Book Sales Update: “Seasons of Melancholy” Available in Local Lexington Bookstores…

Attention Central Kentucky Readers, “Seasons of Melancholy” is on sale in most of your favorite Lexington bookstores!!!

Today my most recent book went on sale at the Morris Book Shop and the Wild Fig Bookstore. So, if you like to shop at either one of those bookstores or you just really want to support me, go visit one of these locations and pick up a copy today. To all those who will procrastinate, who haven’t left this article and rushed off to buy my book, the bookstores may be out of copies. Not to worry, they can order you a copy and have it shipped to the store. You can fall in love all over with the tangible aspect of real books! The smell, the texture, the clerks, other readers, etc., there is nothing quite like it.

Seasons of Melancholy” can also be found in Blessing Bakery and Bookstore @the Bar, in Lafayette Place.  Very soon I will be hosting a meet the author at this location:  June 14th  from 11am – 3pm. There will be more on the meet and greet later on, so stayed tuned and keep your calendars open.

I am so thankful for companies who are willing to work with independent authors and publishers, and I urge everyone to visit and support these shops and shop owners. If you haven’t been to a bookstore in a while it is a great feeling to be surround by so many words, ideas, and thoughts wrapped in so many different visual covers. It is an honor to now live among these writers who were kind and courageous enough to share their thoughts with us. Writers write to be read…so go pick up a book today and get started. I’d prefer it if you got started with my book, “Seasons of Melancholy”. Happy Reading!

 

Bookstore Information:

The Wild Fig                                                                               

The Wild Fig Books1439 Leestown Rd, Lexington, KY 40511
(859) 381-8133
Twitter: @TheWildFigBooks

Summer Hours (April 1-December 31):

Mon-Thursday: 9am-6pm

Fri-Sat: 9am-7pm

Sun: 2pm-6pm

 

The Morris Book Shop

 
The Morris Book Shop882 E. High Street
Lexington. KY 40502
859-276-0494
info@morrisbookshop.comFacebook: The Morris Book ShopTwitter: @MorrisBookShop

Store Hours:

Monday through Saturday — 10:00 am – 7:00 pm
Sunday — 11:00 am – 5:00 pm

 

Bakery Blessing and Bookstore @the Bar

Screen Shot 2014-05-10 at 5.29.46 PM1999 Harrodsburg Rd.

Lexington, KY 40503
Jan@Aprilword.com
859-554-6044

Facebook: Bakery Blessing and Bookstore @ the Bar

Store Hours:

10:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m. Mon – Fri. ***

10:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. on Saturday

Monday thru Saturday. Lunch is available 11:00 a.m. to 2:00 p.m.

 

“Seasons of Melancholy” Goes On Sale…Today!!!

Seasons of Melancholy

I am proud to present to my second chapbook, “Seasons of Melancholy”, to everyone worldwide today!!

It was recently shared at the Gallery Hop in Downtown Lexington Kentucky on April 18th. I had the great opportunity to read the Grief Season. The turn out was great turn out and the response was so encouraging. I am very proud and humbled.

“Seasons of Melancholy” is a collection of personal poetry and a reflective memoir. I have been waiting to publish this collection for years and it has finally come to fruition. I can’t tell you how excited I am that I get to share it with everyone.

You can find it at these major online bookstores: Createspace (Preferred Vendor), Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and coming soon Kindle. Click on the links or visit the “Shammah Publications” page to find all the purchasing options.

The most exciting aspect is that I am getting to pursue my passion of writing and publishing. It is my goal over the next year or two to be publishing a few other authors as well.

I would love to have your support as I rush headlong into my dreams and vocation. Each book purchased is another stone in the foundation of Shammah Publications.

I am setting a personal goal of 100 books to be purchased in the first month…so if you purchase it and you love it, tell a friend! If you refer a friend to purchase the book as well, send me an email (j.wesleymullins@gmail.com) with both of your contact information and you will both receive autographed copies of “A Seed Planted” free of charge (a $12.00 value).

Also, if you send me an Instagram photo of you and one of the first 100 copies sold of “Seasons of Melancholy” ( @wesmullins ), I will send you a free autographed copy of “A Seed Planted” (a $12.00 value).

I have already been working on two new projects. One is a poetry chapbook, that will follow the progression of “Seasons of Melancholy”, and the other is an Apologetic Series, set to encourage everyone to turn off the constant distractions in life and turn on their amazing minds.

So here’s to all my faithful readers and my new faithful readers.  Thank you so much for everything! We are about to embark on a great journey…buckle up!

Acquainted with Grief (Part 4): Amnesiac

Peaceful.

Sublime.

Sitting on the shores of this sea, dipping my feet into the water,

Watching distant mountains protrude the sky, giving depth to the setting sun.

I stare,

Sipping slowly on the view, drinking it down.

Like a content chameleon, I begin to fade;

The dissolving of self into this scene

I think nothing.

I remember nothing.

Nothing is relevant.

I close my eyes,

A perfect breeze brushes against my skin.

I am simply here.

Upon Opening my eyes, I see a man.

He walks up beside me.

Stops.

Says nothing.

