Bøger af Roger Moore

Embrace your golden years with 'Senior Fitness Secrets: Nutrition and Exercise Tips for Aging Gracefully' - your definitive guide to living a healthier, more vibrant life as you age. Lovingly crafted by Roger Moore, this Special Report unveils the invigorating secrets of a fulfilling senior life with a sprinkle of charm and a dash of motivation!Does getting older signify slowing down? A resounding No rings through the chapters of this insightful guide! Roger sets the stage for a redefined aging journey, effortlessly blending the science of nutrition and wellness with essential actionables.Unlocking the Mystery of Aging: Age is just a number, get a fresh perspective!Nutritious Eating for a Robust Old Age: Decode your diet; learn what foods can keep you bustling with energy!Exercise Essentials: Fitness for Seniors: Stay active and nimble with the right exercise suited for your age!Nurturing a Positive Mindset: Discover the power of positivity in your journey of aging gracefully!And that's only the start! Every chapter is a careful step towards rejuvenation, bringing you closer to a lifestyle that values health, happiness, and self-care.Ready to embrace a more radiant you? Take the first step by turning the pages of 'Senior Fitness Secrets: Nutrition and Exercise Tips for Aging Gracefully'. Here's to the new, thriving you, irrespective of the calendar!

Angels: many people believe in them, some people don't. 'What are they really like?' you ask. Well, the ones I have seen, and they are the only ones I can talk about, are nothing like the angels we see in old church paintings. Angels visit me regularly. They speak to me through the mouths of innocent birds and beasts and I listen to them carefully, for they are the messengers of Gaia, the earth goddess. If we do not listen to the earth goddess, if we don't pay attention to her words, the earth and the people who live on it will be in serious trouble, sooner or later. So, go out into the garden and the woods. Walk softly. Stand beneath autumn trees. Watch for footprints in the winter snow. Above all, watch out for the living creatures with which we share our world. Listen to them when they speak to you. Pay attention to their words. Do not ignore them, and remember St. Francis of Assisi who called them his brothers and sisters, for that's exactly what they are. They are our extended family and as we treat them, so will we ourselves be treated when Gaia, the earth goddess, calls us home.

Nashwaak Editions publicó Land of Rocks and Saints / Tierra de cantos y santos en 2008 en Fredericton, Nuevo Brunswick, Canadá. En esta edición nueva, Ávila: cantos y santos y ciudad de la Santa, el poeta traduce sus poemas originales al español. Pero, más que una traducción, ese libro es una elaboración sobre los poemas primitivos de la primera edición. No todos han cambiado, pero su conversión -- mejor palabra quizás que traducción, -- de la primera lengua a la segunda, ha abierto diferentes caminos que dan una nueva vida y un espíritu fresco a estos versos que ilustran la tierra antigua y la ciudad ahora moderna en que vivió la Santa.

My visits to the Zoo always lead me to the Monkey Temple. It is an old, ruined, Indian Temple, half-hidden in the trees and populated by a colony of monkeys. Sometimes, the monkeys are playing in the open, sometimes they aren't. Patience is everything: sooner or later, the monkeys will appear, revealing themselves in all their splendor. I do not like to call these refuges from modern city life zoos; rather, I think of them in terms of nature reserves, preservation centers, museums, art galleries with living portraits, areas where human beings can break from the city's restlessness and come face to face with a tiny part of a lost natural world, a world which we are so busily destroying. Are monkeys people, you ask? Of course they aren't. But they do have human qualities and there is no better place to see these human qualities than in the Monkey Temple. Do animals accurately reflect human qualities? Of course they don't. The monkeys in the Monkey Temple are the distorting mirrors of fair ground, circus, and exhibition where bodies are fattened and flattened, thinned and skinned, turned inside out into falsified figures, stick creations bent out of woolly wires designed for cleaning pipes. Please be reassured: the poems in Monkey Temple do not refer to any specific monkey, living or dead. If you see an aspect of yourself, or myself, twisted beyond the norms of reality, do not fret: it is entirely accidental, taken from the monkeys themselves. Please remember the zoo's motto: "Ask the animals: they will teach you." But, be warned: do not place your fingers too near the verses -- these monkey-poems bite.

The Empress of Ireland collided with a Norwegian collier whose bows had been strengthened for ice-breaking abut six miles off shore from Ste. Luce in the early hours of the morning of the 29th of May, 1914. Approximately 15 minutes lapsed between the moment of impact (1:55 am) and the moment the ship caught fire and sank (2:10 am). Although the disaster has received little international attention, more passengers were lost in this incident (840) then in the sinking of the Titanic (832) or the Lusitania (791). The words of the Empress of Ireland are not my words. They could never be my words. Foundered words, they are, rescued from the beach, and dragged from the high tide mark filled with its sea weed, carapace, charred wood, old rusted iron, and bright bone of long dead creatures polished by the relentless action of wind, sea, and sand.

