Review of Variety Is The Spice Of Life: A Blend Of Poetry And Prose, by Sally Cronin

We’re just climbing out of a deep freeze that saw temperatures plummet to below -30 Celsius, that’s around -22 Fahrenheit for my southern friends. I can hear your teeth chattering from here.

So of course, I went skiing with my Dad. Just a pair of Canucks wrapped like Egyptian mummies, snow pants crinkling like cellophane giftwrap, careening downhill, as a toothy wind whistled across our goggles and helmets. A tad bit loopy? Perhaps. But a bonding and pleasant memory forged, another chapter written in our life stories . . . that’s a certainty.

In my opinion, that’s precisely what this wonderful compilation of poetry and short stories is about. A blend more satisfying than a cup of freshly brewed specialty coffee on a sunny back yard deck in late June. Perhaps I’m being watched by a marmalade cat who disapproves of my intrusion into her afternoon routine of prowling the garden.

The world spins billions of individual tales every day; most go unnoticed. That caterpillar munching on that leaf may struggle with a desire to remain wingless, despite the insistence of the butterflies that his inclination is unnatural.

Guilty secrets, locked for decades, in the conscience of an elderly woman are laid bare for a beloved few, while a village holds its collective breath as it awaits some devastating news.

We never know when a smile or small act of kindness may save a life.

Reading this book is like sitting on the front porch with a trusted friend as he shares some cherished lore. Every now and again, he pauses to give you an earnest glance before speaking in a gentle voice. “And this is the way of things, not all bad, and not all good.”

I recommend this book to those who appreciate fine wordsmithing about discovering gems hidden in the guise of the mundane.     

Have I enticed you to learn more and grab your copy? Yes? Then please read on to meet Sally and click on the links.

Sally Cronin is the author of sixteen books including her memoir Size Matters: Especially when you weigh 330lb first published in 2001. This has been followed by another fifteen books both fiction and non-fiction including multi-genre collections of short stories and poetry.

As an author she understands how important it is to have support in marketing books and offers a number of FREE promotional opportunities on her blog and across her social media. The Smorgasbord Bookshelf

Her podcast shares book reviews, poetry and short stories Sally Cronin Soundcloud

After leading a nomadic existence exploring the world, she now lives with her husband on the coast of Southern Ireland enjoying the seasonal fluctuations in the temperature of the rain.

Blog Amazon.com

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Celk

We live in the country, on a back road that the township forgot but is Grand Central to an abundance of wildlife. We’re talking everything from cocky chipmunks that used to torment our yellow lab, to black bears, wolves, and even a moose that wandered from up North. Yup, there’s still plenty of ‘North’ in the tundra above our toques.

If I compiled a file of soundbites, I’d bet most of you would be surprised at which woodland creature is letting you know they’re around.

The title of most terrifying belongs, hands down, to our warm and fuzzy friend, the Fisher. A couple of notes into that murderous cry is enough to flash freeze the blood of even the most stout-hearted.

 Now, while the Fisher is downright spooky, what I heard during a twilight walk with Tanya, can be classified as Area 51. Truth is, it wasn’t the first time I’d heard it.   

A week prior, I was awakened at that three am timeline, when the weird stuff is supposed to happen, by a hybrid howl. Each call began as a coyote howl but rose in pitch, transforming into what I can only describe as an elk call. You know that shrill sound they make, just before they stomp you? Kinda’ like that scene from Polar Express, where the Caribou cause the train to make an unscheduled stop. Yes, I know the two are different and live in different regions, but that’s what pops into the pumpkin.  

The poor thing seemed to be a crossroads, unsure of what category of species it fit into. “Hooves or paws? Do I like the taste of rabbits or wheatgrass? Hmmm . . . dunno, but I can make this sound. Watch me go!”

 I did a bit of research and discovered there was more Wile E., than Rudolph, in the DNA batter. Bang the pan lids together! Mind blown! I’ve lived rural for most of my existence, and I’ve never heard anything make that sound.

Oh, back to our walk. So here we are, sundown, reflector vest on and flashlight at the ready to protect us from those really dangerous animals; the ones with four rubber feet and that feast on long extinct flora and fauna alike, when my friend, I’ve named him Celk, starts saying, “Hello!”

Celk was off in the brush to our left, and he was calling out to his crew that were having a party in the brush to our right. What happened next was that the dudes he thought were his crew went silent. Rude! Maybe this is nature’s version of ghosting? I mean, the poor bugger went on for another five minutes and no one answered.

We reached our turnaround point and started for home. Celk must have crossed the road to see what’s up with his boys, because now he was over there calling around. For some reason, I’m picturing them crouching beneath some juniper bush, holding their breaths, and willing themselves not to fart. They were having no part of Celk, who’s invitation must surely have gotten lost in the mail. Or maybe someone blew up his mailbox with an ACME bomb.

My heart went out to poor Celk, who was still giving a shout out to his “pals” ten minutes later. I even voiced my opinion for any and all pointy ears in the vicinity that he’d most certainly find a pack that appreciated  him for the unique fellow he is.

The next night, I listened for Celk, but there was nary a yip nor howl, from anyone. I think there’s a slight possibility I may have offended the ghosting Canis latrans and they’d shoved off. I don’t care if I hurt their feelings, they had it coming.

Not sure what happened to Celk, but I like to imagine he’s found his peeps and is joined paw in paw around an old oak somewhere, belting out his special tune.

Could this be Celk?

My Toast To You

There’s no shortage of talent here on the blogosphere, and that goes for some amazing poets, too. Heck, you’re all amazing! That’s why I’ve chosen this theme for my first ever attempt at Concrete Poetry.

I mean every word and I wish you all the best this season and onwards into the New Year!

A toast to all of you, my dearest friends

From near and far, to all four earth’s ends

Pinotage on the heights of the Drakensberg

Beck’s sipped near the Pegnitz in Nuremberg

Be it wine, water, whiskey; just raise your glass

I admire each one, because you are all first class  

May trouble nor fear lay you low, with nary a snare

All dreams and ambitions be realized without a care

Please toast towards Canada and I’ll hoist mine back

Life spare you lemons and misfortune cut you slack

I wish every blessing, joy, and great thing for you   

A very Merry Christmas, and all the best in ‘22

Cheers! Salud! Santé! Prost! Cin Cin!

Kanpai! Saúde! Skal!

Sláinte!

J

O

Y

P

E

A

C

E

LoveHope

Goodwilltoall

Noel!Noel!Noel!Noel!Noel!Noel!

Silver#writephoto

silver-1

A shoal in a stream of humdrum

Anchored till there’s naught left of me

All else roams free

Waters lap and return downstream

Winds kiss my nape as they blow past

Grain by grain they erode and scar me

I envy those grains, for they’ll travel far

Those lush green hills will never shade me whole

My brethren, so close, yet unreachable

Subject to the same fate, they suffer together

I’m condemned to a solitary demise

In spite of all, I’ve learned to cope

For when darkness falls, and the skies are clear

Starlight guests shine in my watery mirror

Written for Sue Vincent Weekly Write Photo Challenge