We fix our gazes straight ahead and remain silent

I’m not sure when He spoke to me or when I actually answered Him,

But when He asked, “How long have you been here?”

In earnest I replied, “Dunno…I forget.”

He nodded and smiled,

Then put both feet in the water.

He sat down beside me,

And laughed.

Poem: Acquainted with Grief (Part III) – The Grief Conversation

Act 1

My Grief Conversation with Jesus

Scene:

(I am sitting, slouched on a dingy, upside down milk-crate, in a dark and sullen dead-end alley. A few exposed incandescent light bulbs, dangling from the sides of the run-down buildings, emitting only splintered orbs of light.

A steady rain falls, drenching me to the bone. Matted hair sticks to my forehead permanently, and my clothes cling to my paling skin without release. Pools of water strewn along the alley way cast Infrared rainbows that dance, as the black drops pound them unmercifully into submission.  This is the only movement in the alley.

I stare at nonsensical graffiti. My thoughts are violent and raging, yet I remain emotionally listlessly in my tormented posture, unmoved and deadened. A frozen sneer dwells on my face. Angst and Anger rise from my  bluish, cold skin like steam from hot pavement after a storm.)

(Jesus enters from the street. He steps in the alley way. I sense His presence but refuse to turn around…)

Me:   (spewing) ‘bout time!

Jesus:   (silent)

Me:   (irritated and enraged) I said, it’s a-bout time!

Jesus:   (silent)

(Jesus approaches me, but I remain seated and with my back to him.)

Me:   Nice! You’ve come all this way to say nothing…typical…

(I rise from my makeshift chair and walk up to Him, yet my eye line never reaches above his chest. My eyes dart to and fro, and I fidget nervously.)

Me:   This is why people hate you! This is why people despise you!

Jesus:   Why?

Me:   huh? (taken aback by His question and His voice.)

Jesus:   Why? …Why do they despise me? Why do they hate me?

Me:   You leave them alone! You abandon them! You only come around when you feel like it, when you think its right or needed! You show no concern for me or my emotions…You don’t even care about what I’ve gone through…how could you…?

(trails off..)

Jesus:   (sharp rebuke) I not only know the day, but the exact second you walked in to this alley. I was here when it happened. I walked in to this alley with you…

(I interrupt.)

Me:   So what???!!!

Jesus:   (silence)

(I can feel his eyes pierced my soul to its melancholy core.)

Me:   (desperately screaming) You left me here!

Me:   You left me when I needed you most! People don’t do that when they care about someone.

Jesus:   I didn’t abandon you. You knew right where I was; I invited you to follow me. You made a conscious choice.

Me:   I wanted you here…

(trails off…)

Jesus:   I spent weeks, months, sitting right beside you. I sat next to you on that wooden produce crate over there. I watched over you as you slept and mourned your losses. I sang you to sleep at night. I listened to every broken word you said, and I encouraged you…without condemnation.

Me:   Well…why did you leave? It wounded me…I was so disappointed…You…

(Jesus smiles softly and  turns toward the street again)

Me:   (pleading) Where are you going? Why are you leaving me again?

(Jesus stops, turns his head slightly.)

Jesus:   I am acquainted with Grief…I don’t live here.

(Exit Jesus to the street. End Scene.)

Poem: Acquainted with Grief (Part II)

jacob2

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Growing up as a tender plant, a root out of a dry ground

His marred visage and form, rejected and  despised,

No comeliness,  no beauty that we should desire him.

Tempted in all points, and hungered in the wilderness

He hid himself from those who sought to stone him,

He was acquainted with grief,  sighed deeply,

Withdrawn and alone, and wept…bitterly

A man of sorrows

“The foxes have holes, and the birds of the heaven have nests; but the Son of man has nowhere to lay his head.”

Men hide their face and denied him, having no reputation

They esteemed him not

Distressed and troubled, overwhelmed and sorrowful, to the point of death

He bore our griefs, and carried our sorrows; yet we esteemed him stricken,

Smitten and afflicted God,

Jesus cried with a loud voice, saying, “Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? My God, my God, why have you  forsaken me?”

Knowing now that all things are complete, that the scripture might be accomplished,

(in thirst) He cried with a loud voice, “It is finished”, bowed his head and released his ghost.

His wounding was for our transgressions, his bruising for our iniquities;

His chastisement for our peace, and we are healed by his lashes

This he did without violence, with no deceit in his mouth,

Led like lamb to slaughter

Obedience learned through suffering

It pleased Jehovah to bruise him, to put him to grief

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Painting by Jacob Cecil  –   www.livingstonesfinearts.com

Poem: Acquainted With Grief ( Part I )

20131015-161135.jpg

_______________________

The Pain Problem

Waiting

Time heals all things…right?

How long must I stay until my sentence is served?

The Bluish Bruise remains recalcitrant

Achy and tender, years beyond its infliction

Hidden under suffocating bandages and baggy clothes

The yellowing of it concerns me, but only slightly

Why I am sad?  Where do all the tears come from?

