SNOW ANGELS (Free Sampler)

Copyright © 2013 by Thomas Boulton

Snowglobeman.com

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the

publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Cover art design, interior graphic designs, photo selections & layout by Jeannine “Immortal Jaye” Rochon

MakeMeImmortal.com

Stock photography licensed from Shutterstock, BigStockPhoto, sxc.hu & RNC.com unless otherwise indicated. Any images that are not stock are used for editorial purposes and/or with permission from the rightful owner(s).

his book is for you…

#snowangels

T

GINA G.

Hi Thomas,

This photo was taken Christmas morning 1972 by one of

my parents. I recently had turned three years old and

vividly remember my favourite present—the musical

jewellery box with the pirouetting ballerina. It

played Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake theme. It was very

precious to me. At the age of ten, I saw my first

ballet—Swan Lake. The beauty of the dancers and the

melody of the orchestra have stayed with me forever.

Even now, the swell of an orchestra, the lyrics of a

ballad, or the crooning of a lovesick singer can bring

me to tears in an instant.

Feel free to use this as you wish. You gotta love the

home decor of the 1970's. ;)

hen I look into your eyes and see the fire and the light and the

memory I wish for still more. I see you now. I hear the same

music and see the beautiful dancers arched and reflexive and

blessed but I still wish for more.

If for one moment I could have known you as a child, treading the

heavenly light that reflects down paths you followed. If for one instant I

could surrender to the power of time and imagine you as you were, If I

could hear the first note. If I could watch the first step.

You gave me a photograph. You captured at a second before the reality

and the years. Your angelic face beaming as you presented your

Christmas present to the camera. A picture that was old and dated even

as it was taken. Surrounded by colours and paper and tinsel and toys that

you soon forgot. Not the ballerina though. With the opening of the box

came the true message of that holy moment. A young girl with a smile of

forever having her love of dance and destiny and drama and the lilting

sway of the swirl romance dance cemented in her eyes. Like a memory.

Like a bauble. Like a tear. Like a photograph.

And who were the people looking on and what did they see in your joy

and do they remember the naked surrender of sheer pleasure among the

early morning bells and the ice and the snow and the daughter who

smiled.

W

Every object in the room is transient. Every moment is lost and found and

lost again - but the one thing that smiles is your love of the dance and

the smile of a girl who was the whole world. Her hopes, her ambitions,

her thoughts , her snuggle down Christmas Eve nights and her enchanted

magical Christmas mornings.

I saw you in that picture. I saw everything you were and all that you are

and all you will ever be captured on a Christmas moonbeam, in a girl, in a

box, in a dance , in a dream, in a memory - in a Christmas from long ago.

And now as the memory fades and the photograph dissolves into time you

can always return to that room and that moment when you hear the

music and the swell and the heart stopping beauty of a dying swan.

Nothing lasts forever except sometimes it does and that's why we have

Christmas, and dance and love - and you.

Forever dancing.

It's a Wonderful Life

NIKKI LANGTON

I've attached a photo of what I thought was a poem on

the comedy carpet in Blackpool but later found it's

actually a song by Norman Wisdom. I love it because it

pretty much sums up my thoughts on me and my love life.

on’t laugh at me ‘cause I’m a fool

I know it’s true, yes I’m a fool

No-one seems to care

I’d give the world to share my life

with someone who really loves me

I see them all falling in love

But my lucky star hides up above

Someday maybe

my star will smile on me

Don’t laugh at me ‘cause I’m a fool

I’m not good-looking, I’m not too smart

I may be foolish but I’ve got a heart

I love the flowers, I love the sun

But when I try to love the girls

They laugh at me and run

D

he stars shine down. Constant and reassuring but at times fill us

with dread and foreboding. What is life is passing us by? What

about the things that we forget to try?

The greatest sadness I ever see is somebody who has the capacity to love

and yet seems to have given up by either becoming cynical or - worse - by

forgetting that love can be special. The song that Nikki has chosen is very

well known to me. To see Wisdom singing it is to almost describe pathos

in one single image.

The name though is the giveaway - Wisdom because just as the song is

achingly poignant so life can change in a heartbeat. Nikki's thoughts here

are entirely the reason I started the Snow tweets. The idea of women

yearning for some remarkable image of love and yet remaining

undiscovered was abhorrent. The line. “I would give the world to share

my love” is so hauntingly touching and has become a familiar refrain in

my responses. Let's get this straight somebody like Nikki with the capacity

she has to love is absolute gold dust.

T

She is rare and should be honoured and cherished and the good thing is -

the thing that I am absolutely sure of - is that she will be because believe

it or not there are men craving for that sublime tragic simplicity too.

