Friday, June 29, 2007

Blogging - When Muses Speak

Today I'm really "blogging", sorry -- But feel free to leave an opinion if you want. (Which means I'm going to spout my opinion or post an observance that nobody cares about but me.)


I freaked out last night when I discovered another author has just published a novel so very similar to one of mine that I'm not comfortable publishing mine without changes.

Question: DO muses speak and multiple people hear them? Were we both listening to the same muse at the same time? This is freaky!

Answer: I am even MORE suspicious than ever of the internet now (I'm a conspiracy theorist at heart, you know?)

Question: COULD my computer possibly be shooting my ideas across cyberspace and leaking them to someone else who is madly writing them down at a pace race drivers at Indy would envy? Is my computer a mole in my operation? (I'd be more inclined to believe that if I was perhaps a more important author in the field...or a person at all in the publishing field.)

Answer: Yes -- That Google search probably spit my work right into someone else's computer and she improved it...

So for now I guess it's back to the old drawing board to make some changes and hopefully improvements to my bootlegged story... I guess, I should have been quicker with it.

I want you all to relax though, I think I've resolved the issue. For security purposes, I'm writing future work out on paper with invisible ink next time, copyrighting it immediately, and never sending out queries to editors or agents to tell them what it's about. I can hide it in my office and never print it. NO ONE WILL KNOW WHAT IT'S ABOUT THEN --HEH - HEH - HEH...

Tuesday, June 26, 2007


The stark white was brilliant - practically blinding in its clarity - pure, unblemished, untarnished. The first artist gazed upon the surface feeling unworthy of the challenge. Hesitantly, he painted pale pastels of sky blue, violets and pinks.

The second artist appraised the muted beauty and dared to strengthen the colors, adding forest greens and sunflower yellows to rainbow colored fields of grass.

Soon another darkened the light sky with storm clouds and turned the sunny summer fields into late autumn browns and threatening grays of winter. The canvas hung upon the wall sad in depressed overcast skies. Soon winter snow clouds blew in whipping white across the empty open barren plains.

Discarded in the artists' loft, along with half empty tubes of paint, where was the one to fill the canvas? When the sun returned upon the canvas, a new artist saw the great potential in the emptiness and claimed it as his own. He studied it and let it talk to him - let the paint and canvas express itself. Eventually it was finished on the surface where upon he created his great masterpiece. And the canvas was happy.



I am at once
Again asked for all time
Am I the very first or very last?
Controversy still prevails upon me
To announce to one and all, if I am
In fact, the beginning or the end.
Am I actually, irrefutably the
Resulting Chicken or the
Proverbial Egg?

By Maureen Sevilla

Sunday, June 24, 2007



Purple burning sun
The day is almost over
Life times flow as one
Our old friendship now renewed
I am relieved and resolved.


Drip, drip, drop, drop, plop
Rain is dripping all around
Happy frogs do sing
As grass grows high night over
And flowers prepare to bloom.

Monday, June 18, 2007


ALTHOUGH I don't know why, the place wasn't what I was expecting. When I first glimpsed it as we drove over the rise, I felt a moment's disappointment. It stood starkly gray out in a farmer's sunny field. I shouldn't have been surprised at the way it didn't impress. What was I looking for? Even I don't know what I anticipated that day -- Druids pacing? Lightning flashing? Magick?

DECIDING it was a normal place, after all -- nothing spectacular beyond its impressive size, I recognized it as just another tourist trap. Like the rest, there were mugs, books, miscellaneous souvenirs and food for sale. Digging in with all the others, I bought a mug and a sandwich. Then I picked up the electronic hand piece and listened to the taped program as I walked the circular path around Stonehenge. I took pictures with my digital camera, listened carefully to the narrative.

THEN something happened. I became engrossed with the ancient history. The information was interesting and informative, but something else happened--this place was far from ordinary. The monolithe was deceptive standing innocently out there in the unusual bright English day. The Stones stood proudly alone, warming in the sun, massive in an open field with tourists munching sandwiches and cameras all a-flutter. But there was something more.

IT was old, it was ancient, it was powerful. It spoke to me. It was more than the story on tape, more than large stones hiding their secret mystery of how they appeared in the stoneless region. Their mystical force engulfed me as I walked the circle, listening, looking, searching, learning. I was drawn back to a long-gone time when wizards were all-powerful and Mother Earth ruled. In that time, Man took care with Nature, respected and cajoled it. But when Man left the pagan temples to tumble and halted the blood sacrifices of old to sacrifice Mother Earth to our gluttonous needs, things changed. Now Man plunders Her and lays waste to Her bounty.

STANDING outside the aged stones, I felt the call to battle.

GLOBAL Warming is a unique and imminent possibility. Is it an eventual reality? Will the dark salty waves of the North Atlantic soon lap over the lowly terrain where Druids stood? Will the great Stonehenge be nothing more than a pile of rocks standing against the pounding waves of the North Sea?

