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A Mandala that happened on the way to a car crash & other sto... by Emily H. Sturgill

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Format: Paperback

I have read many of Emily’s books. This book ventures out with some short stories, in addition to the wonderful poetry and beautiful artwork she typically has in her books. I was glad to see her utilizing her creativity and talent for an even broader spectrum of writing. Her writing is always colorful. The characters in her stories come to life through her descriptive words. There are themes of existentialism, love, and the brevity of life.

I loved the cover of the book, as is “Photo of Nightmare Monster”, the photo above There Is Noone Else, “To all the Women I’ve Loved Before”, and “Selfie”. All of the poems have beauty in their own way. My favorite poem in this work is Surface. She creates a personal list of things to be grateful for at the end of the book, which I believe everyone can benefit from creating their own so bravo to the author for reminding us of this and giving us an idea of how to approach it.

To buy this title please go to the links below:

Room full of Blues-an Acrostic poem

Room full of Blues-by Emily Sturgill 6/20/13

Rough daily distractions
only someone like you would understand.
olive colored faces
my friendly distortion as I gaze out at the crowd.

full of smoky air and musician type lighting
useless to fight the push/pull
lighting another cigarette puffing
lightly till I’ve had my fill.

old fashioned ballroom once made
for dancing but not anymore as I walk onto the stage

blues come out crooning, rocking outta my mouth
little woman singing like a gut full of doubt.
useless patterns dancing upon the ceiling as I sing I stare,
even try to figure them out.
sounds so simple so sweet

A room full of Blues
covering me in pitch blacken

All in a name

My name is She who,
walks with animals

and talks like a hyena laughing-
non stop fast paced flutter.

My other name is Girl Trapped beneath mirror.
She seems backwards and semi-self-conscious
this shadow like a plus size diva.

My secret name is spoken best in
murmurs and whispers
as I make it up as I go along,

flying by the seat of my pants.

My last name is merely Poet.
A common and often forgotten word,
once it carried so much weight
but now its barely to be heard…

She who walks with animals, and Girl Trapped beneath mirror
are both one and the same, then there lies a secret name always changing and evolving never to remind the same
my last name is common enough, Poet. There that is everything about me you will ever need to know,
oh that plus the small imperfect fact that sometimes , some days, I am nearly insane.

Cold Coffee

Cold Coffee-5/23/14

Coffee’s getting cold.
As I sit here,
Color combinations upon
a broken painter’s palette.

Coffee’s getting cold.
As I sit here,
feeling old…
nothing is so fleeting
as Life is Stealing
years and years from Us All,

beginning each and everyday
the thief of time
steals of years away.

but I regress…
Coffee’s getting cold.
Black liquid velvet dripping
into a cup, a cup that holds

This coffee cup
from which I sip
once belong to my long-dead

I treasure it because
it was once hers.

But Coffee’s getting cold,
as I just sit here
drinking black coffee
thinking my life away

piece by piece
word by word
poem by poem

a whisper in
the wind
lies unheard.


Coffee’s getting cold.

My Mama when she was young

My Mama when she was young

The beating of a broken brain.


The beating of a broken brain
as the world spins
She tilts at an angle on her axis,
and as the world begins to whirl, roll, and spin,

Onwards, ever onwards
her broken brain it beats from within.
It’s like the crashing classical music
from a drum.

This beating, bloated, breaking
ripping apart like thread from seams
Her broken beating bleeding brain
by too many

ideas all at once.
too many moments of
wondering lust.

too much delusion
or thought pollution.

She just cannot think straight
her words

begin to dissipate
into the swirling storm of
other brokenness-
over the Rage

at useless
and forgotten phrases

at her inability
to create something
random & pure

a whisper
a roar
a lion

which purrs.

Her beating bruised and bleeding
useless and insane
poetic yet dumbfounded
lost lonely yet lovely

excuse of a brain.

Another book review: ebook “Moon Stream: poetry and art chapbook.”

4.0 out of 5 stars hungry for more, February 14, 2014
Amazon Verified Purchase(What’s this?)
This review is from: Moon Stream: A Chapbook of Poems and Art (Kindle Edition)
Buying this was a leap of faith for me. As somebody on a limited income, (I’m on disability)-I rarely pay this much for an e-book-$5.99. Despite being only 26 pages, it looked intriguing, so I thought I’d risk it. Ms. Gignoux is a real knockout as a poet. She is very talented. Her art was a nice touch. While, I do not regret buying this item, I really was hungry for more-both poetry and art-and I guess that is a compliment to her mind-blowing talent that she creates a world of poetry in such a short collection that leaves the reader wanting more.The only reason I am giving this 4 stars instead of 5 is because I feel she could have gone a bit longer. Also, I feel pretty strongly that if you include the word “Art” in your title you should have more than 3 pieces of artwork.But that comes back to my own personal standards because I also publish Artist and Poetry chapbooks on kindle as well. The art she did use was very beautiful but once again I say: this book leaves you hungry for more, more , more!! Despite that I did enjoy her book-I devoured it whole in one sitting.I will most likely re-read it from time to time it made a nice addition to my kindle library.

