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Author: James

James Booker has an advanced degree in American history and is a member of the Mystery Writers of America. He is a native Floridian, and resides in South Florida. Candlelight Killer is his first novel. You can reach him at james@bookerpress.net

CANDLELIGHT KILLER

In 1927 a young girl was murdered in Manhattan, New York. What appeared to be a random killing, in reality, was planned, but contrived. J.P. Fox, a private investigator, is called upon by the police to investigate the crime. At every turn, Fox discovers clue after clue – creating a chain of despair. Something lurks in the shadows, something dark and sinister. The killer acts alone, but is he? His motivations run deep. Time is running out. Fox must muster all his skills and experiences to find the killer, expose the eugenics movement, and flush out a deadly cult.

My new novel
https://www.amazon.com/CANDLELIGHT-KILLER-JAMES-BOOKER/dp/1734032308/ref=sr_1_1?crid=WH05VRDLEO2E&keywords=james+booker+candlelight+killer&qid=1572812308&sprefix=james+booker+candlel%2Caps%2C158&sr=8-1

When Shadows Aren’t Real

When Shadows Aren’t Real

In the past, shadows seemed so real,
Real as colors on a shirt or a dress,
Images impregnated – to feel, real,
Nothing more than to end up with more, of, less.

The smell of grass is real, bird’s twerp – real,
Piano plays, real to the ear,
The warmth of a lover’s voice is ideal,
But these shadows – just disappear.

Like smoke through a chimney-stack,
Your image floats and disappears,
This vicarious route – ends – without feedback,
The eyes fail, the mind wonders, then dull ears.

What does all this mean? – from the start to now,
Once enthralled; now – not even a raise of the eyebrow.

© By James Booker March 30, 2016

Close to Me

If I could harness the colors of the rainbow,
Capture the sweet’ night breeze,
Draw the most beautiful tree,
Paint an exquisite flower,
Capture gold in a watery bead,
I would be holding you – close to me.

Droplets of Time

Droplets of time fall like rain,

Puddles of water form – swirling,

Gushing and hurling,

Wasted time feign not, but drain.

 

Where has it gone? – Lost,

When will this moment come again? –

Love is a droplet, it may never come again,

It freely falls, but at what cost?

 

Turgid are the waters,

Rising up to kiss the sky,

Where two lovers see eye to eye,

Reflecting each passionate waters.

 

Droplets of love raining

Down from above, must

Quench both lover’s gust,

Sustaining – or be lost draining.

 

© James Booker July 15, 2015

 

 

Familiar Places

Zephyrs of thought,

Though pain and agony – undulate

Under the mask, adumbrate

The Past – sliced & diced on this spot.

I have been here before,

It’s all too familiar – deep

Twisting knots, inwardly I weep,

Lonely rocks edging the shore.

Silence thick, silence is the air,

Ships lying shipwrecked – broken

Beams – earth’s token,

Everyone glares but no one cares.

You were in my thoughts,

You were the air,

Now I get only glares,

But my guts are in knots.

Closure is not given,

Only shades parade,

It cuts like a blade,

Fallen from Grace – and driven.

This is my home, my abode,

Nature has decreed it,

Others rejoice and benefit,

Loneliness is my new code.

By James Booker

July 9, 2015

 

 

Engulfed

The rising tide floods the mind – swallowing,

Engulfing, and sweeping any and all;

The feebleness of reason is caught following,

Being tugged and pushed and even enthralled.

Something awakened when something broke,

Such force, such power, as dreams reached

Forward, spinning and touching the sky like an oak,

Blocking out the frontal lobes – calling for impeachment.

The spinning continues, thoughts reach for an object,

An anchor to cling, to hold, through the storm,

Through the insanity forming; trying to connect

Through the flood of thoughts surging and performing.

Such pain! Such pressure forcing up so much despair,

As the mind grapples for a glimpse and for air.

 

Bipolar Moments

Sometimes I leave, I slip away,
I don’t know where I am or what state I’m in,
The pain in my brain often feels such fray,
And my soul feels detached and alone.

I would fall if there were such a place to fall,
But this place is no place – no place to be.
I try and I try to call and to recall
Those moments that lifted and brought such glee.

I cling to things with my hands,
With my mind, they simply decay by night,
O’ this place of no place is built on sand –
Of no dreams – but dreams that grip and hold tight.

The stream of consciousness in the mind
Is splintered and fragmented forming wind.

By James Booker

 

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