In a Candlelight Palace
2014
Passion. Fear. Tenderness. Disillusionment. A candid collection of poems and quotes from a young, female funeral director assistant. This verse communicates a sorrow, empathy, grisliness, and controversiality concerning the experiences and reflections of one who cares daily for the dead.
Paperback: $2.99
Kindle Edition: $.99
available at Amazon.com
From In a Candlelight Palace:
Still Roses
There are no ghosts here
for there is no pain.
No delayed reaction
to scalpel or caress.
Their crises commenced
long ago and elsewhere.
They have already found
their way, they require
no direction nor music
of bells from me.
No smiles or movement
shiver among these still roses.
There is only a hollow tranquility,
a tenuous serenity
as when somebody coughs
underwater.
AGONY
We drive down tongues of streets
in a black, silver-beaked falcon.
Past pot-holes sunk in nebulous water,
the upturned palms of God.
The casket sloshes about in the rear,
bumping against the walls
of the coach’s interior,
creating a soft, rattling lull
of bone grinding against bone.
Through the murky veil
of plastic bubble wrap, the lid
is a creamy, sterling sky of blue.
Cloudless.
One can only taste
the folds of opalesque satin,
skin-like,
layer upon euphoric layer:
one immaculate sea
of a strangulation,
one deliciously gilded womb
of an agony.
2014
Passion. Fear. Tenderness. Disillusionment. A candid collection of poems and quotes from a young, female funeral director assistant. This verse communicates a sorrow, empathy, grisliness, and controversiality concerning the experiences and reflections of one who cares daily for the dead.
Paperback: $2.99
Kindle Edition: $.99
available at Amazon.com
From In a Candlelight Palace:
Still Roses
There are no ghosts here
for there is no pain.
No delayed reaction
to scalpel or caress.
Their crises commenced
long ago and elsewhere.
They have already found
their way, they require
no direction nor music
of bells from me.
No smiles or movement
shiver among these still roses.
There is only a hollow tranquility,
a tenuous serenity
as when somebody coughs
underwater.
AGONY
We drive down tongues of streets
in a black, silver-beaked falcon.
Past pot-holes sunk in nebulous water,
the upturned palms of God.
The casket sloshes about in the rear,
bumping against the walls
of the coach’s interior,
creating a soft, rattling lull
of bone grinding against bone.
Through the murky veil
of plastic bubble wrap, the lid
is a creamy, sterling sky of blue.
Cloudless.
One can only taste
the folds of opalesque satin,
skin-like,
layer upon euphoric layer:
one immaculate sea
of a strangulation,
one deliciously gilded womb
of an agony.
The Lost Girl Suite
2014
In her second poetry collection, Toni Scales attempts to pin down what it means to be woman. Told through the eyes of various "lost girls," it communicates an obsession with objects, along with the drama, pain, and loss that inevitably comes with the experience of being female.
Paperback: $2.99
Kindle Edition: $.99
available at Amazon.com
from The Lost Girl Suite:
Alice
All this when you were a little dancer. The scent of you feral, overwhelming. My mother burns my face with the
iron, my corkscrew curls turned limp in fog. Our white pinafores gone green in wet, sodden grass. That time my
father lifted me by the leg, beating me in front of all the neighbors. I am tormented by the sadness of mahogany
end tables. Even the doors are dangerous. At the funerals our grandmothers’ hands rest at the napes of our
necks. Making sure we behave. That we believe. Grandpa lets me sleep in their bed while Grandma wrings the
house of devils. The lamps lit low all night. The portraits of Jesus in slow yellow light.
Althea
She’s haunted by a sense of futility
in everything she does. I wait
to be told I’m worthy. You knew
we could never escape, caught
by our hair under glass bottom boats.
By our parents’ white-knuckled grip.
I was drowning in the emerald music
of fish when you pulled my body
from the rocks, their song
a shivering green. Mama always taught
me to fear boys like you. To flee
the delicate danger of my own ankles.
By June I’ll succumb to the language
of bruises. The yearning for the
blue-haired girl to tell me her name.
How she strings key chains
into a necklace. We’re a little
too much in love with objects.
With hurricanes and bicycle spokes.
Tonight the air will be soaked
with honeysuckle. With humidity.
The sound of mothers pinching
terrified little faces. Of fathers
who never wanted their daughters.
2014
In her second poetry collection, Toni Scales attempts to pin down what it means to be woman. Told through the eyes of various "lost girls," it communicates an obsession with objects, along with the drama, pain, and loss that inevitably comes with the experience of being female.
Paperback: $2.99
Kindle Edition: $.99
available at Amazon.com
from The Lost Girl Suite:
Alice
All this when you were a little dancer. The scent of you feral, overwhelming. My mother burns my face with the
iron, my corkscrew curls turned limp in fog. Our white pinafores gone green in wet, sodden grass. That time my
father lifted me by the leg, beating me in front of all the neighbors. I am tormented by the sadness of mahogany
end tables. Even the doors are dangerous. At the funerals our grandmothers’ hands rest at the napes of our
necks. Making sure we behave. That we believe. Grandpa lets me sleep in their bed while Grandma wrings the
house of devils. The lamps lit low all night. The portraits of Jesus in slow yellow light.
