Poetry by Shawn Aveningo
Stripped is a collection of poetry congruent to that of an onion. With its multitude of layers and meaning, the reader is sure to find one or more poems they can “relate to”.
There are stories of a mother stripped of a her child, the vain stripped of beauty and youth, a woman stripped of purpose, the proud stripped of dignity, a family stripped of their home, a nation stripped of security, and lovers stripped of their hearts.
On a lighter side, there is playful verse about strippers, souls stripped of inhibition, and even the private portrayal of a woman stripping for her man.
It all starts with a dedication poem…take a peek and find yourself, or someone you know. But don’t stop there. Take this book and breathe in the portraits of mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, friends, lovers, and strangers.
Because in the end, we are all connected, and we’re all, at one time or another, stripped.
What They’re Saying…
Shawn, who I do not take lightly, is equitable to stock market parlance, “A market mover”, in this collection, ranging from sensitive material (evocative loss) to positive hope, and then to lustful ecstasy. Her vivid imagination, familial responsibility, life observances and sensuality is so often apparent as you can read for yourself.
She is fairly new to the Sacramento poetry scene; and her recent emergence I liken to a helium filled balloon rising higher and higher. She is ripe fruit, tasteful and colorful in her language, leading you on her poetic trail…and towards the end, exploding in your ear with tasteful simple eloquence. Nothing abstract or tedious, .. and sometimes, when she lets her hair down, outrageous lustful ecstasy thrown in to let you know that she’s all woman.
– Gene Bloom,
Poet / Author / Publisher
In this collection, Shawn Aveningo has stripped beyond flesh (also clothing covering skin) straight to the bone, painting over with words of lust, pain, sexuality, disease; combined for final picture of truths. On death beds, in love lost and in love, these poems bite to the core of realism. Suck in these poems of tragic beauty from the suburban hot housewife song.
– Luke Warmwater,