A sadistic string  is attached to memory,

Even slight tugs cause my eyes to water

And my countenance to fall

These chains, these prison walls are so thick and high

Escape is not an option

I fear my rage, my right to anger

I fear the consequence, of being wrong

I fear because of painful loss, the disquieting of my soul

I masquerade as a Christian, under the guise of peace

I hide my heart from my Father

And hold him responsible…why wouldn’t I?

He could fix this!  Is there Holy enjoyment in my suffering?

This  is unGodly punishment

Yanking my chains like a manic marionette,

I wallow and writhe upon His Command

Here’s a new law for Newton, “God makes the decision and

I bear the consequence.”

It might be easier to not believe, but then who would I blame?

20131015-192526.jpg

Abbey Someone…

Young Frankenstein

Foolish Festivals and misleading masquerades,

Abbeys and alleys full of creatures that parade.

Rotting corpses hoisted o’er their drunken heads,

Decorated with dangling  intestine necklaces;

Innocent blood painting immoral faces.

It is a day of celebration,

Jubilation, marking the grand death;

The infamous death of normalcy.

“We are divine!”

“We are gods!”

Roars the masqued mob.

Embracing their quasimodalistic desires,

Rejecting even the thought or perfection of hope.

(The refinement too harsh, too unyielding.)

Staggering and hunched, they stumble about

being drunk, on the wine of their own acceptance.

Gorging on the moldy bread of notoriety and damnation,

They consume the Eucharist of unholiness.

In cathedrals constructed of bells and belfries alone,

They pay homage to a visage marred only by birth,

Mimicry and disdain, are the remaining redemption.

“Look at me” a drunken jester pleads,

“Just as I am…

Look upon my gorgeous grotesqueness,

The displeasing of my deformities,

And the sheer hideousness of my strength!”

(adjuration and applause rise from the indignant throng.)

Uncomfortable comfort uncovered in irreverent deviance

…Finally profanity belongs.

Is carefree gaiety fuel for the incessant laughter that ensues?

Or is it nervousness, stoked by the existential embers of fear?

What convention or perversion cannot be  stripped away?

(Supplant-ous smiles and facetious nods cannot masque truth.)

Each exhausted guest dances and writhes unconscionably

through the courtyards and gardens,

Toward the fountain in the town square

Where the good King is seated, just and fair

His un-tame face draws stern as the ghastly masses infiltrate,

like hot oil being poured in a pristine spring.

He raises the sceptre for all to see

silencing the riotousness scene.

“Who are you all?” demands the Resolute Ruler,

“Reveal yourselves truly and without guile.”

The decree falls hard, disseminating the delusion.

The recompense for reality is due.

Trembling, they dismantle each disguise.

They are shamefully left standing in,

Nothing, but their original skin.

A man and his loyal hound…

A man and his loyal hound...

The Sum of All Things:

I am man
Inside this ball of sensitive clay
I feel hunger
I feel pain
Discontentment
Unworthiness; yet I am man

I am man
I long to climb mountains
Slay dragons
Conquer worlds
Be clothed with the valor of knights
I may or may not; yet I am man

I am man, though lacking, I am man

There is something about creating, building and producing that appears to be inherent in men. The working with our hands and the validation from the sweat dripping from our brow fill us with purpose and accomplishment. It doesn’t nullify all our short comings but it does validate our manliness.

After I built this fire in the rain, and built a shelter for family, I think my beard grew about 2 inches instantly, and my chest hair burst from my shirt like a young, svelte Sean Connery. A great day to be a man.

(Blue, our dog, pictured above, also had an amazing time playing in the rain and eating hotdogs. “You’re my girl Blue!”)

Poetry: [Revision] My Liars Chair

My Liars ChairMy Liars Chair

I sit tormented upon my liars chair.

It creaks beneath the weight of my burden.
Even subtle shifts render cries of uneasiness.

What will I do to end the saga, this epic rampart of mental dilemma and disposition?

My fractured reflection stares unabated into oblivion,
scouring for a salvific redeemer to mitigate my recalcitrant idiosyncrasies,
(the bad ones of course) and regenerate my fleeting hope of sanity.

Oh, I am insatiable with redundant dialogues that avail distress and disdain upon my mortal flesh.
A metaphoric pugilist could beat nothing in or out of my calcified intuition.
It is laid hard and impregnable, a Bastion vaulted in autonomy;

The Ilion and I are one;
a standard elevated above perception and accolades.

Where is my Achilles? Are his feet shod with Zeus’ boots?

The problem persists as an incessant adversary cloaked with anointed armor,
it is christened with unHoly Water, and it welds a mystical sword that pierces asunder my Dragon scales.

Do I continue this death?

Do I contest for life?

I sit and ponder.

I am plundered and transfixed; dead but yet I breathe.
Death cannot liberate my anguish, mental expiration will not come…the soul cannot be extinguished.

My obsession will exhort and rebuke me for eternity and I am defenseless; I am.

My existence is my bane and my hope is my distrust.
Can my heart dwell upon that that cannot be true?

Of what nature is my pride, if it is pride at all?

I fall without ceasing and yet my pride remains.
I wallow in the mire caressed by muddy arms.

There is no question now about the state of my soul; encrusted within and without.

Consistent responses imbued by Pavlov’s conditions;
my mouth satiates at the thought of solitude.