Archive for January, 2011


My novel, New Moon Rising, is now available as an e-book, and soon in paperback.
For those who have enjoyed my poems and short stories, you’re sure to enjoy this book.

Here is the release promo.

Subject: January 29, 2011 Releases from Melange Books, LLC

Vol. 1, Issue 5, January 29, 2011

Welcome to Melange Books, LLC

Hello Readers,

If you like romance, adventure, science fiction and fantasy, we’ve got some excellent, entertaining novels we’re releasing today. Praxton 3 by N. S. Howard is filled with lust, love, and kink that will leave you sitting on the edge of your seat, wanting more when it ends. A Ranger’s Tale by Mysti Parker, is fantasy at its best. Delve into the unusual world of Tallenmere. I guarantee you will fall in love with the characters. Guardian2632 by Nora Weston, is an adventure tale, filled with action, time-travel and suspense. Hot Days Anthology by T. D. Jones tells two very different stories; one filled with sweetness and joy, the other a fun, sexy little romp with a cocky town sheriff that will make you smile—maybe even laugh. Kiss the Magic Mountain by Eric Ellert is a riveting WWII novel that leaves you feeling both happy and sad—an excellent depiction of what happened to the lives of so many after Pearl Harbor. New Moon Rising is a catastrophic story that will make your heart pound—and even think that the creation of a second moon is possible. Enjoy!

–Nancy Schumacher, Publisher, Melange Books

New Moon Rising

By Walt Trizna

The Pacific Plate is one of the most geological active areas in the world, and the site of nearly constant volcanic and earthquake activity. The Ring of Fire, in the Pacific Ocean, will soon escalate its impact on mankind. Two brothers, one a geologist, and one a surfer are at the center of an event that will change the Earth, forever.




New Moon Rising

By Walt Trizna


In countries bordering the Pacific, needles on seismic charts formed tiny squiggles, and then moved violently side to side. Moments later, the machines themselves began to move, fell from shelves as the over buildings that housed them crumbled.

Wade Randall stood on a hillside. He looked to where the Golden Gate Bridge once stood and surveyed the destruction. As far as he could see, columns of smoke issued from devastated buildings. People who survived wandered around in shock and horror. The world they once knew had come to an end. The piers of San Francisco no longer jutted into the ocean; they now stood in mud. The shore, once close, was now distant.

“God help the world,” Wade said to himself, “the prediction came true.” It had been two years since events put into motion this cataclysm.

Wade thought about his family and friends, some now distant, and his heart ached wondering if they were still alive; wondering how many millions around the world had died.

The predicted event seemed impossible, even to him. Many chose not to heed the warning and many died. The irony was that in the history of life on Earth, the irregular cycles of destruction by asteroids were now accepted as fact. Everyone looked to the sky for the next cataclysmic event to visit Earth; no one expected that the next ruinous event, on a scale unknown to man, would come from beneath the sea.


January 31, 2011 at 5:07 pm Leave a comment


My first daughter, Annie, was born in 1986 and I began writing poems about her. Lynn followed in 1988.
I sent two of my ‘father’ poems to New Worlds Unlimited and they published them in 1987 in their anthology, Memories of the Halcyon Days.
Since each of my girls was about two, I wrote them a poem for their birthdays reflecting on the past year. That tradition continues.


My child smiles
and I look into her eyes
and she knows nothing of the world.
And that is good.

My child cries
and she knows nothing of the sorrow
the world can give.
And that is good.

My child laughs.
And that is good for the world.


I looked the Lord full-faced
and saw my daughter
and I knew there was
something greater than I.
I saw my daughter discovering the world,
feeling new textures, wondering at new sounds
and I wished she could know
all I know and more.
I hold her close and feel the future,
Feel my past having purpose.
I feel new life.

January 28, 2011 at 6:15 pm 2 comments


The year was 1986, and my wife was pregnant with our first daughter, Annie. Eighteen months later, we had our second child, Lynn.
Being one who never thought I would marry, having a child was more than a miracle in my life.

That year, New Worlds Unlimited published two of my poems in their anthology, Secrets of the Poetic Vision.

The joy I felt at this time in my life is obvious in this poem.


My wife is pregnant
and the joy floods in.
Never expecting another life from mine
I stand amazed
and watch you grow
a love within my love.
I’ll tell you things,
I’ll teach you things,
I’ll show you the past
and stand amazed
as the future unfolds.
And I’ll hold you close
when life threatens.

This second offering is the result of a camping trip I took with my very good friend, Andy Lowe, to Yosemite National Park.
He introduced me to my wife, Joni. I think she has forgiven him.
On that trip I began the beard I now sport. Back then, it was brown. Now it is a dignified white. That is about the only part of me that is dignified, and that is questionable.
My wife and children have never seen me without a beard.


Granite faces etched with power,
The power, whispering in silent walks
through the sentinel pine
and those stone giants gaze down
with visages as old as time
and the whispering is there.

