Super Soldier Summit

Super Soldier Summit.

Super Soldier Summit

I will be presenting a talk – “Mark Richards’ Super Soldier Connection” – on June 23, 2012, at the Super Soldier Summit. Time: 10:00 AM to 9:00 PM Location: Four Points Sheraton Hotel, 1010 Northgate Drive, San Rafael, CA.  Buy tickets at SuperSoldierSummit.com.

This speaking engagement is due to my non-profit, Earth Defense Headquarters. I share military history mostly during the Cold War era, and act as a spokesperson for my husband’s (and his father’s) fascinating military experiences.

Compass of the Soul

Compass of the Soul.

Compass of the Soul

No thought of darkness could warn of the threat,

That overcame me before sails could bellow;

Waves from the lifeless deepness built too quickly,

The sky turning to ebony, lost the sun’s warm yellow.

Though seas stretched wide on every side,

Beyond my grasp to chart,

I found I had a compass

Hidden deep within my heart.

To find my soul’s direction,

I had but to remember our emotional cord;

And I had no uncertainty,

What point I had to turn toward.

Let storm and doubt loom on every side

I knew where I had to be –

Through any tempest I needn’t hide,

For your love is always a part of me.

— Mark Richards, 1998

Dragonhill Books is born!

I have started a new company to publish and sell the fiction books that Mark has written over the last 30 years – history, mystery, science fiction, etc. Most will be e-published. Two are in print and available now: Imperial Marin and Tiffany and the Lowlifes.

Imperial Marin takes place in a futuristic Marin County that has separated from the US after a revolution. Now run by three hero-kings, there are no taxes, no standing army, an educated and employed public. People have chosen to live in an environmentally sound, absolutely democratic and free socity.  This is a story for adult readers who are seeking an epic new myth-saga of political science-fiction/fantasy. Special into rate of $20 includes postage.

Tiffany and the Lowlifes is an Alice-in-Wonderland-type story set in modern San Francisco.  This is a story about a ‘little rich girl’ and her friend, Jonny.  Sub-human creatures living underground want to take revenge on the ‘topsider’ humans. Jonny discovers the lowlife plot, and fights to save the City. This books is full of fantasy, adventure, and lessons about friendship. It will appeal to ages 8 to adult.  Special intro rate of $8 includes postage.

Email me at dragonhillbooks@yahoo.com to place an order or send to me at Dragonhill Books, PO Box 2358, San Anselmo, CA 94979.

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Dragonhill-Books/137332193067604

Plzen over-the-top Blueberry Bread Pudding

Our German granddaughters love to cook. They send recipes to me through Grandpa Mark, who has to translate them into English for me. The ones I’ve made have been quite yummy.

Ingredients: 3 eggs, 4 cups heavy whipping cream, 2 cups sugar, 3 teaspoons vanilla extract, 2 cups fresh or frozen blueberries, 1 package (10-12 oz.) white baking chips, 1-pound loaf French bread (cut into cubes).  Sauce: 1 package (10-12 oz.) white baking chips, 1 cup heaving whipping cream.

Instructions: In a large bowl, combine the eggs, cream, sugar, and vanilla.  Stir in blueberries and baking chips.  Stir in bread cubes. Let stand for 15 minutes or until bread is softened.  Transfer to greased 13×9 baking dish.  Bake, uncovered, at 350 degrees for 50-60 minutes or until a knife inserted near the center comes out clean.  Let stand 5 minutes before serving.  For sauce, place baking chips in a small bowl.  In a small saucepan, bring cream just to a boil.  Pour over baking chips; whisk until smooth.  Serve with bread pudding.

Time Between Winters

A winding stream twists and turns and cuts itself,

Ever deeper into the cement gutter with every passing moment;

Such change is imperceptible to the naked eye,

And rarely noticed by the inmates contending with the more immediate demands of prison.

 

Seasons pass, the moon shows her many faces,

The men set free to wander for a few hours on the confined yard,

Are rounded up and returned to their cells mid-afternoon,

Existence in such a place is not life, is not good, it is only survival.

 

The guard occupies himself by breaking men’s souls,

Perfecting skills with cruel words and cold guns;

And saving his fellow sadists from sucking truth;

Legal pitfalls; and would-be lawyers lurking at the fringes of the library.

 

The weeks between winters pass like blades of grass through your fingers;

Yet no matter how quickly time wants to fly from such a mire,

The convict’s days are bleakly full,

As long and wide as the yawning gray sky above the foothills.

 

The rigors of endless toil are offset by communing with the hardened gangsters,

Kindred spirits of the untamed West, gunslingers in an era of bureaucrats.

No matter how exhausting the day, there was always time for TV; a cold meal;

Pruno, and a bawdy thought of love under a canopy of concrete.

 

The time between winters is different fro those kept in prison cells.

