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This is the big COVER REVEAL for a book that has been six years in the making. In the spring of 2018, I penned a simple poem that echoed a heartbroken moment in my life. It made me think about how fragile and yet at the same time how resilient the human heart is. That poem sparked the idea of creating a compilation of poetry based on emotional experiences every human heart endures in a lifetime. The following short poem was the beginning of this book:
It seems
my heart is
made of tissue paper;
I wish
the world would
handle it more delicately.
—Richelle E. Goodrich © 2018
From 2018 to 2023, as trials and triumphs occurred in my life, I penned a variety of verses to add to the book. A few deeply-personal poems were a creative and healing outlet for me, a way to put my emotions as well as a portion of my story into writing. Other verses were written purely for lighthearted fun. Each one—whether simple or complex, lighthearted or severe—has relatable lines that every heart in the world can appreciate.
About the cover... I tried a variety of possible cover ideas before settling on the final artwork. I even took photographs of pink tissue paper folded into the shape of a puffy heart! But nothing spoke to me (so to say) until a painting on the wall caught my eye. It hangs in a sunny room of our house where my husband keeps his keyboard. When we were dating, I painted that modest acrylic picture of him and me, our features basically undefined. He loves that painting because I made it for him. I love it because it was my attempt at expressing tender feelings for him in a simple work of art. Seeing it on the wall reminded me that I have dedicated this book to my wonderful husband. How perfectly appropriate to incorporate aspects of our cherished painting into the book.
So, I took the woman from the painting and placed a big, delicate heart in her arms. The background was created as an abstract marriage of a bright sun cutting through a dark storm. The final artwork pleases me. So, with no further delays, here is the cover reveal for my latest book. . .
Look for it now to preorder on Amazon.
Richelle E. Goodrich Copyright 2023
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I am currently working on an original book of poetry titled A Heart Made of Tissue Paper. This book got its start a couple years back when I put together a few poems I had written to express personal feelings regarding trials that distressed me at the time. Since then, I have added to my developing book and now have a nice collection of poems. I decided early on to divide the book into seven separate chapters, each bearing the title of an emotion or feeling that human hearts endure in a lifetime, experiences that strongly affect soft hearts.
Of course the first chapter covers the passion, warmth, and uncertainties of love. I believe the majority of poems written throughout the ages (no, not all) attempt to convey what it means to love. The opposite sentiment, to loathe, has its own chapter in the book as well because we must experience opposites to understand what we feel.
Look for A Heart Made of Tissue Paper on Amazon in kindle, paperback, and hardcover formats sometime this summer, 2023. For now, I would like to share a few poems from the book; something to wet your appetite. I hope you enjoy them.
"It seemsmy heart is made of tissue paper;I wish the world would handle it more delicately."- Richelle E. Goodrich
“I want to hear her laugh.
To watch sunbeams awaken her visage and shine through her eyes. To see the gray clouds of regret that hang heavy over her head rain away to nothing.
I want to hear her sunny voice dance on the breeze, as light and free as glossy bubbles, floating up…up…up to pop like hiccups. I want to know the type and form of key I must cut to unshackle even a portion of her joy.
If I could pluck the winning feather; if my smile could convince; if I could stroke her vocal chords like harp strings and make each treble note ascend to euphoria. Oh, to hear the giggled melody she would release into a world craving the balm of mirth!
I ache to experience that. I am desperate for it.
I live for the day I hear her laugh.” - Richelle E. Goodrich
“Hush, hush.Hear the earth breathe.Watch the wildflowers bloom.Feel the calm of the silent dawn.Be still.”
-Richelle E. Goodrich
Copyright 2020 Richelle E. Goodrich
I slipped on a woolen sweater, though a coat may have been better
to protect my skin from harsh and chilly winds.
It was not my first concern to contemplate external comfort
when my heart and soul were agonized within.
It was never my intention to reside apart from others,
but the woods’ enchanting mood had won our hearts.
I remember how romantic it had seemed to build a cottage
in the trees for you and me to make a start.
Oh, it was a slow descent that over time brought me to madness.
Years before, my heart did love you evermore,
knowing hours away were only meant to ease our mortal burdens,
so with eagerness I’d meet you at the door.
Perhaps that was my err. I should have voiced how dreadful lonely
and depressing isolation was for me.
So stale and stagnant fell my solitude that time and time again
I tried to coax intruding squirrels to sit for tea.
It was on this dark and starry night I first set out to wander
far beyond our property into the woods.
And despite the nippy weather, with a sweater wrapped around me,
I determined to hike on as best I could.
‘Midst the timbers I did travel, scrunching underbrush and mushrooms,
being careful of dead branches on my way.
Moss and pine assailed my nose while I was much opposed to stepping
foot in mucky piles of weather and decay.
Though the night was getting colder, it was like the sun had risen.
I absorbed a ray of warmth that wasn’t real.
Nonetheless, my skin behaved as if the hotness of the day
was being mirrored by the moon for me to feel.
For a moment I stood frozen, hardly breathing in the evening,
hoping what my eyes beheld would cease to be.
