20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers

Kindle eBook cover and interior design just $149 from Sable Books


Sure, you can ePublish your book yourself.

But at Sable Books, we never use a template on our cover designs.  Through our work with Jacar Press, we have designed beautiful book covers for North Carolina Literary Hall of Fame inductees for Betty Adcock, Jaki Shelton Green, and Shelby Stephenson.  We bring the same attention to detail and dedication to design to your book. Continue reading


Cleaning House

Lung cancer claimed my father almost four
years back. My husband, brother, sis-is-law
and I then faced the agonizing, raw
job: Empty out the house. This, quite the chore,

as he had seven thousand records, books
too numerous to count, woodcuts and prints
and lithographs that numbered high. What hints
would help us in this cleaning of the nooks

and rooms where all of it was stored? My job?
His study. His large desk stood in the middle,
with all the papers in its drawers a riddle
I’d solve. Then, shelves and shelves, a crowded mob

of books, newspapers, magazines and more.
Upon the windowsill each reference book
stood tall and at the ready for his look.
A cabinet, like mini-Staples store,

held every kind of paper, clip, or glue,
yes, staplers, rulers, paper punch and ink,
in duplicate, so organized I think
that Office Depot could have shopped there too.

His bookcases held all his published works,
set carefully in alphabetic line.
I stood before them, thought of all the time
he spent composing. Literacy lurks.

This was my thought as I sat down. He wrote
for hours here in this very room where now
I sit alone without my teacher. How
will I thank him for his instruction?

to self: Say thank you when you can. You may
not have the opportunity again.
I learned this from my mother way back when,
but needed practice so I could obey.

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One Special Poem

Prolific, he wrote poems, published books,
ideas flowed like waterfalls, not brooks.
My father wrote of nature, music, art,
most in poetic form, sharp as a dart.

He chose his words with utmost care to tell
the stories stirring in his head, to spell
ideas with suspense and tension. Four
weeks after he had died I found some more

of his fine poems. One, though, brought my tears.
Its subject? Me as little girl. He’d not
shared it. I wondered why. Emotion shot
through me. I read this poem. My dad nears.

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Think hard. What brings you pleasure most?
What makes you want to swing, and boast
of heights, blue skies, call Look, no hands?
Where are your special places, lands

you want to visit? And what cruise
would take you to the morning dews
far from your cozy home? What book
calls you to open pages, look

through words so pungent in your mind?
What gem is buried that you’ll find
upon your digging for fine gold?
What scenic trails have you strolled?

Important to identify
what means the most, bring nigh
and hold it close, yes underline
delicious food on which we dine.


The Telephone Rings

Her little voice across the phone last night:
“I saw your picture in the paper. Nice!”
(My writers’ group, one afternoon of white
snow, candy canes, hot chocolate, gave a slice

of literature with readings, workshops, sales
of our own books before the Christmas rush.)
And then my granddaughter asked, voice in trails
of hope, “Can I come over?” In a hush

of happiness how I agreed. “I’ll bring
my books and I could have my lesson.” Yes!
She plays piano. I, the richest king,
anticipated her arrival, press

of long brown hair against my chest. And soon
I saw her lime-green coat. She ran to me,
“Hi, Memah.” O, that sweetened perk. The moon
last night shone brighter than the stars. To be

with her is treasure. How this charmer brings
me joy with laughs and smiles tucked in so tight
that every polished moment like this clings
with stubborn happiness and makes dark light.

English: Siemens Gigaset 4010 Classic, cordles...

(Photo credit: Wikipedia)

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Books, by “Ardent Bowel”


Darkness gorges on lutescent light,

Deep sapphire water and sage woods encircle.

Lush sylvan vegetation coughs angelically,

Sprinkling aurulent dust upon moss and grass;

Fantasy collides and abolishes night.


Rough paper melts into bliss,

Glassy eyes wander, hopelessly, wonderfully lost;

Passionate fingers flip,

Cinnamon aroma burns nostrils,

And electrified mind lofts reality,

As eight-horned fairies lick moonlight lakes,

And vermillion hued suns burn cerulean skies.

By fellow WordPress poetry blogger  Ardent Bowel

Tales Around the Tree

Soon I am off to join my writers’ group’s participation in “Tales Around the Tree,” a Christmas event at a local library. There will be readings, workshops, and book sales. I am going to read six of my Christmas/winter poems, and a friend and I are going to read “Gift of the Magi” together.

This library is really something. It’s a large old bank that has been converted to a library. It has two floors, polished hardwood and marble floors, two giant gold chandeliers with graceful curved arms, an elevator, and rooms everywhere. The children’s room has a beautiful tree house built by a local man, and the woodwork of the winding stairs and curved railing is gorgeous.

It is decorated for Christmas with I-can’t-tell-you-how-many trees. The decorations are elegantly done and you can’t help but suck in your breath when you walk through the large wooden front doors. The circulation desk is where the bank tellers used to have their cages (is that what they were called?), but now it’s an open circular area with the brass foot rail still in place.

The whole little town is sporting decorations, activities and food for families, and we’re hoping to add to the festivities (and perhaps sell some of our books along the way).


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