For them, time is measured in cycles of mundane tasks:

Batches of laundry; endless circles around the yard track;

Youth passes with each monotonous stroke of the second hand.

 

For them, the expansive world is nothing but a narrow wedge,

Between high walls, electric fences, and razor wire.

Life for those tending such an environment demands a different type of toughness,

A fortitude and resolve against the ever-encroaching madness of hopelessness.

 

Months march on, the days shorten, grass turns rust-colored and dies;

The Autumn often brings the boredom of rain, and more violence.

Tired men retire from pride for the winter to shoot their wages,

And the gang want-ta’-be’s stock provisions to last through the next lockdown.

 

They brace the prison for the howling storms that will sweep the yard;

In December, when holiday memories come in earnest, and emotional pains run high,

The gales of lost reason erupt, and survivors retreat indoors,

One must find diversions to occupy the brief, pale hours of daylight.

 

Time seems to slow to a crawl. Hands go idle.  Minds wander.

In the frozen stillness of winter, things continue to change outside;

But within this crumbling system, devoted to failure,

Nothing advances but the passing hours, decay, and the shame of broken dreams.

 

— Mark Richards (c) 2012

 

Time Between Winters

A winding stream twists and turns and cuts itself,

Ever deeper into the cement gutter with every passing moment;

Such change is imperceptible to the naked eye,

And rarely noticed by the inmates contending with the more immediate demands of prison.

 

Seasons pass, the moon shows her many faces,

The men set free to wander for a few hours on the confined yard,

Are rounded up and returned to their cells mid-afternoon,

Existence in such a place is not life, is not good, it is only survival.

 

The guard occupies himself by breaking men’s souls,

Perfecting skills with cruel words and cold guns;

And saving his fellow sadists from sucking truth;

Legal pitfalls; and would-be lawyers lurking at the fringes of the library.

 

The weeks between winters pass like blades of grass through your fingers;

Yet no matter how quickly time wants to fly from such a mire,

The convict’s days are bleakly full,

As long and wide as the yawning gray sky above the foothills.

 

The rigors of endless toil are offset by communing with the hardened gangsters,

Kindred spirits of the untamed West, gunslingers in an era of bureaucrats.

No matter how exhausting the day, there was always time for TV; a cold meal;

Pruno, and a bawdy thought of love under a canopy of concrete.

 

The time between winters is different fro those kept in prison cells.

For them, time is measured in cycles of mundane tasks:

Batches of laundry; endless circles around the yard track;

Youth passes with each monotonous stroke of the second hand.

 

For them, the expansive world is nothing but a narrow wedge,

Between high walls, electric fences, and razor wire.

Life for those tending such an environment demands a different type of toughness,

A fortitude and resolve against the ever-encroaching madness of hopelessness.

 

Months march on, the days shorten, grass turns rust-colored and dies;

The Autumn often brings the boredom of rain, and more violence.

Tired men retire from pride for the winter to shoot their wages,

And the gang want-ta’-be’s stock provisions to last through the next lockdown.

 

They brace the prison for the howling storms that will sweep the yard;

In December, when holiday memories come in earnest, and emotional pains run high,

The gales of lost reason erupt, and survivors retreat indoors,

One must find diversions to occupy the brief, pale hours of daylight.

 

Time seems to slow to a crawl. Hands go idle.  Minds wander.

In the frozen stillness of winter, things continue to change outside;

But within this crumbling system, devoted to failure,

Nothing advances but the passing hours, decay, and the shame of broken dreams.

 

— Mark Richards (c) 2012

 

Sonnet to a Spider

Ah, little spider, fear not the monster at your side,

We can share this cement cave for what time is given,

The truth is that your hunt for food keeps me free of bugs.

If I could reward such work I would, with endless hugs,

Thy search for meat being brutal as it is driven,

Victims helpless in shining web, over which you glide.

But here is the crunch, my arachnid carnivore friend,

While I am locked within this cell, forever lost,

Captive of technocrats seeking ways for me to die,

Not so unlike your outlook towards the next fat fly;

And you may escape such confines without any cost,

Free to leave when thy web is no longer worth the mend.

So welcome to the wasteland, my busy little friend,

May easy meals come your way, in our darkened den.

– Mark Richards © 2012

Fairy Ring

In honor of Beltane…..

Humans call it a Fairy Ring; a place for magic fling,

A spot in the redwood forest, where all the creatures sing.

Soft circle of emerald grass, surrounded by mushroom wall,

Nothing to bind or stop you, just a spot where lovers call.

Soft earth making a perfect bed for any sleeping doe,

Or an erotic patch for flesh to implant seeds to grow.

Sunlight pours through miles of limbs, bringing a pinpoint of heat,

To this, the spirit of the forest, Oberon’s seat.

The scent of moist creation is always part of such ground,

As is the moan of the wind, and the passion of doves sound.

— Mark Richards (c) 2012