Fall stuff

•October 4, 2021 • Leave a Comment
Fall stuff

Fall stuff

Mixed media / October 2021

The Musings on the Sainthood of Altruism

•September 23, 2021 • Leave a Comment
Image found HERE

The Musings on the Sainthood of Altruism

if you are dust
i will be ashes

in the field, a single crow
munching on an iris.
the flower.
the darkness of your eyes’s
sprouted outwards into outlands,
gushed into a clear, blue,
restless, cyan spiked sea
rubbed all over
by cinders.
to suck you down
is sin.
if you are ashes
i am dust then

a glen in the east
foaming in the jaws
of yawning foxes

in some stranger’s dream.
forgiving because there was truly never
anything to forgive,
whispering a lullaby
gently; to the marigold,
windows shaded by curtains.
the full moon
emerging from the naval
goodnight to a goodmorning
signed in lips
and chaffing
and against the skyscrapers
and you are
that dust

i am ashes
I. am. ashes.

Sky self-portrait

•August 24, 2021 • Leave a Comment
Sky self-portrait

Mixed media collage / August 2021

The answer to the question always asked

•May 7, 2021 • 2 Comments
“A quiet evening” – painting by Thomas Kinkade, Image found HERE

The answer to the question always asked

Like xylophones
strolling and jigging
down a sloppy
tune of lo-fi jazz
and twitching
like interludes
of sassy trumpets,
like a dissolving cloud
stitching a still, blue
night sky
around its axis like a duvet,
like seeing soul to soul
and whispering of
love that sounds like gossip,
like unsticking
your fingers from dough
like sizzling
displays of colours
gulped through a sieve,
like caster sugar
tumbling down your tongue,
like a moonlit ripe forest,
like selling honey –
like buying honey,,
like waking up
from a good dream
like gently
submerging your head
yet still trying
to breathe


•May 6, 2021 • Leave a Comment


Mixed media / May 2021

On Mary Jane, my name

•April 15, 2021 • 7 Comments
Image found HERE

On Mary Jane, my name

Once the first cry was out
it was branded “the coming of peace”,
noted as quiet and tame,
but it is not how I know it;
I always see it as just
my grandmothers name
and if I was born a boy,
I would be called different,
a variation where the nickname
is the same.

Always the peace
and my march supposed to bring it,
crowned in old wives tales
like wherever she sits
there will be a hundred devils
peeking from underneath the chair,
to folk songs equating it
to clear, baby blue skies
that one would beg
not to toy with their soul,
to illegal herbs
once you cross over from my native lands
and sit atop a foreigners tongue
while they wait for deliverance
of the blurry mercy
that lets one get closer to the stars,
to my friend Henry who simply
pronounces it wrong,
like the spice, with a soft sparkle on his lips
and making sure it still always starts with m
and how all the interludes
never start with it
but wanting and wanting and wanting,
like a resolution after a battle
or the churchbell thining
into the air and across the feathers of seagulls
and the pen detaching itself
from the last curve of the letter
and the daylight sun
yawning and dipping into my cheeks
to dream up the dawn;
like the index finger over a shushing mouth
while the hearts are mingling about
like a swarm of crickets,
popping with some certanty of love
that cant be broken
and how my lover raises it monuments
with his clumsy inability
to roll its R
and command me to soften
as the foam of a wave
trickles over the sand
before drowning in it.

At least, thats what im hoping
is in the concoctions
of the pronounciations,
or denotations, of recited requests
and poems, desires and heaves;
the peace, how I give it, oozing
from a forest of wildly swaying trees
and dusks
laying their red mantles
over the rooftops
and boats
roraring towards those sunsets
with a furry to step first
into the coming nights kingdom –
when you ask me myself
and when I say it
it just means

*For NaPoWriMo day 14 prompt, fashionably late

War of Nytefall: Savagery Blog Tour

•April 11, 2021 • Leave a Comment

It’s Monster vs Monster and Only One will Keep His Head!

War of Nytefell : Savagery cover

For the first time in over a century, Clyde will know what it means to feel powerless and weak.

Headless bodies appearing across Windemere is only the beginning as Clyde faces the terrifying vampire hunter, Alastyre.  Able to match the Dawn Fang leader in power and ferocity, this new menace shows no signs of weakness or mercy.  With both friends and enemies getting dragged into the battle, Clyde will have to find a way to become stronger.  For that, he will have to accept an ancient challenge and pray that those he cares about and trusts can hold Alastyre at bay.