Althea
She’s haunted by a sense of futility
in everything she does. I wait
to be told I’m worthy. You knew
we could never escape, caught
by our hair under glass bottom boats.
By our parents’ white-knuckled grip.
I was drowning in the emerald music
of fish when you pulled my body
from the rocks, their song
a shivering green. Mama always taught
me to fear boys like you. To flee
the delicate danger of my own ankles.
By June I’ll succumb to the language
of bruises. The yearning for the
blue-haired girl to tell me her name.
How she strings key chains
into a necklace. We’re a little
too much in love with objects.
With hurricanes and bicycle spokes.
Tonight the air will be soaked
with honeysuckle. With humidity.
The sound of mothers pinching
terrified little faces. Of fathers
who never wanted their daughters.
Moonlight on Dark Water
2016
In her debut erotic novel, Evangeline Rose (Toni Scales) writes a scintillating tale about a man haunted and hideously scarred by his past, and the woman he desires, who will stop at nothing to save the hero of her heart.
Kindle Edition: $1.99
available at Amazon.com
___________
“So,” Kayla asked, trying to disguise the quiver in her voice. “You find it gratifying to randomly select a young girl to bring to your lair to ravish?”
He was silent for the slightest space of a second. Then he brought a hand to his mouth, wiping his lips with a long forefinger. “No, Miss Mistry, not at all. You were hand-selected by me.”
And it was as if an invisible hand suddenly entered into her being and squeezed softly at her insides.
“But enough of our delightful banter. Please, eat. Nourish yourself.”
“I don’t have an appetite, thank you. Master.”
Again, that illusion of a shuddering across his lean form. “Very good, Miss Mistry, for your first time greeting me in the proper manner. Now, if you do not wish to partake of the delicious assortment of food at my table, I trust you leave the room and have Chona take you up to your room. I will arrive there shortly.”
Anger coursed through Kayla. “The hell you will.”
He seemed to stare at her intently. There was silence. Empty, dripping, harrowing silence.
“As you see more and more of me, Miss Mistry,” the man in the mask spoke evenly, “you might see more of hell indeed.”
2016
In her debut erotic novel, Evangeline Rose (Toni Scales) writes a scintillating tale about a man haunted and hideously scarred by his past, and the woman he desires, who will stop at nothing to save the hero of her heart.
Kindle Edition: $1.99
available at Amazon.com
___________
“So,” Kayla asked, trying to disguise the quiver in her voice. “You find it gratifying to randomly select a young girl to bring to your lair to ravish?”
He was silent for the slightest space of a second. Then he brought a hand to his mouth, wiping his lips with a long forefinger. “No, Miss Mistry, not at all. You were hand-selected by me.”
And it was as if an invisible hand suddenly entered into her being and squeezed softly at her insides.
“But enough of our delightful banter. Please, eat. Nourish yourself.”
“I don’t have an appetite, thank you. Master.”
Again, that illusion of a shuddering across his lean form. “Very good, Miss Mistry, for your first time greeting me in the proper manner. Now, if you do not wish to partake of the delicious assortment of food at my table, I trust you leave the room and have Chona take you up to your room. I will arrive there shortly.”
Anger coursed through Kayla. “The hell you will.”
He seemed to stare at her intently. There was silence. Empty, dripping, harrowing silence.
“As you see more and more of me, Miss Mistry,” the man in the mask spoke evenly, “you might see more of hell indeed.”
Kiss Me Again: Poems for Ladies
2015
Kindle Edition: $1.99
These poems evoke the feminine voice of a bygone era, that of passionate love and loss. A short but haunting series of love and romantic poems in the Victorian style reminiscent of early ladies' journals. Written over a period of three weeks' time and inspired by and dedicated to Kwon Jiyong aka G-Dragon.
Available at Amazon.com
From Kiss Me Again: Poems for Ladies
Your Love Knows How
My heart is heavy and sad with yearning.
I sit and wait for you.
The winter is almost over, my darling,
the air is crisp and cool.
I move like a ghost in the afternoons.
I float throughout the days.
At night I lie under the coverlet,
seeking your warm embrace.
Your face, it haunts my waking hours.
Your absence chills me to the bone.
Without you I am forever lost, my dear,
forever lonely and alone.
For desperation has me in its grip,
I see nothing for me now.
Only you can release me from this light-less prison.
Only your love knows how.
2015
Kindle Edition: $1.99
These poems evoke the feminine voice of a bygone era, that of passionate love and loss. A short but haunting series of love and romantic poems in the Victorian style reminiscent of early ladies' journals. Written over a period of three weeks' time and inspired by and dedicated to Kwon Jiyong aka G-Dragon.
Available at Amazon.com
From Kiss Me Again: Poems for Ladies
Your Love Knows How
My heart is heavy and sad with yearning.
I sit and wait for you.
The winter is almost over, my darling,
the air is crisp and cool.
I move like a ghost in the afternoons.
I float throughout the days.
At night I lie under the coverlet,
seeking your warm embrace.
Your face, it haunts my waking hours.
Your absence chills me to the bone.
Without you I am forever lost, my dear,
forever lonely and alone.
For desperation has me in its grip,
I see nothing for me now.
Only you can release me from this light-less prison.
Only your love knows how.