But the body, white as ivory, lying still within the grasses
neither vanished nor attempted aught to flee.
A young woman, maybe twenty, seemed to sleep among the flowers,
blooms so white and wild around her pretty dress.
I could see no sign of mischief, not a wound or laceration.
By my scrutiny she seemed in no distress.
Oh alas! How bitter sorry I did feel for this sweet maiden,
empathizing with what mystery was her pain.
The enormity of anguish must have been an awful burden
to convince her every hour was lived in vain.
The impression of a presence made me glimpse across my shoulder
where I spied a being ethereal and fair.
The ghost was no illusion but a shadow of the maiden
lying at my feet, devoid of mortal cares.
Then she spoke, her visage beaming, and she seemed a friendly specter,
overjoyed to come across a living soul.
And despite her eerie aura, I could honestly admit
her mere existence did my loneliness console.
In a dull and solemn murmur she replied, “What’s done is done.”
And then she turned away, refusing more to tell.
As her ghostly form moved off to wander weightless o’er the grasses,
my gaze lingered longer on her lifeless shell.
I too was greatly hungering to make a new acquaintance,
craving personal companionship once more.
So I shed my woolen sweater, amply warmed by mystic moonlight,
to engage in dance and singing tales of lore.
Casting glances ‘bout the meadow where the air had felt like summer
up until a timely autumnal sunrise,
I was highly disappointed not to spot the pretty specter who
had capably my sorrows minimized.
Seeing nothing in the daylight, I moved off somewhat bewildered.
I could not erase the maiden from my mind.
It was crazy to feel grief o’er an imagined apparition,
yet I could not leave her memory behind.
Wrestling sanity amid these thoughts, I drifted off in slumber,
waking just as sunset turned the sky maroon.
I pulled on my woolen sweater and ducked out into the forest,
keen to reach the meadow heated by the moon.
“Please come play with me.” A soft request that covered me in goose bumps.
When my eyelids flickered open, I grinned wide.
“I would love to play,” I answered to the same incorporeal being
whose mortality had ceased in suicide.
Daylight hours I used for sleeping while each precious night I rushed
To find my ghostly sister waiting patiently.
The moon above remained a nightlight warming up our magic circle
where the wild asters grew tenaciously.
“You look pale, my dearest. Are you ill? Your skin’s in need of sun.”
I felt big fingers cup my face as I awoke.
And for a moment it was if I had an onset of amnesia
‘til I recognized my husband, and I spoke.
“There’s important work to do, my love. Please try to understand.
It is our future for which business doth provide.
But I promise I shall not be long. One week and I’ll return.”
He smiled softly while my tears I blinked aside.
“Must you fly from me so soon?” I asked, already feeling lonesome.
“You could sit a spell and share a pot of tea.”
With a hand upon my cheek he pacified me with a kiss.
“I’m sorry, dearest, but I’ll be home soon—you’ll see.”
Late that evening I revisited the moonlit grassy meadow.
There I found the ghostly maiden shedding tears.
Strands of haze were misted sorrow that fell o’er her empty body;
She was mourning loss of life, so it appeared.
I was shocked when she proceeded to recount her day of death
by first confessing that a man had won her heart.
They had proved their love in secret when society forbade them,
though in open view they spent their time apart.
It was here inside this same secluded circle they met up
to swear their love to one another evermore.
If the world refused a nuptial kiss for man and wife to wed,
the pitying angels would hold open heaven’s door.
But that wasn’t true. Her sweetheart hesitated as she swallowed.
Not a drop of poison touched the craven’s tongue.
First confusion, then betrayal, lastly fear sunk in to haunt her
knowing there was no reversing what she’d done.
She remained night after night beside her still and frigid body,
where the moon’s full eye had witnessed bitter woe.
And there she meant to haunt the woods until his passing made things right,
for she had nobody and nowhere else to go.
I apologized and then began the tale of my own sorrows,
how essentially I lived each day forlorn.
Though I loved my husband dearly and I longed to have him near,
his frequent travels meant he scarcely stayed at home.
Daylight hours I slept away until the moon became my sunshine.
After dusk, I basked in treasured company,
until one windy autumn night a whispered wish disturbed my thoughts;
my ghostly sister bid eternity with me.
I’ll admit at first the notion was distressing to my mind.
“I have a husband and a home and seeds to sow!”
My spirit sister forced a smile. “And so you shall….at least a while.
Though eventually all treasures we forgo.”
At the leading rays of sunrise, I proceeded toward my home.
It was impossible to sleep a wink that day.
Call it madness. Call it reason from an otherworld perspective.
The allure to join my friend had taken sway.
Pulled apart by clashing wants, I chose to stay the night at home
and pray my husband would arrive before the dew.
I yearned to speak to him of love and verify his heart’s desire,
but the only voice I heard kept crying, “Who!”
And I waited.
Oh, I waited! ‘til the sky turned red with envy!
But you didn’t come to beg me stay with you.
Hence, my darling, where one lay now there are two.
Copyright 2017 Richelle E. Goodrich