WHEN I returned home I printed my photos and fixed tea in my souvenir mug. The images all had blue ghosts surrounding the stone where the sacrifices were believed to have taken place. I reached for the mug and it shifted toward my hand.

Sunday, June 17, 2007

Dream On

by Maureen Sevilla

Light. Airy.
With but a thought, I elevate
And sweep through rooms at ceiling tops.
Escape through doors

Flying. Jumping.
Running feet lift up from grassy knolls
Float high over rainbow colored fields.
Floral scents rise up to meet me.

Gracefully. Boldly.
I soar amidst cloudless blue expanse
Above endless stands of mottled greens
Until the tug of consciousness

Looming. Weighty.
Awareness fights certain gravity
A leaden mass of dragging descent
I am hopelessly earthbound.

Thursday, June 14, 2007


The Author
by Maureen Sevilla

"Where do you want to go?" he asked.

"What would you like to see?

Isn't there something you've wanted to do?

Or someone you've wanted to be?"

He wrote down impressions of far away places

Of wonder and sadness and sin.

He researched his thoughts for just the right word

To express where he'd already been.

He scoured the pages for just the right spot,

For just what he thought I'd need.

Then he turned to me and further impressed,

"... to open your inner seed?"

Bound here are possibilities.

Bound here are hopes and fears.

Bound here are endless dreams and seers

Unbound by type and tears.

Impressions of a Soldier

by Maureen Sevilla

Above the huge shiny black clodhoppers all she could see was the field of green fatigues he wore. Her little bare feet fit perfectly on the tops of the boots and he held her hands with her arms outstretched wide as they danced around the living room to one song after another --

She was never too tired after a full day of play to dance with her Daddy. He smelled of aircraft oil and Old Spice, a combination she'll never forget and he was never too tired either to dance with his daughter after a day of tending F-4's.

Impressions of Laon

Laon: The Scene
The early morning fog swirled around the base of the deep green poplar trees standing tall and majestically at the top of the rise. Removing my sweater, tying it around my waist and wiping the perspiration from my upper lip, I sighed with relief dropping to the seat. I reached into my clutch for the francs necessary to pay for the privilege of resting on the aged, scroll-worked, iron bench. The caretaker, an erect, uniformed, ‘fiftyish’ man, received the francs with stiff somewhat disapproving politeness while murmuring a short “merci”.

As I caught my breath from the long climb, my gaze dropped to the ancient cobblestones at my feet. The cobblestones, a multi-colored puzzle of grays reached across the plaza to the Medieval Gothic style church. Black mildewed bullet holes still riddled the enormous stone structure. I shifted my scrutiny skyward to the Rosetta stained glass window, amazingly still intact after centuries of wars. Here at the top of the craggy knoll, against the backdrop of misty pale blue sky and a variety of greens and purples of champagne vineyards as far as the eye could see, the evaporating haze created an impressionistic vagueness; the cathedral stood like an immortal guardian above the surrounding landscape.

Around my ankles I felt the rub of the orange and black patchwork kitten who followed me through the ivy covered walled gates of the old city. I distractedly heard the muffled sounds of a town awakening; the clatter of old worn wooden carts being brought around with wares, shop doors creaking open, dogs barking, children giggling, birds chirping. A waft of delicious smells, of coffee and pastries and baking bread soon reached my nose and irresistably my stomach growled. Carts full of multihued vegetables, fruits, and flowers soon filled the square. As the town stirred with the increased tempo of sights and sounds, excitement filled the air. It was Thursday, Marche’ Day. Short Story by Maureen Sevilla


Remembrance by Maureen Sevilla

Small hand in large one, looks awestruck and trusting

Rocking on horses
Giggling with friends
Hiding toothless grins
Behind chubby hands

Flying down streets, spinning wheels beneath tiny feet

Awesome in denim
Chuckling with friends
Hiding toothy smiles
Behind tender hands

Dance cheek-to-cheek, thoughts heartfelt and loving

Sparkles in dresses
Laughing with friends
Hiding smiling lips
Behind slender hands

Hellos - Farewells, life's emotions run high

Rocking on porches
Gabbing with friends
Sporting empty gums
Behind wrinkled hands

Crying at life, Beginnings and Endings
Giggling, chuckling, laughing
Smiling or grinning
Behind veiled hands

Thursday, June 7, 2007

Young Again

By Maureen Sevilla

Between dusk and dawn, we meet
In flowered fields, in forests green
On snowy mountain tops

With butterflies by day and fireflies by night

At the seesaw by the swings
In a small wooden boat
On a speedy Red Flyer

The wind whips beneath arms flying
Capped milk bottles, cold metal crates
And the climbing tree waits --

With perfectly spaced branches


The Pen
by Maureen Sevilla

The pen has power
It slides, it glides
Over processed wood
I feed, it leads.