"They tore down our walls," Mono whispered, "stone by stone. A new church they built on the land they stole from us." These opening lines begin the verbal adventure of Sun and Moon. Written in Oaxaca, Mexico, between 1995 and 1999, the poems tell some of the tales of the voiceless, of the conquered, of the displaced, of the survivors, of the people who eat and sleep in the streets of Oaxaca, spinning their myths and legends and recalling their oral histories and memories. Sun and Moon traces the relationships between two civilizations, the indigenous and the conquerors, from the first contacts between Europeans and the people of the Oaxaca Valley up to the modern day interactions between locals and tourists. In these pages, some of the ancient ceremonies and beliefs, as described by indigenous people, are brought back to life in vivid images and colorful metaphors, so sharp, they can be grasped between the fingers and examined by the light of the sun by day and the moon by night. The multiple voices in the poems are those of human beings who, like the author, himself an émigré, find themselves in exile, lost, abandoned, and displaced. As the final character cries out in the final poem: "You do not worship at our sacred places ... you don't know even know the meaning of my name."

"Beneath my balcony, the handy man tumble-dries a tv advertisement in the washing machine of his song sparrow throat. An old man now, I dream of white rabbits, running down tunnels, far from the hunter's hands. The alarm clock shuffles its pack of sleeping hours: a clicking of claws, needles knitting outwards towards death's guillotine while the sharp beaks of roosters dig for the dawn." At the Edge of Obsidian is the second book in The Oaxacan Trilogy. It was first published in 2005 and outlines the events of a single day in the City of Oaxaca (Mexico). I have always loved the Liturgical Books of Hours and wondered if they would transfer into a Secular Book of Hours based on a day in a place with which I was familiar. This is my effort to do just that. Obsidian's Edge begins at daybreak with church bells and early morning street sounds that shake the sleeper from his dreams. It continues with the bells awakening the sleeper for yet another day.

It is in the spirit of friendship and comfort that I offer these poems to any and all who, in their own turn, follow me on this long and difficult journey. Cancer can be beaten. Early diagnosis, good doctors and specialists, optimism in the face of difficulties, faith and belief, all these positive elements will help pull patients and fellow sufferers through the ordeal of diagnosis, treatment, and recovery. I would like all sufferers to know that they are not alone, even on the darkest of nights. I would like them to know that others have walked this way before them and are there on the path ahead to offer their advice, comfort, and help. I call this A Cancer Chronicle because that's what it is: the chronicle of one man's journey from sickness back to health. My thanks go to all of those, too many to be named, who helped me along the way. I dedicate this book to them and to any who, like it or not, follow in my footsteps. Pax amorque: may you all share peace and love.

Bistro Two, a miscellany of metaphoric myths, is a collection of 39 pieces that lead the reader, step by step, through a maze of fictional creations, magical in their meanderings. It is the companion volume to Bistro, a collection of short fiction that became one of three finalists in the New Brunswick Book of the Year Award (prose fiction), for 2016. "Enjoy," as the waitress will say when she offers you your chosen dish from the Bistro's Menu, a menu that masquerades as a Table of Contents, with all offerings collected in alphabetical order.

"I have folded Dalí's clock, draping time's dressing gown over the foot of her bed," writes the poet as he sits beside his mother's bed on his last visit to her in hospital. She lies there, unconscious, and the poet, looking at her fragile frame, wonders "Is the human body a chest of drawers to be opened and closed at will and things removed?" Though Lovers Be Lost begins with these direct links to Salvador Dalí's brand of surrealism and continues in this same poem with a leading statement from the surrealist manifesto: "On the operating table, a sewing machine and a bread knife wait inside a black umbrella for their next victim." Unfortunately for the poet, that victim will be his mother. The book's title echoes Dylan Thomas's poem "And death shall have no dominion." Also born in Swansea, Wales, Roger Moore is an award-winning writer of poetry and short stories. His poetic world of wild Welsh words is well-suited to the exploration, in the language of metaphor and magic, of the relationship between life, death, and the natural world that thrives in Wales and the Canada to which he emigrated. "Though lovers be lost, love shall not," writes Dylan Thomas, and, in this outstanding collection of poems about the triumph of love over death, Roger Moore, the Welsh-Canadian poet, agrees with his mentor.

Are these stories an exercise in creativity or are they a remembrance of things past? How accurate is memory? Do we recall things just as they happened? Or do we weave new fancies? In other words, are my inner photographs real photographs or have they already been tinted and tainted by the heavy hand of creativity and falseness? The truth is that I can no longer tell fact from fiction. Perhaps it was all a dream, a nightmare, rather, something that I just imagined. And perhaps every word of it is true. I no longer know.

... at five thirty, the bullfight will begin, and at 3 o'clock we gather in the city center and slowly wend our way from bar to bar, up the Calle de Burgos, past the street where you live and upwards, ever upwards, towards the bull ring at the top of the hill, from bar to bar, I say, and the bota, the wine-skin fills and re-fills with that dark red fluid that will set us all baying for the bull's blood, or the matador's blood, it doesn't matter whose blood, as long as someone bleeds and the bull is butchered, torn from this life by men afoot or on horseback, armed with lances and swords ...

... so this is earth day and we light candles in our house and turn off the telly and the computers and sit there reading and writing, watching each other through the flicker of the candle flames, and listening to the sounds of the house, such subtle sounds, the creak of the siding, the click of a door, a blind moving in the room overhead, the tick of the grandfather clock in the hall ... and the smoke rises from the candles and makes dark patterns in the stillness of the air ... and yet, through the blackness, the bleakness of the candle smoke, a hand reaches out and holds me by the nape of the neck, and thrusts me back into a past which once again has come back to haunt me ...

From Sean Connery to Daniel Craig, a celebration of 50 years of James Bond movies as told by the ever-popular and longest-starring 007, Sir Roger Moore.