective Gibbons are on the case to trap a ruthless author trying to get away with murder!

​Laura Fritz is back along with the characters I have come to love from this author's other books in the series. This time, Laura meets a couple of authors.Natalie, Silvie and Terri were close friends and struggling to be authors. When tow of the women die mysteriously, Laura gets involved and the adventure to solve a mystery begins. Karen Vaughan writes no-frills stories with amazing and believable characters. Grabbing a book by this author is like sitting down with an old friend and having a chat. Here novels are twisted mysteries with a cozy appeal and not to be missed. P.S. Winn

“Why do you call her the Ghost?” Tom asked Sam, as they sat in the cab of the truck.
 
“She is white now and has been extraordinarily meek and mild-mannered since her second foal. You hardly remember she is there most of the time.” He replied.
 
There was a sly lazy air about Tom. A bit slovenly, his long hair hanging greasy, on his shoulders, with a few strands combed across his prematurely balding head. Sam could hardly bear the smell of him, a combination of greasy hair and a pungent smell of stale beer clinging to him. “Will you open the window a bit, Tom?” Sam asked. He wore his blue jeans in what humans commonly referred to as a plumber’s crack; I don’t see how he can walk properly, I will have to get the boss to discuss his clothes it won’t do working with horses.
 
The red truck backed up to the gate of Sadie’s paddock, “Tom would you please go open the gate for me?” Sam asked.
 
“I’ll take a look-see, Sadie; be right back,” Nellie said as she walked back out to her paddock. Poking her head back in Nellie said, “One of them is old Samuel, but the shorter man looks like a real greenhorn Sadie I never saw him before.” He is a little man, a bit sly looking, with a mean look in his eye and the smell of cruelty.” Both mares’ ears perked up to hear the two men outside the small barn.
 
“Tom here’s the rope, go get the Ghost. You can bring her out through the paddock. I’ll be waiting at the trailer for you. She will be a bit cranky, but education is what you are here for. Besides I am here to show, not do the work.”
 
“Sam, which one of them is the Ghost, and if she is cranky, what’s the best way to get the rope around her?” Tom asked cunningly.
 
“As I already said, she is the white one. How long have you been around horses Tom? Surely long enough to know what a freaking halter is. Just go up to her, talk soothingly, and put the lead rope on the ring. It is the ring on the chin strap, at the base of the halter.” Sam shook his head in disgust. What the hell did the boss think when he sent this useless piece of shit to him for training? I bet this jerk can’t even tell the difference between a forelock and a frog. Maybe the guy was just lazy, though he might be like some people who acted stupid so they can get out of doing chores. Sam thought.
 
“I hear Nurse Mares have become a big business?” Tom said, to delay going into the barn. His voice full of bravado, but the mares could smell his nerves even with the barn doors closed. Sadie, could hear it in his voice. It worried her.

​Throughout history, people have enslaved others, regardless of their race or religion. They fought to own more, considered the land, water, animals, and yes at many times women and children to be the property of man. There have been exceptions to this rule. The societies that were a monarchy, not patriarchy, might have felt they owned men, who are to know I don’t. The Native American’s thought highly of their women, but also considered them tradeable as were animals. They didn’t consider the earth itself ownable.
This country was settled on a white supremacist attitude, and that bothers me a lot. It bothers me that even today, so many have these same issues of supremacy and ownership.
I do not own my animals or my land in this way of thinking. I am the steward of this piece of land. I am the caregiver and companion of my animals. I adopted them; they are incapable of caring for themselves as they were not raised to know how and therefore I owe them care. We give and exchange companionship. I would, however, fight to protect my home, animals, the land we live on to continue to protect it and them.
I do not understand the attitude that many have of superiority and ownership of anything that is living, be it animal, plant, air, water or anything else. If this makes me odd, so be it.

My first memories of poetry were from A Child’s Garden of Verse by Robert Louis Stevenson,  the same author who wrote the beloved classic Treasure Island

A.A. Milne, When We Were Very Young, Now We Are Six, and the Winnie the Pooh stories. These beloved verses and the illustrations of E.H. Shepard were to see me through my childhood filling my mind and fertilizing my imagination as they did for so many children.

Yet where did that love of poetry go for so many people?

I think it is in the way poetry is taught in today’s world. For instance, on my first day of Honors English class in college as the professor was giving us the curriculum for the semester.  listed what we would cover in the order in which we would cover it. The very last on the list was poetry, with a shrug she said “I’m not really comfortable with poetry, so am leaving it for last. I hope there isn't time.” I heard much the same, when I joined the editorial board of the college Journal of the Arts. The poetry picked for the journal by and large was full of abstract thought. It was as if the general consensus about poetry is if it’s abstract and difficult to figure out the meaning behind the words than it must be good. No wonder so many say they don’t understand poetry or don’t like poetry, when English professors admit they don’t understand it.  "Life doesn't frighten me." Maya Angelou 

It is a shame that poetry has such a bad rap, (no pun intended) as poetry weaves through our entire lives, even if we don’t know it. You hear it in the lyrics of the music. It is in our greeting cards on coffee mugs, in commercials, you name it and you will find poetry. Yet many parents shy away from either reading it to their children or picking it up and reading it to themselves.