The night, a new moon night
with blackness deep and rich
and the power whispers
through pin-prick points of light,
speaking to us of other worlds,
whispering to us of our insignificance.

And the whispering continues
but chance to listen and its roar will deafen.

January 24, 2011 at 8:04 pm Leave a comment


In 1985 New Worlds Unlimited once again published two of my poems in their anthology, Treasures of the Precious Moments. I’m going to give some background for the poems.

I spent years in the Midwest, in college and then in the air force, and had never seen a tornado. Although, I’d been close to one while I live in Wichita. I remember the sky turning a sickly green. I went outside and the temperature swung back and forth. The wind went from a fierce blow to a deathly calm. Next came the hail – golf ball-sized chunks of ice.

Wouldn’t you know it; I spent two years in Florida during the 1970s and saw a tornado. I was fishing with friends in the Everglades at Flamingo at the southern tip of the park. The sky began to darken – dramatically. We decided to leave and headed north. That’s when I saw it, a delicate finger dipping down from the indigo clouds.


In a torrent of storm and power
a delicate finger fondles the earth’s surface.
Extends from a dark gray womb reaching out.
Tearing with the force of a lover lost in ecstasy.
A mighty machine born of cloud and air
spending itself on the unsuspecting earth
I watch,
A distant viewer of a mystical force,
Amazed at the beauty Death’s angel has assumed.
Amazed at the power unleashed before my eyes.
Distance masks the fury, the rage of storms.
Distance masks the horror of life’s reality.

To say I am a loner would be a gross understatement. One cannot observe and participate at the same time. I chose to observe.
The fact that I am married is a minor miracle. Joni saved me from the life of a hermit. She will never know how much I appreciate that.
This poem was written back when I was till in my hermit phase.


I’m just marking time
and can’t explain why
when the door opens I kick it shut.

A wall was built some time ago,
the seams mossed over
so that nothing can penetrate.
The walls purpose, lost with the key.
Yet, the prisoner finds the wall insecure,
builds walls within walls,
breaks into himself to find only emptiness.
And the final realization comes too late.
The walls protect nothing
and nothing was saved.

January 22, 2011 at 10:51 pm Leave a comment


Once again, in 1984, I had a poem published by New Worlds Unlimited in their anthology, Voices of the Majestic Sage.


The darkened hush of an autumn evening,
a distant murmur and a world of sound approaches.
The window sweats great flowing beads
yet in darkness
where colors turn to gray
and reality to hazy contours,
night hides the rain.
As if only the sound exits.
Night does this.
Night, a time for sounds,
a time for memories that have no sounds,
only pictures alive within a darkened mind.
A raindrop blurs a scene unchanged
time, a memory’s life.

January 20, 2011 at 8:03 pm Leave a comment


In 1983, the year I married Joni, New Worlds Unlimited published two of my poems in Journeys of the Poet Prophet.


The ground trembled and moaned
like some mighty giant stirring from sleep,
like some force gone unnoticed wanting to be known,
And Naples crumbled,
And men died, and women died,
and children would never grow old.
Even dead Pompeii died, died even more that day.
And the earth was changed, and people were changed.
Workmen hurried to rebuild Pompeii
working hard to restore its timeless death.
And people groped in rain filled darkness
trying hard to rebuild shattered life.
And small towns, villages rival Pompeii in their death,
And death is more easily restored than life.


Overhead, one by one the light bulbs expire,
Their guts bursting,
And in death their ghosts yield a softer view of life,
Harsh shadows melt away.
Reality fades into the background
and the room’s boundaries sink into infinity.
Another bursts in incandescent death.
Familiar objects take on new shapes
as possessions melt from sight.
A book left open,
the words blur into feelings.
Something calls from the darkness
waiting to be released as the last flame fades.

January 14, 2011 at 6:49 pm 2 comments


The year was 1982 and New Worlds Unlimited published two of my poems in their anthology, Dreams of the Heroic Muse.


Love visited me once
on a moonlit night
lasting six months;
I grew,
was nourished
became almost human
as my being sought a home.
I held the moon at arm’s length
and watched it grow small
as its certain cycle
continued to darkness.
The baying of dogs rings untrue,
the sky is empty.

I wrote the following poem in remembrance of my grandmother.


Roses were her love,
great flowing rainbows of pink, red and white.
Her children, small strangers would come
and each take home
a fist full of gaily colored affection.

Roses were her love,
And when rest had finally come from roses
roses were hers,
Elegant creations of empty colors
looking out on empty eyes.

Roses were her love,
And now her small garden
has yet to discover
a rose.

January 6, 2011 at 6:52 pm Leave a comment


Mélange Books website is up.

My book, New Moon Rising, is now available as an eBook. Perhaps in a month, it will be available in a paper edition.

January 5, 2011 at 4:06 pm 1 comment


January 2011

Posts by Month

Posts by Category