Which monster of Windemere will claim the top of the food chain?

Want to hear more?  Enjoy this Teaser!

Alastyre disappears for a moment before reappearing in front of Clyde and grinning at how the Dawn Fang does not react. “I have waited many years for this day. You probably don’t remember me since it has been so long. The temptation to tell Mab the truth when she was my captive was so strong that I knew I needed more time to mature. I should only feel happy and excited when we are about to clash. By the way, your enemies put up an entertaining fight. It lasted no more than a couple of minutes, but I enjoyed it. My hope is that your reputation is true and I will get to use my full power for once. The thought of ripping your head off and adding it to my collection is one of the few dreams that gives my life meaning. Is this where we’re going to fight? I see that there is a lot of sand and giant boulders scattered about. Do you use this courtyard as a large rock garden in order to relax? You are a more amusing monster than I expected.”

“I don’t like you,” Mab growls before she is grabbed by the face.

“A drug-addicted worm should watch-”

“Put . . . my . . . partner . . . down,” Clyde growls from behind the hunter. The illusionary vampire fades away as the real one materializes, his gauntlet sword already pressed against the man’s meaty neck. “You say we’ve met before and you’ve been training to fight me. Looks more like you’ve altered yourself to become a freak. The smell of your blood reeks of corruptive magic and demon influence. There’s a hint of Dawn Fang and dragon in there too. You’re nothing more than a glorified golem. Bunch of parts and auras cobbled together to turn a weak mortal into a monster. I’m not impressed, Alan Stryker. Still trying to strike fear into the rotting hearts of my kind? At least your name isn’t as stupid as it was before.”

“Wait, do you mean that guy who attacked you outside of Lord Shallis’s castle?” Titus asks with a chuckle. He grunts when his sister is thrown into him, the force sending the siblings crashing against the patio’s railing. “I told you that keeping him alive was a mistake, but I didn’t think it would turn into this. You must be angry that nobody believed your story about vampires that are immune to the sun. Is that what this is about?”

With a casual flick of his finger, Alastyre sends Clyde’s sword and arm flying across the courtyard. “No because it was another hunter who survived and told that tale. Your leader was so distracted with Mab biting him that he failed to notice a second mortal that he failed to kill. I focused on recovery and getting stronger because I refused to follow such a ridiculous plan. The fewer people who knew about the Dawn Fangs, the better my chances were at being the one to succeed. Please know that I only want to destroy your leadership. Originally, I wished to wipe all of you out of existence, but that could prove to be impossible. You monsters are more talented at hiding than anything else I have hunted, so I could never be sure of your extinction. The next best thing is to take over Nyetfall and use it as a jail for your kind. All Dawn Fangs will be contained on this island once they no longer have their precious rulers. Don’t you agree that this is much better than extermination, Clyde?”

“I have no opinion because it’s never going to happen.”

“Do you accept my challenge?”

“You never officially made one.”

“I demand that you fight me to the death.”

“Thank you for being straightforward and not making me hunt you down.”

“We fight in an hour then.”

“Why not now?”

Alastyre points while mentioning, “You are still missing an arm. I want to face you at full strength.”

“Don’t say I didn’t give you a chance,” the Dawn Fang says as he continues healing the injury.

Get a copy of this vampire action adventure for
99 cents on Amazon!

Help spread the word by adding it on Goodreads!


Want to catch up on War of Nytefall?Grab the volumes 1-5 for 99 cents each ($5 total)!

Cover art by Alison Hunt

Interested in more Windemere?  Then don’t forget to check out Charles E. Yallowitz’s first series: Legends of Windemere

All Cover Art by Jason Pedersen

About the Author:

Charles Yallowitz was born and raised on Long Island, NY, but he has spent most of his life wandering his own imagination in a blissful haze. Occasionally, he would return from this world for the necessities such as food, showers, and Saturday morning cartoons. One day he returned from his imagination and decided he would share his stories with the world. After spending many years fiddling with his thoughts and notebooks, he decided that it was time to follow his dream of being a fantasy author. So, locked within the house with only pizza and seltzer to sustain him, Charles brings you tales from the world of Windemere. He looks forward to sharing all of his stories with you and drawing you into a world of magic.