The Waitress served Wisdom.

The Waitress served a hot steaming plate

full of hot open-faced roast beef sandwiches covered in gravy

with a large side order of wisdom.

I never asked for the wisdom-

She just bore it all down upon me

like a welcoming rain

in the hottest heat of summer when there’s been

nothing but draught.

I was doing light reading on medicine and blessings-

putting pieces together

all shimmery and faint.

She caught me off guard with her chatter.

She was older than I

and she was weathered both

by age and time.

Beneath her carved out wrinkles

her eyes seemed to swell upwards-

even twinkle.

She seemed impossibly knowledgable

in things bizarre and highly improbable.

Yet it was wisdom just the same.

You would be surprised how much you can learn,

if you are only willing to quiet down

and listen.

Like a gem in the raw

The waitress shone brightly

as she dashed out a double heaping

of old timey wisdom.

I left her a nice tip on the table,

I never did quite catch her name.

I was in far too much of a hurry-

because it had started to Rain.

I never saw her again, but just so you know-

older people have the most wonderful tales to tell

and they will share them with you,

if you ask a few questions and show them sincere respect,

the are full of all sorts of answers

you just would not expect.

The waitress severed Wisdom.

An altar of belief:


An altar by belief,
stands alone in the north west corner,
of my bedroom.
it is the place onto which,
i allow my beliefs to sit.

every once in a while,
i linger there
lighting three candles,
and say my prayers,
with my heart-
not my lips.

my lips do not seem fit.
to express what my heart
longs and shouts out for;
justice, a good life, an omen
or a sign, to allow
me to practice,

the fine art of allowance and
of course self-acceptance.

magical meditations, covered in mystery.
set the stage for most of human

i have an altar of belief which sits,
upon my north-west corner.
Even if my Gods and Goddesses,
are ancient fairy tales to you…

please respect my beliefs,
as I try to respect yours.
if more folks do not try;
to sway and convert the masses,

think of all the less holy wars,
that would be raging
across many a foreign land.

all it takes is a small slit opening,
into your heart,
and some peace and understanding;
for those who see the world much
differently than you do.

blessings-tidings-mote it be,
hence tied by three.

Ramblings & rantings from a damaged soul

From deep within,

my depths of a damaged soul,

Life’s lessons learned so well,

that they teach me much

but taste of the bitterness of Hell.

From deep within,

my depths of a damaged soul,

my heart grasps for yours,

clenching tightly-

it refuses to let go.

And your heart, has taught me lessons as well.

Not of the bitterness and the awful taste

of Hell- but of something else entirely.

Your heart has taught my heart,

in the coldest,dampest of places

there is warmth, fire-light, and a hearth

of endless possibilities.

Your heart has taught mine,

that is ok, joyful and wise,

to trust someone once in a while.

That Life is full of love. laughter, and Surprises.

To claim you are my soul-mate sounds so cliche,

but you are you know?

There is a truth to it,

that speaks to my bare essence,

to the barest of bones beneath my soul.

Love has saved me, at last.

And for that i will be grateful, and cautious in my joyfulness,

knowing full well that Love cannot only be found,

but lost as well.

I count myself among the lucky and blessed ones,

for I have been deep within, and

from deep within,

my depths of a damaged soul,

there is a seedling and I have let it grow.

Art- a crazy sort of creative day-old art, ideas, jump-start:

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Old Art Work-

A jump-start head-first

into a fist-full of poetry.Old imagery haunts me:

What was i thinking/doing/being/ or saying….?

When I made A or B or C?

The first photo is from 2013, its a visual art journal i have

been working on. Picture no. 2 is an old watercolor from 2011.

Picture no. 3 is very old anywhere from 1996-99? It’s hard

to really recall. Its still one of my favorites,

despite being on cracked and broken stretcher bars-

if it were rectangular or square,

I could try to replace the stretcher bars-

I do know how to stretch canvas,

because Thankfully one of my old Oil painting

professors felt this was knowledge we needed.

However since this painting is Oval-not too sure how to fix it?

I’m thinking duct tape and lots of it….ugh.

Looking at old art,

it rests my heart,

makes it move easy.

Something about the

resurfacing of old paintings…

i just do  not know,

how to describe,

it’s akin to magick.