Reflections with Emotion

By Walter Reynolds

The emotion I meant to write into each poem or short story was meant to touch your heart in a personal way. They may cause you to reflect on the past as well as the present, and revive some of the memories that affect you personally. Reviving precious memories every so often is important. Remember, A PERSON NEVER DIES AS LONG AS THERE IS SOMEONE TO REMEMBER THEM.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098391874

Walter Reynolds

A Birmingham, England, native, Walter occasionally visited with relatives in Shrewsbury, so to him, basing The Little Alfriston Murders in the Shrewsbury area was quite natural. Over the years he has written many articles for newsletters of various British classic car clubs based in Canada and the U.S. Walter has also published training manuals on human-resource employment subjects. The Little Alfriston Murders is his first novel. His working background includes over 35 years in Human Resource Management, and for several years he operated his own stained glass artisan business. He lives with his wife, Linda, in Maple Ridge, British Columbia, Canada. Their two grown children and families live in the Lower Mainland area of B.C.

Book preview

Half-blood – Who am I?

The beginning of my journey was not of my choosing. I was like a pawn on a chessboard being moved from one place to another, one family to another. I was too young to control the direction of my destiny. I had no say in any of the decisions concerning my life. I felt as worthless as spit. I felt unwanted and unloved, just an unwelcome intrusion forced upon another unwilling person. It was their duty to contribute out of loyalty to the family. Without hesitation, they discarded me as soon as an opportunity made it convenient to do so.

The totality of my worth became reduced to a simple brown paper bag containing an extra shirt, a pair of pants, and a well-worn pair of socks. That humble brown paper bag became the symbol of my life’s simplistic worth, void of meaningful substance. Forced into the shadows of irrelevance, I became an object of insignificance, alone and filled with fear. Their scraps of affection, a rarity when doled out, were a passive offering of sympathy; their words meant to compensate and heal their fleeting moment of personal guilt. Occasionally, their guardianship-conscious recited whispered words of disingenuous pity, an apparent offering to appease their shameful lack of parenting abilities or desires.

I struggled to exist, to survive in my world of uncertainty, where recognition and respect were as rare as the spotting of a unicorn. My existence, my future became disoriented, scarred by the fear of abuse and abandonment. Self-doubt, my unsympathetic companion, was forever gnawing at the fiber of my confidence, a constant reminder of my temporary existence, and the paltry value of my worth.

Staring out my window, I see the beauty of God’s personal touch, the sky, the ocean, the birds, the trees, but my existence is like a bee on a flower, a tree in the forest, a presence rarely noticed. Only if stung by the bee or struck by a falling limb would acknowledgment be rendered. I’m a material part of this world, invisible to many, a thorn to some, a half-blood to others. I feel an inner peace knowing that God knows I’m here and placed inside me, a hunger for His blessings. I pray for answers; I ponder over denied possibilities and dream of the what ifs. For some, I was an object to be discarded and ignored, an uninvited intrusion into their lives where I offered no purpose or reward. An occasional tidbit of attention and discipline doled out to impress their snooty friends or to satisfy their guilt-ridden conscience. I see their accommodating expressions of sympathy; the nodding of their heads revealed their shallow attention. Their casual comments,

I know. I know what you’re feeling.

Their meaningless words are spoken without thought, for they know not what I’m feeling at all. It’s just their passive injection of false attention and fake concern.

As my path starts descending the sunset side of the mountain, I feel that my life has lost much of its purpose, friends passing into their eternity, my future filled with uncertainty.

I am but a simple object occupying a space in time, waiting for my journey to be consumed by the shadows of a setting sun. I sit, I wait, I ask,

Who am I?

Who am I? Why am I? Where or what is my destiny?

I am but a speck, temporally occupying this space in time.

How long my journey, today, tomorrow,

The precise moment unknown but seeking no haste.

Surly, my existence must have a purpose, but for what?

I’m neither rich nor famous, I live, but why?

I follow my life’s path, and I faithfully stay the course,

Trusting my journey is under His guidance and blessing.

Searching, I call out His name, praying for answers,

Not understanding His indifference to my pleas.

I hear not the sound of His voice, only a serene silence,

But with faith, I hope, I listen, I wait.

I see the blue skies, the mountains, and the valleys,

The vast oceans with their distant shores,

I smell the sweet aroma of a rose,

I hear the beautiful songs of birds.

I’ve tasted the sweet nectar of honeybees,

I feel at peace as the wind softly whispers through the trees.

Still disappointed and troubled, I continue to seek answers.

Shedding tears of anguish, I cry out again, who am I?

Many times, the answers are given,

Revealed through unspoken words.

Did I not see, was I not receptive?

Am I too blind to see the obvious?

Undaunted, I continue to ask,

Who am I?

* * *

The Journey

There are two apparitions inside each of us,

one good, one bad.

The one you choose to feed

will define the person you ultimately become.

Your actions and your resolve as you journey through life

will forever be imprinted on those you touch along the way.

Good or bad, that lasting impression will become your legacy,

A true reflection of who you were and what you stood for.

As you venture down into the valley on the sunset side of the mountain,

your opportunity to make amends will have passed,

for when your sun kisses the horizon,

no more entries will be recorded in your book.

As your light slowly fades into darkness,

the book bearing your name,

the testament of your life’s journey,

shall be closed until judgment day.

* * *

After writing my first two books, I, along with several new friends that I met at a book signing event, started a writing group to critique and inspired each other’s writing experiences. We met each Friday morning to discuss the project we were working on. It didn’t take long to discover my friends were all poets and not writers of books or short stories. It was a delightful experience, reading their poetry. They encouraged me to continue with my usual writing style but suggested I try writing poetry. I was never a reader of poetry until I started reading their poems. I finally gave in to their prodding and gave considerable thought to where I could begin. I decided to focus my efforts on something I was familiar with, such as the poetry I read as a child in grade school. I decided to use my gold prospecting experiences in Northern California as the subject to get me started.

I studied different styles, rhyme, or prose and decided to write in rhyme. My first poem is about a prospector working the cold rivers in Northern