Norman Wisdom is not a fool and neither is Nikki - the fools are the

people who go through life without realising that there are diamonds out

there with the capacity to love beyond love. I'm no fortune teller but I

know this - Your star will shine on you. Life is a series of days played out

one upon one and then suddenly the universe can change in one second -

because that's how long it takes to fall in love. I also know that it comes

when you are least expecting it - and usually when you are not looking.

You're not a fool - you're an adventure waiting to happen.

JULIEA Q SMITH

I am sending you a painting that inspires me. I love

the beauty of visual art, and because of this beauty

it has survived the ages. My favorite work is the

Birth of Venus by Sandro Botticelli, which was painted

in 1486. I love the feminine ideal that the goddess

Venus represents in this painting - flaxen hair, white

skin, curves, a little bit of modesty.

Juliea

hy would she choose this image and this thought?

What would it show about her

To stand naked before the world

Born again and beautiful

Divinity of motion

The modesty of the now

In the explosive passion of tomorrow

Why would she show us these charms?

What does it say about femininity

To tell mankind who she is

And say I am here - I am now

Curved perfection - timeless rejection

W

And the world attempting to cover

And the life - always another

Why would she remember these dreams?

What does it tell us

Wishing to be wanted

Knowing that men will kneel

Watching the stars collide

The thunder of regret and loss

Sudden rain and brutal oceans

She is timeless

She is noble and filled with beauty

She is art and poetry

She is the stroked check and the grasped breast

She is every girl and every moment

She is forever changing

She is forever the same

She is a goddess - no more no less

And for a second of an eternity I called her mine.

So move the stars

So roars the ocean

So fall the tears

And all that is past is all that will be - when she - yes she - returns

To me

CARRIE MARCOTT

AS HOLIDAYS APPROACH

Very soon turkeys will be bought and stuffed

Our children tucked in their beds

all soft and fluffed

The closet in our room is filled with hidden gifts

Snow will arrive, in piles and drifts.

Holidays are indeed the most special time of year

But here, for me, someone is missing, YOU my dear

I remember your sweet whispers

putting my insides in Motion

Even now I wonder what was that potion?

Your hands on my skin always made me complete

Your kisses were always so soft and sweet.

I will get through this season, as those in the past

Make new memories I know will last

As I look at our children I will see your face

I will smile a big smile that my fingers will trace

As I shed a secret tear I will wonder is this real

Are these feelings I still carry the real deal

For you, my dear, I wish nothing less

Than a magical, wonderful Thanksgiving and Christmas

Will I forget you, will these feelings leave? Never.

You are my one true love, I will love you forever.

his is a very personal poem and I felt a little uncomfortable

answering but I hope that in my response is the answer to your

own sadness. If not tell me and I will have a re-think. The only

thing I do know is that the abiding thought that shone through from your

words was absolute love - and not for the guy who had gone.

Can it be Christmas again?

The baubles and the glitter

The shimmer and the song

Can it be time for happiness

When life has gone so wrong?

He has gone away

A memory

That comes this time of year

T

But memories

Are haunted ghosts

Of things we held once dear

The time this time

Does not belong to you - or him

The Angels of Christmas

Usher the season in

This is the time for those

Who are small and filled with glory

Christmas is for children

That's the immortal story

And though it's hard and time is cruel

You have to keep magic flowing

For how many years will they believe

We have no way of knowing

But sure as rain and snow on tree

The day will come too soon

When the children no longer giggle

and there's silence in the room

Don't lament his absence now

And things beyond control

Fill their hearts with memories

The creation of their souls

I know you know this

and do it well - life means you have to

but by loving them - love time as well

And in the end - love you

They are your treasure

Your gifts to time

Look back and say

I made them mine.

MELISSA

The following is an article I recently wrote for a

blog. I am not a skilled writer but this is a simple

memoir of childhood and first love. Enjoy.

have a very full mind. Certain things, times and places often stir up

vivid memories; some of which are very real and some that have

gotten lost in fantasy. The fall season often reminds me of my

childhood and my first love; let's call him Critch.

I first met Critch when I was ten years old and he transferred to my fifth

grade class. It was a mixed up time; some boys would tromp around

pretending to be dinosaurs while others were making girls blush in the

corner. Every girl wanted a boyfriend to play footsies with during class.

Our school desks were arranged in groups of four so the girls would sit

across from their boyfriends and make sweet foot love. I was (and still

am) a heavy blusher and boy did I blush a lot back then. Well poor Critch

was a fifth wheel at our group. I was playing footsies with Steve, but gosh

Critch could make me smile. I wanted to be playing with him instead.