What is the meaning of poetry to me you might ask? Poetry and verse are short stories telling the tale lying in the heart and mind of the author. It doesn't matter if it is adult or children’s poetry, I don’t want to have to study the poem to understand the concept behind the verse. This doesn't mean that if it is complex and difficult to figure out its , Maya Angelou, any more than a piece of abstract or minimalism art is bad art. It only means it isn't a preference of mine. I prefer my poetry to speak to me. I want it to carry me into the emotions and thoughts of the poet.

If I am reading or writing poetry aimed at children, I prefer it speaks to a child in their language and doesn't talk down to them. I like it to help me remember those feelings I had as a child thus connecting me both with the child within and with children in general. The same goes with adult poetry I want to feel something to see a picture and experience the mind and emotion of the author.

As I see it the main difference between the children’s and adults’ poetry is children think more literally. They feel the same emotions but don’t always understand where they are coming from. They are still learning and their vocabulary is growing. They see the world with more innocence and wonder. An adult on the other hand has seen more of life which usually means they will have a larger vocabulary and understand their emotions more or the subtle nuances and complexity of a poem.

Poets, who have stood the test of time and are considered great poets, tell a story in their poetry. Between children and adults the stories differ, but still there is a story and the use of imagination and/or emotion.

If you read the work of a contemporary poet like Maya Angelou, who is universally acclaimed one of the finest poets of our generation she tells a story in her poetry. It is full of beauty, sorrow, imagination, and hope. One of my favorites is her Phenomenal Woman you can find the link to the rest of the poem below as well as a youtube video of the reading.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pNj9cpvj-pU Maya Angelou, Phenomenal Woman

 http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/phenomenal-woman/[b2] 

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
I say,
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That's me……

You can also find that same lyrical, storytelling style in the poetry of any of the classic poets. For example look at Edgar Allan Poe’s, A Dream Within A Dream, below is the link to the whole poem and a short example of the poem itself.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rxg7OFFtWQE&feature=related Edgar Allan Poe, A Dream Within A Dream.

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-dream-within-a-dream/

A Dream Within A Dream

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

Some classic poetry rhymes, all of it is lyrical. Most children’s poetry rhymes because children remember rhymes more easily making it simpler for them to learn. They enjoy the rhyming and it helps spark their imaginations.

Many articles have been written on how rhyming helps children learn and why the classics are a great way to both entertain and teach children. You can read it in many articles, one of them is classic poems for kids.  http://www.squidoo.com/classic-poems-for-kids  It shows the simplicity that inspires children’s poetry.

This simplicity is shown so well in, William Makepeace Thackeray’s, 
At The Zoo .

First I saw the white bear, then I saw the black;
Then I saw the camel with a hump upon his back;
Then I saw the grey wolf, with mutton in his maw;
Then I saw the wombat waddle in the straw;
Then I saw the elephant a-waving of his trunk;
Then I saw the monkeys-mercy, how unpleasantly they-smelt!

Or in Robert Louis Stevenson’s poems The Cow and The Land of Counterpane, which describes  so intensely just how a child’s imagination works.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MouuBLfHBBc Robert Louis Stevenson, The Land of Counterpane

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p0K-umvbKgY The Cow by Robert Louis Stevenson

The Cow
The friendly cow all red and white,
I love with all my heart:
She gives me cream with all her might,
To eat with apple-tart….

The Land of Counterpane

When I was sick and lay a-bed,
I had two pillows at my head,
And all my toys beside me lay
To keep me happy all the day.

And sometimes for an hour or so
I watched my leaden soldiers go,
With different uniforms and drills,
Among the bedclothes, through the hills….

In Wee Three: A Child’s World, you find a similar rhyming quality that helps a child stretch their imagination and will speak to them in the language of youth. This language is full of imaginative, innocent, and literal ways children look at the world. There are many children’s poets but the ones that seem to stand the test of time all write as though they were looking at the world through the eyes of a child.

In my book A Poet’s Journey: Emotions, my style is more like the poets of the past and present  who tell a story in their verse and less abstract. It tells of the emotional roller-coaster that life can be.

If you read either children’s or adults poetry I believe you will agree the main difference between poetry written for a child and that for an adult is in the sophistication of the poem and the type of story it tells. At least this is true of most of the classic poets.