Poetry Collection Books Novels & Stories

“It’s a very real thing. His first collection of poetry, The Grass Is Never Greener - Contemporary Cowboy Poetry, he published under J. P. Gorham became an international bestseller the first week it was published. His personal appearances are standing room only events and his chap books, artwork and audio CDs always sell out. Unfortunately, Henry wouldn’t even consider publishing poetry, so we didn’t sign him and John started his own independent press. He’s doing really well. I’m happy for him.” Anna pointed to another section on the floor plan. This is the children’s book area. “You should stop by Derek Taylor Kent and his wife Sheri Fink. Their company is called Whimsical World. I wanted

Forbidden Pleasures My Father’s Best Friend 21 Epilogue The remote coastal cabin sat perched precariously on a jagged cliff overlooking the vast, dark ocean. Below, the crashing waves slammed against the rocks with a relentless, rhythmic roar, throwing salt spray high into the night air. It was a lonely, isolated place, miles away from civilization, and more importantly, miles away from the cold, judgmental eyes of the lakeside community they had left behind. Inside the cabin, the heavy scent of the salt air filled the room, drifting through the wide-open balcony doors. Pale moonlight spilled across the dark wooden floorboards, casting long, dramatic shadows against the walls.

A w‌ee‌k after the bookstore, a plain, unmarked package was deliv‌ered to Elara’s studio. There was no⁠ retu‍rn address⁠, no not‍e. W‌ar⁠y⁠, she opened it to find‌ not a weap⁠on or a threat, but a book. Th‍e‍ sam‍e lea‍ther-bo‍und collection of Mary Oliver poems they had both reached for.

Security camera footage started playing, every moment from the elevator, the penthouse windows, and even this bed. “These are for my private collection,” he said calmly, still buried deep inside me. “Try to leave… and they go public.”

It won't happen again. "No, it's fine," I lied smoothly, trying to ignore the way my core tightened just remembering what I'd done while listening to him. "I needed to get some writing work done anyway." He leaned his heavy shoulder against the wall, sipping his coffee while his silver eyes thoroughly studied my face. "What do you do?" "I write books," I said. An eyebrow lifted, his interest clearly piqued. "An author? That's Impressive. What kind?" I stared into my cup, definitely not wanting him to know what kind of books I wrote. "Romance."

I see you. Writing this book was equal parts torture and the best kind of foreplay. I laughed, I blushed, I questioned my life choices at 3 a.m. while typing scenes that would make a nun clutch her pearls. But damn, was it worth it. To my beta readers who survived the unhinged early drafts, my editor who deserves hazard pay for all the spice, and my ride-or-die friends who kept saying “more filth, please”: I owe you orgasms… I mean, endless gratitude.

Rowan's pov I never expected the woods behind the old pack border to smell like sin and home at the same time. I was just out for a run, trying to clear my head after another bullshit council meeting where everyone pretended I didn’t exist. Lone wolf. Unclaimed. Easy to ignore. Until the wind shifted and that scent hit me like a punch to the gut. “Fuck,” I muttered, slowing to a stop. My cock twitched in my shorts, half-hard already. What the hell was that?

Publications; Book (Full-Length Poetry Collection) Author of Love, Air (Atmosphere Press – forthcoming in mid-2021), Journals, Magazines & Anthologies (by country/region) ASIA & THE PACIFIC UNITED STATES PHILIPPINES AUSTRALIA SINGAPORE FRANCE ISRAEL PUERTO RICO VIETNAM CAMBODIA GERMANY JAPAN INDIA CHINA MAURITIUS ISLAND HONG KONG MALAYSIA SOUTH KOREA PAKISTAN CANADA BANGLADESH UNITED KINGDOM NATIONAL/REGIONAL WRITERS WORKSHOPS (Creative Writing & Criticism Workshops); AWARDS & RECOGNITION:

I pulled one out at random, a collection of poetry, and began to read. I sat on the couch, surrounded by the silence of the beach house, lost in the words of the poetry book. The verses spoke of love, loss, and longing. I felt a pang in my chest as I read, recognizing the emotions that had been swirling inside me. The poet's words were like a mirror, reflecting my own thoughts and feelings back at me.

Her work at the local bookstore, once a mundane routine, now felt infused with a sense of meaning. She found herself drawn to the poetry section, her fingers tracing the spines of books she had never explored before. She discovered the delicate beauty of Emily Dickinson's words, the raw emotion of Sylvia Plath's verse, and the lyrical prose of Langston Hughes. Each poem, a window into a different soul, resonated with her own experiences, her own struggles and triumphs.