Easy uncomplicated life; Steve you're out and Critch you're in. Everybody

is happy. Genny passed Critch my "will you go out with me note" and

I

Critch said "yes." Then a strange thing happened; Critch stopped talking

to me! I couldn't understand why but after two days Genny passed him my

"I'm breaking up with you" note and magically he started talking to me

again.

We went through fifth grade good school friends and I'm sure there wasn't

a day that went by where he didn't make me laugh. He would mouth "I

love you" and I would say "what?" to which he would yell "elephant shoe!"

But I believe he really did mean the first. Summer came and sixth grade

went by, he wasn't in my class, and back then you only really thought of

the people in your class. They were your friends at the time (with the

exception to the few friends you had close to home that you would

always see). So Critch was off the radar.

Then came a puberty riddled summer, first periods and what not, flowing

into the first year of junior high (grade seven). Critch was in my class and

he had grown.....a little. From day one it was just like we were never

separated; his flirting and my extreme blushing. But something was

different now; I would feel strange in the pit of my stomach, something

like extreme excitement. I would think about him at night and wait

anxiously for him to arrive to school in the mornings. I would be saddened

if he was not in class. I loved going to math class because his seat was

right behind me (we had assigned seating) and he would constantly make

me giggle and get us into trouble. He tortured me and I loved it. He

would touch my back or lazily play my curls through his fingers and God

how his touch would rocket through me; send my hairs standing on end

and leave me wanting more. Advancing from scribbled letters to

telephones; Genny spent the evening calling him, then me, and then back

again. By the end of the night we were boyfriend and girlfriend again. I

bet you can guess what happened the next day; he never spoke a word to

me. This still wasn't going to work and, once again, I called it off and

everything returned to normal.

This was not the end yet; third time's a charm. The following year we

were not in the same class, but every morning, recess, lunch and free

time he was with me being as flirty as ever. After so long his best friend

blew up at us and said "Critch! Would you just go out with her; you

obviously like her!" HaHa, girls maybe this is how we should have been

doing it all along. Critch turned more shades of red than I could imagine.

He was put on the spot and he asked me to be his girlfriend. I told him

yes as long as he didn't stop talking to me again and to stay just the way

he is. He was my school boyfriend, I wasn't allowed to date so it was only

there that I would see him. Every night we would talk on the phone,

sometimes we would just listen to each other breathing (I used to wonder

if he was touching himself but wouldn't dare ask; it made me tingle

thinking he did).

February came and he was my very first valentine. I gave him a CD that I

owned and didn't like, how awful of me, but he assured me that he loved

the band. So there he is with his used CD (I still suck at giving gifts) and I

get a beautifully wrapped jewelry box containing a silver ring with a pink

heart stone. I wore that ring every day. I could never figure out how a

loser like me ended up with the most romantic thirteen year old boy in

school.

The relationship seemed to have progressed to a point where, with much

hesitation, my mom allowed me to go on a skating date with him and

Genny. I could not skate for my life but I went; all the while swallowing

the shame and guilt I felt knowing my mother, even though she let me go,

did not approve of the event. And we skated, each with one glove on and

one glove off so we could hold hands; flesh on flesh. We slipped, we fell;

my back to the ice and his body on mine. Never before had I felt so much

of him against me; his weight on my breasts his leg pressed at my tingling

centre. I was paralyzed. Our lips were so close; would it be our first kiss?

No. He grimaced and rolled off into a ball, apparently his boys had a hard

impact on the fall and now he was just trying to breath again and not

throw up. We recovered and moved on from skating to walking along a

frozen river bed trail. I forgot my niggling guilt and I forgot time existed.

As we emerged from the trail it was late; my mother was supposed to

pick me up thirty minutes ago. She stopped the car and ordered me in. I

spent the ride home getting an earful of how worried sick she was and

how irresponsible I had been; that I was too young for these kinds of

things. Those who know me, know I hate guilt and feeling guilty is like

putting a knife through my gut and twisting. Mom didn't have to punish

me; I punished myself. That night I told Critch he couldn't phone me for a

week.

My addiction to Critch got the better of my devotion to mom. One night I

went to a friend's place to which mom specifically asked would "he" be

there and I lied "no." As soon as mom left I snuck out into the bitter cold

to meet with him; I was determined to get a kiss tonight. We walked and

walked as time ticked and ticked. Finally I had enough and turned to him,

"I want you to kiss me." I could barely finish the words and his lips

smashed onto mine. It was terrible. Tongues and spit were flying, this

wasn't how it happened in the movies; this was all wrong. Well the

wrongness lasted for probably close to half an hour; we started it and

didn't know how to end it. My mind wanted to escalate the kiss to

touching and feeling secret places but the only muscle he was moving was

his tongue. We found ourselves back at my friends place in plenty of time

before my mother came to get me. I warned Critch not to leave the house

until I was long gone but he pretty much came out right behind me thus

I'm caught in a lie. Mom belted it out like never before; "I can never trust

you again" probably hurt the most of all.