Blog: www.legendsofwindemere.com
Twitter: @cyallowitz
Facebook: Charles Yallowitz
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/cyallowitz/

Enjoy the fang-filled adventure by clicking here!


•April 4, 2021 • 19 Comments
Image found HERE


A blind faith;
handing out tea-cups of air
to a stuffed forest ensemble
seated around the table –
You watch but do not drink,
not even of the sunlight
that spills over the tucked in plush
like a cavalcade of golden devils
coveting the dust
and shushing
all the wounds I made
with hope the light’ll go in.

It does not.
Will not lay over me
like i am water;
wont wrinkle
over my valleys
or carve through
dreamily through my alleyways;
will not breach through my eyes
that reach with the hunger
of the treetops,
hold hands with the nightbound places of my roots;
will not teach the soft
but bump around
my waistline,
my face, my hands, my however
heavy or light – buttoned or not – shirts,
will not move
against my thighs;
all of me, lifeless and still,
that porcelain nook
holding the air:

however I touch,
it will fall through,
and unlike
the dirt my soul has cultivated on my mouth,
will not even notice me watching there;
will not even remember the dark.
(yet nest its leaving in my hair.)

*For day 4 of NaPoWriMo

Mixing Uppers with Uppers

•October 9, 2020 • 5 Comments
Search - Rijksmuseum | Painting, Culture art, Art
Image found HERE

Mixing Uppers with Uppers

* Midday Lunch *

“It is easy to climb up;

climbing down again, however,

is the hard part, the pain “

is what we teach our children

on climbing trees

and how to perceive

and spot the moment

which throbs and feels like ascension

is taking place within them:

to Lights! But to lamps, or rays of suns

or forest fires,

or candles?

Like a million good questions in one second!

about moments in which

one with absolutest of certainty

will have forgotten

that he remembered


the raw pulse of moments

in which do we begin

to lift the glass; to take the shot.

It’s aftermath and legacy

ironic, starlit ceilings

and desolate praries.

Is it not how we would describe

our children – to the fairies?

moments like – solar years

orbiting into

repeating repentance:

I missplace myself in the tranzit.


In my last night’s fabrication

on a field

I saw him –

a man stabbed in the back

with nines : daggers, swords and sabers –

he was kneeling;

in the epicenter

of his pain

thinking only

of all the good possibilities

etched into his, now forever,

un-moving eyes

gazing the distances

as the moments

golden and ashen


in their vacant valleys,

like switches being on – and – off

and we met in the middle :

The World and I;

and agreed


I am not for the world,

but the world is not for me


This is where you and me

wake up

then immediately inhale and do

all over again,

spin it like hula-hop;

like Cardio.

Midday – lunch.

We are the peasants in the painting

just with a Missed call

from god.


•September 9, 2020 • 4 Comments

Mixed media / September 2020

Words from Walden

"This world is but a canvas to our imagination"

The Inner Wilderness

Plato had amazing insight into the question of finding the unknown. "How will you go about finding that thing the nature of which is totally unknown to you?" he wondered. The deep inner space within yourself, the inner wilderness within you asks for you to explore it, and in the process discover yourself. What better way to do that than through writing? This space is a personal blog for your reading, and my writing adventure. Go through the blog that follows to, perhaps, discover something as well.

songs for now

nrk 💜 they write things 


Everyone is welcome


"Ja - to je neko drugi."

Poems by Mandy

Sad Poetry by Mandy Williams...

International Journal of Research (IJR)

IJR Journal is Multidisciplinary, high impact and indexed journal for research publication. IJR is a monthly journal for research publication.


mapping the nest

Goose FM

Little pieces on the weird, Music, the great outdoors, and TV. Known as Lucy Wallis in some circles, and Goose in others.

Amethyst Review

New Writing Engaging with the Sacred

Anatolios Magazine

[ love letters to the light ]

Countdown To Classic

A World of Warcraft: Classic Podcast & Community

Chain of Arts

Travel. Art. Music.

The Wedding of Ken and Sarah

Coming to you August 17th, 2019 via the Wonders of the Internet!

Robert Hilles

Poet and Novelist

Bruised Rose Blossoms

Poet. Starscraper. Song whisperer. Niño de las estrellas.

Pointless Overthinking

Understanding ourselves and the world we live in.