The freshness of the ill kiss paired with the nauseous guilt made it too

easy for me to stop taking his calls. I would only see him between classes

and whenever he tried to touch me I would cringe away. After a few

weeks he gave up. I received a call from Genny; he was done. I broke

down; it was at that pivotal moment when I realized how terribly I

reacted to him, how I didn't give him a chance, how I didn't give him an

explanation. All that realization came a moment too late, our mirrored

souls were irreparably shattered. I aged a lifetime in one bleating

moment. I watched his behavior and personality spiral out of control and

couldn't help but feel it was all my fault. I too, took on my own self

destructive habits. The last time I had seen him was in the tenth grade;

he was in my geography class. We were paired for a project one day and I

yearned desperately to be near him again; I wondered did he feel the

same. He told me I looked good (I had lost a lot of weight). And those

were the last words he ever spoke to me.

He played on my mind for a very long time. Even now I wonder about him

and what he has made of himself. People say you're kids and that you

don't know what love is; but I think we did know. The problem with being

kids is not knowing how to cope with love lost. Eventually I did meet a

guy that helped me move on, never forget, just move on. He was my first

bad boy but that is a story for another day.

ell the first thing to do is to totally disagree with you about

not being a skilled writer. I was absolutely captivated from the

first line and I am sure people will be who read this in the

#snowangels book. It's a haunting rendition of first love.

We never know what to do. We know what they say. We know what they

said. We know what we read. We know what's in our head - but the

screaming nightmare reality of young love is that it is surrounded by

images of absolute misty field confusion. the thoughts of others. The

opinion of the many. The taunts of the few. The fairground nights with

hot dog savor and the snow covered walks past little churches where

discordant bells play games with the muffled cotton candy of Winter. The

nights stretching our arms out into the air to view our cat like finger

stretch devotion and the cool air of meadow mornings walking and talking

and hoping and dreaming. the dress that you wore that you hoped he's

adore. the pressed flower that blotted the pages of your diary. The piece

of hair that you longed for him to touch. the sheer crystal simplicity of

how love feels at 4 a.m. and the cold clarity ice firm impossibility when

the day begins. the calm nights and the storm sea passion of missing his

lips before you have even touched them. Fascination. rejection.

Reflection. The movie image of him slipping his jacket around your cold

shoulders and the dynamic swoop hawk trajectory by which his kisses

steal forever from your lips. All in contact. All in contrast. All in the

absolute truth that he is afraid and scared and you are the most

frightening thing he ever saw. he has to appear to know things he has

W

only just begun to feel. he has to master cool Fonz kick jukebox calm and

at the same time stop the shuddering uncertainty of bra clasps and hands

that roam and do I dare to touch her knee.

I remember going to the pictures with a girl called Janet. A date. Our

first. I remember the aching beauty after one hour of actually having my

hand inside her blouse under her bra massaging and touching a nipple

while not knowing what the hell to do next. We sat that way for over an

hour. the first breast I had ever touched and when I got home that night I

lay awake so pleased with myself. We never spoke to each other again

and when Is aw her in the street it was like it never happened and yet

that night lay awake I just wanted to see her and hold her and touch her

and tell her that this was special and this was impossibly sensual and

beautiful and immortal and precious and the absolute peak of all my

experiences. In the cold morning air though everything disappeared and

we could not make eye contact. So it is with youth and so it is with time.

We lust. We yearn. We hope. We dream. We wish to touch the heavens

but we are buried in a moment of forever called innocence and there are

too many possibilities. too many notions. It felt different. It felt so

achingly like a mirrored possibility of what I was supposed to feel.

And we lose the feelings and we gain the memories.

Until all there are are memories - of the feelings.

SARA B.

Hi Poet,

This is my favourite piece of jewellery! She's my

guardian Snowangel!

I wear her every day and she exists because you

inspired me to make her! ;)

Sara

girl I never knew.

A girl I never touched.

She not only wears jewellery

of inspiration and imagination she sat down and made it.

And it is there to remind her of me.

A girl I never knew. A girl I never touched.

But…if she made the sacred wings

and if she wears it close and tight and touching her

And if it guides her and inspires her

And if it shines her inner beauty

Then maybe I did touch her.

Inside her mind. Inside her moments. Inside her life. The Angel Dancing in

the snow, and she becomes more than a girl I never knew

She becomes you

A